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DATE:28th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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As I stared at the ceiling, the events of the previous day replayed in my mind like a broken reel. The assassins were well-trained, well-coordinated, and armed to the teeth. Whoever sent them wasn't taking chances. These weren't petty criminals or rogue villains—they were professionals, and they had resources.
Alice shifted in her sleep, her breathing soft against my chest. She couldn't sleep, not until I took her in my arms. I don't get where she got this reflex, it was her parents certainly didn't provide this kind of love to her. Perhaps that is exactly why.
Her need for comfort, for some semblance of stability, struck me. It wasn't something I could afford to offer, not in this line of work. No matter how comfy this life of a hero seemed, it was all over once they know the truth about me.
Also, she was really sad for the Miata. We would have to either scrap it for parts or pay some mechanic to inspect it for safety and install a new engine. Neither option was appealing. I don't really get it, never been a car guy, but I suppose my city also wasn't made for them. The streets were too narrow.
I sighed, brushing a strand of hair from her face as my thoughts returned to the problem at hand.
Who were they?
Their tactics and equipment pointed to a larger organization. The use of teleporters suggested either advanced technology or powers I wasn't familiar with. They were targeting me because of Emily. Her creator was unknowneven to his supposed lab partners, like he erased their memory. Who are these "associates" if not them?
What was their real motive?
Killing me might've been about silencing Emily—or me as a potential threat. But the level of carnage they left in their wake? It felt more like a warning. A declaration that they wouldn't stop until their objective was complete.
But do they honestly think I would give up now? When I killed one of their agents and almost killed another?
What were my options?
I needed information, and fast. The Civil Militia's investigation won't turn up anything. I'd have to dig on my own. Emily could help me trace the origins of the equipment they used. Every bullet, every grenade left a trail somewhere. Sadly I am more than proficient in identifying weaponry and those were standard issue for the Unified Kingdom. MAT 49 submachineguns with pliable stock, MAC 50 pistols and... I didn't see the rifle up close, but it was probably an FR F1. At first glance this may lead people to think that they were part of the government, but that was precisely the trick.
They used the cover of the military to not reveal their identity.
Because yes, teleportation was something unimaginable, but their weapons weren't infused with Ventium. They were disposable. This means that the operators also were disposable. This means the teleportation is not occuring through some device on their body, but a power held by someone carefully directing them or a central device.
If Emily didn't find anything up until now, it would be useless to try to find through some Network.
Even still, I couldn't let them strike first again. I may not be as lucky the second time.
I slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Alice. She needed her rest, and I needed my head clear. Making my way to the small desk in the corner of her apartment, I opened the laptop Emily had hijacked. It was connected to the phone, something like streaming, she explained. Her screen greeted me with binary lines forming a cheerful "Good morning."
"Emily," I whispered, "we need to talk about the assassins."
Dots flickered on the screen... She says she couldn't find anything.
I sighed, leaning back in the chair. Emily's binary display flickered for a moment before stabilizing, her lack of concrete answers frustrating but understandable.
"So, you're telling me," I began, voice low to avoid waking Alice, "that the people after us are ghosts? No digital records, no transactions, nothing?"
"Precisely," Emily responded through the text-to-speech software I'd set up. "During my earlier iterations, I was limited to assisting with specific tasks. Autonomy wasn't granted until my integration into your system. Any attempts to trace their operations hit a dead end."
I frowned. "No footprint at all... That doesn't just happen. They must be scrubbing their traces, or they're operating completely offline. Either way, they're organized."
Emily added, "Their lack of a digital presence aligns with their precision and resources. If they're associated with my creator, they may have adopted methods to avoid detection, similar to his own practices. Remember, I was designed to serve him, not monitor him."
"Great," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "So we're dealing with highly disciplined operatives, and we have zero leads."
After a beat, I added, "You know, if you had access to visual data during fights, you might have caught something useful. We need the professor to rig my suit with cameras."
Emily agreed. "Cameras on your suit and mask would greatly increase our ability to analyze encounters and gather intel. I can assist with identifying optimal placements and configurations when you speak to him."
I nodded, then asked, "What about the professor's associates? The ones who worked on your creation or shared your creator's ambitions? Any names, projects, anything at all?"
A brief pause preceded Emily's reply. "Beyond the ones you already know, such as Secundo Manus, I recall very little. I was not privy to their full dealings, and much of my earlier data appears to have been purged. It's likely intentional, given the professor's tendency to compartmentalize information. My creator was paranoid, even among trusted allies."
"Of course he was," I muttered. "And now his paranoia is coming back to bite us. Anything else?"
"The only remaining data pertains to individuals you've already encountered or documented," she admitted. "However, I can begin analyzing their methods and recent patterns. Even ghosts leave faint trails if we know where to look."
"Do it," I said, standing. "The sooner we figure out who's behind this, the better."
Emily's screen blinked with a single word: Understood.
The professor answered the call with an uncharacteristic sharpness in his tone, as though he had been expecting bad news. "What is it? You know I prefer email, especially at this hour."
I didn't bother apologizing. "Something happened. Alice and I were ambushed last night."
There was a pause, long enough that I thought the line might have dropped. Then he said, "Explain."
I detailed the events of the attack—the explosion, the teleporting assailants, and the precision with which they operated. "They knew about Emily. They're professionals, Professor. Whoever they are, they don't leave digital footprints, and they don't miss their targets."
The professor let out a slow exhale. "That complicates things. If they know about Emily, then it's likely they're tied to her creation somehow."
"And who would that be?" I pressed. "You've dodged this question for long enough. You're the only one who knows her origins."
"Not entirely," he said, his voice heavy with an emotion I couldn't quite place. "Emily wasn't my creation. She was developed by one of my former lab partners. A brilliant man... but I don't remember his name."
I froze. "What do you mean, you don't remember? You're not the kind of man to forget something that important."
There was silence again, longer this time. Finally, he said, "My memories of that time are... fragmented. I've suspected for years that they were manipulated, but I've never been able to confirm it. Whoever this man was, he had the resources and knowledge to erase himself from my mind and likely from every other record."
"Erased? You're telling me the guy who built Emily doesn't exist anymore?"
"Not in any conventional sense," the professor admitted. "What I do know is that Emily was part of a larger project, one that blurred the line between machine and human. The goal was to create something more than artificial intelligence—something that could surpass human cognition entirely. But why or how this man disappeared is a mystery even to me."
I leaned against the wall, trying to process this. "So, these attackers—they're after Emily because she's the key to this… experiment?" His memories may have been manipulated more than I thought. Because I am almost 100% certain that she is a failed experiment, a simple Telephone assistant. Emily confirmed herself that much.
Well, this may be more so a problem of perspective rather than manipulation. For her creator she was a simple SIM card assistant. For someone like Mundi, this AI is much more powerful than any he created himself. I guess it just speaks of what other inventions that old man had if this is just tiny a side project. At that point even memory erasure or spatial manipulation like the store where he sold her to me don't appear strange.
This may all be a game to him, us too stupid to understand his creations...
"Most likely," he said. "If they know about her, they may view her as either the culmination of their work or a threat to eliminate. Either way, they won't stop until they've achieved their goal."
"Then what do we do?" I asked. "They're not going to back off. We need an edge."
"Agreed. Emily is your best resource right now. She may not have access to her creator's original files, but her analytical capabilities are unparalleled. Use her to reconstruct what you can from the attack—patterns, equipment, anything. And..." He hesitated.
"And what?"
"I'll prepare some tools for you," he said. "Discreetly, of course. You'll need more than just raw data to deal with people like this. I'll also add cameras to your suit—Emily needs visuals to assist you in real-time."
I nodded, though he couldn't see me. "Fine. I'll bring the suit tomorrow. And, Professor… if your memories were manipulated, is it possible that Emily herself was programmed with something we don't know about?"
"Anything is possible," he admitted. "But for now, she's your ally. Trust her. If there's something buried in her programming, we'll uncover it in time."
The line went dead, leaving me staring at the phone. The professor's admission raised more questions than answers, but one thing was clear—this wasn't just about Emily anymore. It was about the ghosts of a past I couldn't even begin to understand.
So I have to face my "own" ghosts and now even hers?!
I was almost infuriated.
I took a walk through the almost lifeless streets of the office buildings nearby. It's strange to imagine these ever so busy streets quietening down...
But one of the Unified Kingdom's policies is a strict 9 to 5. That was a law passed at the start of the industrialisation when the barons of Paris started clogging the catacombs with how many corpses they were hastily disposing of. Even Silvian Morris has to abide by this rule.
Of course, the catch is that there is no minimum salary so the companies still get a profit by underpaying and then most workers take another part time job, sometimes even at the same company to compensate....
I'm surprised they let Alice work from home. Perhaps she weirded them out too much, but her work was good enough? I really don't know anything about how she performs, never bothered to ask.
Whatever.
I had too much to do to stay put like this.
I returned to her apartment and tried to fall asleep, but I couldn't. She woke up at about 10.
I dialed SuperiorWoman, knowing it wasn't the most pleasant option, but I was out of choices. Alice had to stay behind; her freelance graphic design deadlines didn't wait for assassins or emergencies.
The call was brief, as always. "I need a ride to the professor's lab," I told her. "Now."
There was a pause. "Why not get a car yourself?"
"I can't," I replied bluntly. "The registry isn't an option. Too many eyes."
"Fine. Be ready in ten minutes," she said, her voice clipped before hanging up.
As I sat waiting, I noticed my leg support had been damaged during last night's chaos. A crack ran along its hinge, and the stability felt off when I tried standing earlier. Great. Just another thing to fix. Still, the leg itself felt like it was recovering—at least enough to limp along without the brace if needed.
When SuperiorWoman's car pulled up, she didn't bother getting out. I climbed in, trying not to wince as my leg protested slightly.
"You look like hell," she remarked, her eyes flicking over my disheveled state.
"Feel like it, too," I replied. "Drive."
As the city blurred past, I thought about the professor's words from last night. Memories erased, mysterious creators, and a shadowy group hunting Emily. The more I uncovered, the less I understood.
"Why's this so urgent?" SuperiorWoman asked, breaking the silence.
"Need upgrades. The professor's handling it."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. I appreciated that—she wasn't the type to dig into things unless they directly concerned her.
The car ride was quiet after that, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional muttered complaint from her about traffic. My mind, however, wasn't quiet. It was buzzing with questions, plans, and possibilities.
By the time we arrived, I had some clarity—though no answers. The professor better have some when I stepped through his door.
SuperiorWoman decided to stay behind, waiting in the underground parking lot of the professor's facility. Not that I blamed her—Mundi wasn't exactly the most personable guy, and she didn't hide her disdain for him.
The building itself was eerily pristine, especially considering the chaos it endured not long ago. Every crack, every scratch, every sign of violence had been erased as though the attack had never happened. The smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, far stronger than I remembered.
Walking through the sterile halls felt like stepping into a place that had been scrubbed of its past, leaving only the cold, clinical present.
I found Mundi in one of the inner labs, his attention absorbed by a rectangular metal table. Above it, a complex web of mechanical arms moved with delicate precision, assembling something I couldn't quite make out yet.
"Professor," I called, stepping into the room.
He barely glanced up, one of the arms pausing mid-rotation. "You're here," he muttered, his voice flat as usual. "Good. Then we can begin."
Reluctantly, I handed over my suit to the professor. He scrutinized it with his usual detached interest, his hands deftly probing the material for damages.
"I'll need to analyze this for a while," he said, already walking toward one of his workstations.
"Fine," I muttered. "Just don't make it any more uncomfortable than it already is."
Without a word, he gestured for me to follow. He led me into another room where a surgical table awaited. The air here was even heavier with antiseptic, the harsh smell stinging my nose.
"What's this for?" I asked, eyeing the table suspiciously.
"A quick health check," he replied curtly. "And to make adjustments so you can ingest the nicotine pouches without so much… effort."
I raised an eyebrow. "Adjustments?"
"Simple improvements," he said, waving off my concern. "Now, lie down. This will only take a moment."
Hesitant but curious, I climbed onto the table. The cold metal pressed against my back, and the professor adjusted a mask over my face.
"What's this for?" I asked, my voice muffled by the mask.
"Relaxation," he replied. "You've been through quite a bit, haven't you?"
I didn't get a chance to argue. A faint hiss filled my ears as something was pumped through the mask. My limbs grew heavy, my vision blurred, and soon the sterile lights above me melted into darkness.
When I woke up, a sharp sting radiated from my abdomen. Groggily, I pressed my hand against the source of the pain, my fingers brushing against something metallic. It felt strange—a flat disk embedded beneath my skin, with a hole at its center the size of a syringe.
I groaned, struggling to sit up. The sound of footsteps approached, and I heard the professor's voice, tinged with fascination. "Ah, you're awake," he said, almost too casually.
"What the hell did you do to me?" I asked, still disoriented. My hand hovered over the metallic disk. "And what is this?"
The professor ignored my tone, his curiosity unshaken. "Do you even realize what you've been doing to yourself?"
I blinked at him. "What are you talking about?"
He gestured vaguely in my direction, pacing as he spoke. "Even with your sprained foot, you managed to exert a significant amount of stress on your body back on the 19th—that was when you fought Alice's father's guard, correct? And yesterday, the way you fought those assassins in such a condition…"
I clenched my jaw. "Get to the point."
The professor stopped pacing, his gaze sharp and analytical. "It shouldn't have been possible. Sure, the nicotine pouches you've been using have some pain-suppressing qualities, but not to this degree. Your body…" He paused, as though struggling to articulate the strangeness of his findings. "Your body doesn't just block pain; it functions independently of it." He is wrong. It is precisely because I grew pain. And even then it's not all sensations of pain, because I sometimes still feel. Like what happened a few weeks prior.
"What are you saying?" I demanded.
"I'm saying," he continued, "that your body doesn't produce pain at a nervous system level. It's not that you've dulled the sensation—it's as if your nerves never register the pain in the first place. It's like your body operates on an entirely different framework."
I frowned, the weight of his words sinking in. "So, what? I'm broken?"
"Hardly," the professor said, a glint of intrigue in his eyes. "It's remarkable. Pain is supposed to be a safeguard, a signal to prevent further injury. But you… It's as if your body has bypassed that entirely. You shouldn't have been able to endure what you have—yet here you are."
I exhaled slowly, my fingers brushing over the disk again. "And this?" I asked, motioning toward the implant.
"A small addition," he admitted, his voice almost gleeful. "It will monitor your stress levels and administer the pouches more effectively when needed. You push your body far harder than any normal human should, so I thought it might help to streamline things."
I stared at him, a mix of suspicion and resignation bubbling to the surface. "I didn't agree to this."
"No, you didn't," he said flatly. "But considering what I've seen, I think you'll come to appreciate it."
The professor's calm demeanor made my skin crawl, but deep down, I couldn't deny the practicality of his intervention. I just didn't like being someone else's experiment.
The professor crossed his arms, glancing at me as if I were missing the obvious. "Inside that disk," he began, "is a small metal canister containing a single dose of the nicotine pouch—but in liquid form." So the next generation of his drug?
I frowned. "Why would I need that?"
He sighed, clearly eager to educate me. "Emily should be able to activate its release remotely. The liquid form is absorbed by your body in seconds—far faster than chewing a pouch. It ensures you can reliably and defensively activate your ability without fumbling for the pouch under pressure."
I glanced down at the implant again, still uneasy. "So now I'm some kind of walking dispenser?"
The professor ignored my sarcasm. Instead, he moved to a nearby table and retrieved a briefcase. Turning back to me, he held it out. "Your suit," he said. "I've added everything you asked for: cameras, microphones, and an audio synthesizer."
I raised an eyebrow as I took the case. "Audio synthesizer?"
"Yes," he confirmed, clearly pleased with himself. "Emily should be able to modify your voice in real time. Want to sound intimidating? Or unrecognizable? She can handle it."
I opened the case and inspected the suit inside, running my hand over the modifications. "I didn't know Emily could handle voice modulation."
"She's learning quickly," the professor replied. "And now, so will you. This system isn't just about brute force—it's about giving you the tools to control the narrative in the field."
I closed the briefcase and slung it to my side, still processing the changes. "You've been busy."
The professor shrugged, as if all of this was routine. "I prefer to think of it as staying ahead of the curve. In your line of work, every second counts. Now you won't waste any."
I eyed him cautiously, my suspicion growing. "Why'd you go so overboard with all this?" I asked, gesturing toward the modifications. "Straight up, what's in it for you? There's always a trade, even if you don't say it. You're no philanthropist, Mundi, and you don't pretend to be one like Doctor Mallory."
He paused, his expression unreadable for a moment, then said, "Your brain scans have been very helpful in further developing my AI."
I raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem like the type to admit someone else's work is better."
He acknowledged it with a slight nod. "Emily is a much more advanced creation than I'm capable of making, but—"
I cut him off, leaning in slightly. "Cut the act. What's the real reason?"
For the briefest moment, I saw a flash of something cold, almost menacing, in his eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Let's just say," he replied evenly, "I am not a fan of Balmundi."
The name hit like a loaded statement, heavy with unspoken history. He wasn't done. "I heard you're planning to attack Vicenzio's compound. That, in itself, is payment enough."
"Balmundi," I repeated, testing the name on my tongue. "You have hard feelings for your extended family, don't you?"
Mundi didn't respond, but his glare said more than words ever could. I felt the temperature drop between us.
"Understood," I said quietly.
Before I reached the door, Mundi's voice stopped me.
"You mentioned Mallory," he said, his tone softer but still laced with curiosity. "How is he?"
I hesitated, not wanting to dive into the details of the Doctor's research. It wasn't about mistrusting Mundi, but... I didn't feel like explaining. "He's good, I think," I replied casually. "But his wife—she's… strange."
Mundi's expression darkened. "I always found it inexcusable, what he did to that woman."
I paused, confused. "You mean her age?"
He scoffed lightly, the sound tinged with bitterness. "On whom do you think he tested his medicine first?"
The realization hit me like a cold wave. "Ouch." I muttered, my thoughts spiraling. I didn't think about that.
I left to the parking lot with my own thoughts. It wasn't about Mara. Screw her. That sculpture of me was insulting enough. No, I kept thinking about Mundi. His mechanical expertise isn't on par with Emily's mysterious creator. Neither his mechanical integration or manipulation of energy Like Biz. While I praise his research, his biological manipulation is much less refined than Secundo Manus. He is still sick with that strange disease that keeps him in a hazmat suit after all of these years. His employees are robots. Even his drug probably isn't on par with something Dr. Mallory would make. Hell, Matthew made a better stimulant and he wasn't part of their genius clique. But Professor Paradox Mundi is still special. Unlike them he doesn't have one field he specializes in. He knows all of them.
There is always the talk about a wildcard being a master of none and how that is bad, but let's look at it objectively. Who achieved the most in history out of all of them? Was it the genius that erased himself from all perception? The pedophile taken pity on by Matthew? Is it the run-away criminal or the imprisoned, dishonored scientist?
Judging by how bad the rest of them are, Mundi can't be an exception. He must have secrets that would horrify me. But it can't be as bad as them. I personally don't believe in god, but it is clear that the rest were punished by fate or karma. Mundi is the only one of that lab that left with his reputation intact.
When I was young my parents used to take me to church every Sunday. Probably more with all the Ventian Holidays.
I still remember how much the priest emphasized the importance of morality and striving for virtue. His "flock of believers"? They were so far away from it.
I got back into the car, but I kept thinking.
My parents were especially conservative, but half of the neighborhood was part of some Ventian gang or mafia. All of those killers, gathered under the same roof, and that was supposed to be what? For forgiveness? For... Tradition?
I knew how back they were. Even back then I saw people getting mauled in the streets with knives and bats. Everyone acted like it was normal. They didn't even bat an eye.
"Oh, he didn't pay his loan back."
"Oh, she didn't know it was their territory."
"Youngsters need to mind their business."
"That old hag should have stayed in line."
"That kid shouldn't have stolen."
I can't believe how they used to say such absurdities with a straight face, almost like crime and violence was a part of nature.
Ventian society is currupt to the bones.
I get why the Natives from Salvia hate us.
I get why foreigners don't recognize our supposed ancient lineage.
I get even why the Unified Kingdom invited us.
A nation of thieves and scammers and pirates and mercenaries. A nation of delinquents and criminals who dared pretend to be religious. To "care" about these old virtues.
Even after the Occupation, the old faith is still in place. I don't like the Unified Church, a splinter group of the Ventian one, but they are right.
We weren't people. We were animals.
And my life is fifty years after the Occupation when they supposedly "civilized" us. I can't imagine old Ventia.
In this environment there is no wonder my father ended up like this, but I can't forgive him. Not as long as I live and not in the next life.
He-
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"We arrived." Sarah brought me out of my thoughts.
"Yes. Thank you for driving me."
"No problem. Get well for the mission on Saturday." There was some concern in her voice. I guess I wasn't that stealthy in what I felt.
"You got it boss." She was right. I had a lot to do. I needed to call the changeling.-*-*-*-*-*