John sat in the driver's seat of the matte black van, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a soft beat coming from the radio—nothing too loud, just enough to fill the silence without drawing attention. He wore a black wool hat pulled up to his eyebrows, the hood of his jacket pulled up over it, turning his face into an indistinct shadow. The van was parked in one of Gotham's deadest alleys, one of those that smelled of old garbage and damp concrete, where even the rats seemed to know it was best not to make a sound. The engine was off, the headlights were off, only the faint glow of the dashboard illuminating the digital clock: 1:27 AM.
He waited. Patiently. It was the kind of waiting that paid well.
When the clock struck exactly 1:30, two beams of light cut through the darkness at the end of the alley. A pair of headlights approached slowly, unhurriedly, without blinking. John squinted. It was another black van, identical in its matte paint, with no visible license plate, without any mark or detail that could be remembered later. It stopped about ten meters away, its engine purring softly.
Then came the signal: three short flashes, a pause, two long ones. John responded with the same pattern in the high beams of his van. Mutual confirmation. No one else needed to say anything.
The doors of the newly arrived van opened simultaneously. Two men got out—tall, broad-shouldered, bodies that seemed sculpted to intimidate. Shaved heads, fair skin with marked Asian features, almost twins if it weren't for the thin scar that cut across the left eyebrow of the right-hand man and the slight crooked smile of the left-hand man. Both wore sunglasses. At half past one in the morning. In a dark alley.
John chuckled softly through his nose. What kind of crazy people wear sunglasses at night?
He slowly opened the van door, got out, and walked to the middle of the space between the vehicles. The two men stopped three meters from him, their posture relaxed, but their eyes—or what could be seen behind the dark lenses—fixed.
John raised his chin.
"The merchandise is already here. Is everything alright with the money?"
Neither of them responded with words. The one on the left—the one with the scar—extended a black aluminum briefcase without saying anything. John took it, opened it on the hood of his own van, and gave a low whistle when he saw the neatly arranged bundles of hundred-dollar bills.
"First time with you guys, so I'll have to tell you. No offense, but trust comes with time."
The one on the right shrugged, as if he had expected it.
John pulled a portable counter from the inside pocket of his jacket—one of those noisy machines that looked like miniature vacuum cleaners. He began feeding the bundles. The rhythmic noise filled the alley: zip-zip-zip-zip. Ten minutes later, the machine stopped. Total: exactly $100,000. Not a penny less.
He closed the briefcase with a satisfied click and nodded.
"All very well."
The two men moved in perfect sync to the back of John's van. The one with the scar turned on a small tactical flashlight—a weak red beam, so as not to attract attention—and illuminated the interior. Three large, reinforced steel cages, the kind used to transport large animals. Inside them, three baby chimpanzees, huddled together, their large, frightened eyes reflecting the red light. Their fur was disheveled, their hands gripping the bars, their breathing rapid and anxious. They didn't scream; they seemed to know that noise was dangerous.
Each of the men picked up a cage—one per person—and carried it with astonishing ease, as if the weight of each puppy plus the steel frame were insignificant. The springs in their van's suspension groaned slightly as the three cages were placed in the back compartment.
John watched from the side, arms crossed. When the doors of their van opened wider, he could see, over the cages they had just placed, the back of the compartment. Two even larger cages, bigger than the ones he had brought. Something was moving inside—dark, heavy shapes, with arms too long to be ordinary chimpanzees. Eyes reflecting the flashlight: deep red. John blinked, trying to focus. Gorillas? Silverback gorilla cubs? Or something else larger, rarer? He wasn't sure. But they were primates, for sure. Large. And alive.
So they made a deal with another supplier too , John thought. I'm not the only one in the game tonight.
He didn't ask. It wasn't his business.
When they finished tidying up the cages, the one with the scar turned to John.
"All very well."
John nodded once.
"Goodnight."
He went back to the van, started the engine, slowly reversed, and drove out of the alley without looking back. He wanted nothing more to do with those two. People who asked for baby primates at 1:30 in the morning—and who already had other full cages in the back of the van—weren't the kind of customers you'd stick around for long.
Meanwhile, in the van with no distinguishing markings...
The two men climbed back into the vehicle. Doors closed with a simultaneous click. The engine purred softly, and they exited the alley following a predetermined route: random turns, side streets, alleys that looked like dead ends but had a hidden exit. Any pursuer—drone, civilian car, motorcycle—would be left behind in less than five minutes.
In a deserted stretch of Old Gotham, the van changed direction.
It wasn't gradual. It was instantaneous.
The matte black body rippled like water, its shape lengthened, it gained faux chrome details, darkened side windows became black velvet curtains, and the roof gained a small, discreet golden cross. In seconds, what was an ordinary van became a classic hearse — the kind no one gives a second glance to in a city where funerals happen all the time.
Further along, on a busier but still dark avenue, another transformation. The hearse had shrunk slightly, gained a white paint job with colorful stripes, a retractable sign that read "Ice Cream" in cheerful letters, and fake bells hanging from the side. Now it was an ice cream truck—the kind that drives slowly through wealthy neighborhoods, even in the early hours of the morning, because there's always someone with a sleepless child or an adult with a nighttime craving.
The vehicle headed towards Crestview Heights, the most prestigious part of Gotham, where the mansions stood far apart and the gardens were larger than many public parks. Tree-lined streets, classic lampposts, discreet security cameras on the fences.
They stopped in front of an isolated property, surrounded by a high wall of stone and wrought iron. There was no sign, no visible number. Just a gate wide enough for a large vehicle.
The ground trembled slightly.
A section of the street—disguised as ordinary asphalt—slid aside like a sliding door. A sloping tunnel opened up, illuminated by faint red lights that didn't seep to the surface. The ice cream truck descended slowly, its engine almost inaudible.
Behind him, the asphalt snapped back into place with a soft click.
The street was empty again.
Erick watched from the holographic monitors of the central control panel, his eyes fixed on the security cameras that tracked the arrival of the disguised vehicle. The external transformation—from the harmless ice cream truck to the original matte black van—occurred in the access tunnel, and the underground hangar sealed behind it with a definitive hydraulic click. The recycled air of the complex carried the faint scent of ozone from the generators, but nothing else. He adjusted his simple black shirt, feeling the elemental fire pulse calmly in his veins, a constant presence that reminded him of how far he had come.
The monitors showed the back doors opening. Two Asian men descended—tall, muscular, with shaved heads, movements too precise to be human. They efficiently unloaded the cages: three smaller ones containing chimpanzee infants, their large eyes reflecting the dim light; two larger ones with gorilla infants, their muscular forms shifting restlessly in the shadows of the bars.
As soon as the cages touched the hangar floor, the blurred illusion dissipated. The air around the "men" trembled like a digital glitch, pixels dancing in bluish electrical sparks. The human forms dissolved, revealing rounded white inflatable bodies, reinforced alloy internal structures, plasma veins pulsing at the joints. On each one's belly, in bold black letters: B4 on the left, B5 on the right. Baymax variants, optimized for infiltration and heavy transport.
"Everything alright?", asked Erick, his voice echoing low in the hangar.
The two robots turned their round heads in unison, their LED eyes blinking a serene blue.
"Yes, sir."
Erick nodded. "Great. Bring it here."
He turned and walked down the main corridor, its black epoxy floor and walls adorned with LED panels that lit up progressively as he passed. Behind him, B4 and B5 activated the integrated pallet jacks: extendable arms connected to the cage pallets, their motorized wheels humming softly. B4 picked up two smaller cages (two chimpanzees) and one larger one (a gorilla); B5 took the rest—one smaller and one larger. The weight didn't affect them; the internal suspensions adjusted automatically.
They followed Erick to the final door: 3 meters high, solid reinforced steel. He typed the 12-digit sequence into the biometric panel—a combination that changed every hour. The door slid open with a hydraulic whisper.
On the other side, the main room: a large, sterile space, completely white—walls, ceiling, and floor covered in antibacterial material that reflected the intense, uniform lighting from the built-in surgical lights. The air was pressurized, fresh, with a slight hum from filtering fans. In the center, stainless steel tables with multifunctional robotic arms and surgical instruments arranged on trays: scalpels, forceps, syringes, vital monitors. But the focus of the room was the capsules aligned against the north wall: five cylindrical silver structures, each 2 meters high, with a 1-meter diameter base, touchscreen displays on the front showing standby metrics. They were the heart of the experiment—advanced life support chambers, designed for continuous monitoring and controlled procedures.
Already waiting in the room were B6 and B7 — identical to the others, inflatable white bodies with the same electric glow at their joints, marked B6 and B7 on their bellies in bold black. They positioned themselves immediately next to the capsules, their LED eyes lighting up in sync.
Erick gestured to the four robots.
"Let's begin. Take the primates and put them in the capsules."
The robots moved in perfect coordination, guided by Natasha's neural network. B4 and B5 brought the cages closer to the designated capsules. First, sedation: each robot extended a launcher integrated into its forearm, firing tiny darts—precise doses of sedative calculated for the estimated weight of each animal. The darts struck the exposed necks through the bars. In seconds, the bodies relaxed: slow breathing, loose muscles, no struggle.
Then came the transfer. The cage doors opened with mechanical clicks. B4 picked up the first chimpanzee cub—small, furry, its innocent face contorted in induced sleep—and placed it on the padded platform of the nearest capsule. B5 did the same with another chimpanzee. B6 and B7 handled the gorillas: heavier forms, long arms dangling, broad noses snorting slightly. Each primate was carefully positioned, lying on its back, limbs aligned.
The capsules activated automatically upon detecting presence: transparent doors closed with an airtight seal, internal lights flashing in a soft white. Internal mechanisms hummed. A flexible tube descended from the ceiling of each capsule, connecting to the animals' mouths—an oronasal mask for controlled breathing and enriched oxygenation. From the base, another unit molded itself to the lower region—an intelligent containment system for hygiene and waste monitoring. From the top, a neural device descended: a crown of electrodes and probes that adjusted to the skull via non-invasive adhesives, initiating brain mapping.
Erick watched everything in silence, arms crossed, the elemental pulsing in subtle approval — a light warmth radiating from his skin.
"Report," he commanded.
Doc's voice echoed from the built-in speakers in the room, calm and precise:
"Health status stabilized in all five subjects. Vital signs within parameters: heart rate and oxygenation normal for species and age. Sedation maintained at ideal levels. Connecting to the virtual system — calibrated neural interfaces. Initial injection of monitoring nanites scheduled for five minutes from now."
Erick nodded slowly, examining the capsules one by one—the baby chimpanzees curled up like sleeping children, the more robust gorillas, raw potential contained in steel and glass. This was just the beginning: their introduction to the process, the first step in understanding how young bodies responded to the controlled environment.
He took a step back, turning to the center panel.
"Good."
The lights in the room dimmed slightly, focusing on the capsules. The buzzing continued, steady, like the beating of a mechanical heart.
The forge was lit.
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