Deep beneath an unassuming skyscraper, a hive of activity thrummed underground. The air vibrated with the low hum of generators, mingled with the hiss of steam from cooling systems. This wasn't just a bunker—it was a meticulously organized chaos where everyone had a role. Dim neon lights glinted off metal walls laced with wires and blinking sensors. At the center of the room loomed a massive holographic screen, casting a cold blue glow.
Dylan stood before it, his dark tactical gear blending into the shadows. The hologram projected a city map—a labyrinth of streets dotted with pulsing red markers, each representing a person. A target.
"Status?" Dylan's voice cut through the hum, sharp as a blade.
An operative, also in tactical gear, looked up from inspecting a laser-sighted rifle, fingers deftly checking its charge.
"Ready. Camouflage is stable." He glanced at a tablet strapped to his wrist. "Liana says twenty minutes max before side effects—migraines, nausea, maybe neural interface glitches."
Dylan nodded, eyes narrowing. "Fifteen's enough. Quiet as a whisper, low as the grass. Got it?"
The team—ten figures in black jumpsuits—nodded in unison, their movements precise as clockwork. Some tested drones, others calibrated scanners. In a corner, sparks flew as a technician repaired a damaged implant, steam swirling around them.
The command center's door hissed open. She entered. The Doc. Her white coat and tight bun of dark hair were unremarkable, but her gaze—sharp as a scalpel, burning with obsession—commanded attention. It was the look of someone who hadn't slept in weeks, consumed by a singular vision. Her steps echoed in the metal chamber.
"Time's ticking," she said without preamble. Her voice, usually soft over comms, was dry, almost mechanical. "Forty-eight hours. Our… friends upstairs gave us that window. The police are setting up their barriers. Childish toys, but they could complicate things."
Dylan straightened, his face hardening. "We're ready, Doc. All targets are under control."
"Show me." She approached the hologram, her fingers swiping through the air, flipping through invisible dossiers. Faces flashed on the screen—men, women, young, old, each tagged with biometric data, implant records, medical histories.
She sorted through them with terrifying speed. "Too old. Rejection's inevitable." She discarded an elderly man's profile. "This one… metabolic imbalance. Hidden bio-enhancement in youth. Defective." Another face vanished. "This one's had neural scans. Nervous system's compromised. Useless."
She spoke of people like parts failing quality control. To her, they were just that—tools for the Project.
Her fingers froze. A new face appeared. Young, sharp-featured. Traces of fatigue around the eyes, but a gaze alive with quiet strength.
"Arvin Holt," she read aloud. "ID-93579275. Twenty years old. Biological status: completely clean. No implants, official or homemade. No trace of modifications."
She zoomed in, studying him like a rare museum piece. Her eyes narrowed, lips twitching into a faint smile. "Experience with precision equipment… on the black market. Self-taught. Talented. Neural pathways flexible, untainted by foreign tech. The perfect candidate."
Dylan stepped closer, his voice low. "Full dossier. Our contact from the market ratted him out. Kid recently deleted his account and quit trading. He's looking for legitimate work. Desperation makes him vulnerable. Perfect for recruitment."
A bright voice interrupted. "Ooh! Let's recruit him now!"
Liana, a young woman in an oil-stained jumpsuit, bounded over, her hair in a messy ponytail. She clutched a tablet trailing virtual wires that shimmered in the air. "Look!" She jabbed the screen. "We can slip him a fake offer from 'Core Dynamic'—our legal front! Invite him for an 'interview,' and bam! He's ours!"
She smacked her forehead, as if she'd cracked the code to genius. Dylan snorted, crossing his arms. "Risky. Too many threads that could lead back to us."
"But efficient," the Doc said quietly, eyes fixed on Arvin's hologram. "Direct contact. Neutral ground. Minimal noise. Dylan, this is your task. You're personally responsible for delivering Holt. Use the taxi driver cover. It's simple and it works."
Her gaze met his—heavy, expectant, pinning him to the floor. "His skills aren't just for the Project. He could become… more. Don't fail me."
Dylan nodded, jaw tight. The Doc's belief in the Project burned in him like molten steel, but there was something else—something personal, buried deep. Her words, her look, ignited a need to prove himself worthy, more than just a soldier in her game.
The team dispersed, receiving final orders. The room buzzed with activity: clanking weapons, humming drones, clicking terminals. Liana lingered, her energy practically electrifying the air. "All set!" She handed Dylan a small scanner, a black coin-like device. "Car, locks, sensors. Holt's clean as glass, but double-check just in case."
Dylan took it, his fingers closing around the cold metal. "Thanks, Liana."
"No prob!" She flashed a wide grin. "All for our 'new world'! Let's make it real ASAP!" She darted back to her workstation, where a new machine sparked, her fingers dancing over a holographic panel woven with glowing schematics.
Dylan stood alone before the hologram. Arvin's face stared back—tense but alive. He clenched his fists, pulse throbbing in his temples. Faith in the Project, in the Doc, in her vision of a new world fueled him. But a flicker of doubt stirred—not about the Project, but about himself.
Thoughts, Dylan: I'll do this. Not for me. For her. For what she sees in the future. But… who is this Arvin? Just a tool? Or something more? The way she looks at him…
He shook his head, banishing the thoughts, and sat at a terminal. A few swift keystrokes, and the email was sent—a job offer, a trap disguised as a dream.
The room emptied as the team moved to their positions. The Doc remained by the hologram, her fingers still brushing the air, as if she could touch Arvin himself. Dylan approached, his steps nearly silent.
"Doc," he began, voice softer than usual. "Why him? There are plenty like Holt—clean, no implants. What's special about him?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze slid over the hologram, then settled on Dylan. There was something new in her eyes—not coldness, not obsession, but a hint of exhaustion.
"His mind," she said finally. "He's not just clean. He's adaptable. His neural pathways… they're a blank canvas. We can make him more than a vessel for the Project. He could be the key."
Dylan frowned. Her words sounded like prophecy, yet left something unsaid. "The key to what?" he pressed, stepping closer.
She turned away, her fingers tightening on the edge of her coat. "To everything," she said softly. "But for that, he needs to be here. Alive. Intact. And you, Dylan, will make that happen. Or everything we've worked for collapses."
Her voice wavered—barely, but Dylan caught it. For the first time, he saw not just the leader but a person. Vulnerable. It threw him off, but only for a moment.
"I won't fail," he said firmly. "Holt will be here. I promise."
She nodded without looking at him and returned to the hologram. Dylan turned and left, her words echoing in his mind.
Night fell. The city's neon glow masked its darkness. Dylan sat in the car—a quiet, comfortable trap. Arvin's face still glowed on the navigator's screen, his tired, hopeful eyes seeming to pierce Dylan's soul.
He took a deep breath, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
Thoughts, Dylan: Sorry, kid. Sometimes a new world demands a sacrifice. Or… maybe you're not a sacrifice. Maybe you're the one who leaps into the future first.
He started the engine. The car glided into the flow of neon lights. The hunt was on.