>> SYSTEM LOG: Running 29 August 2098, Washington D.C.

The White House courtyard had become a graveyard of twisted steel. Scorching embers were carried by the wind, burning Red’s throat with every breath.

Spirals of black smoke rose skyward, strangling tattered flags that dangled like hanged corpses.

The once-perfect lawn was no more.

In its place, a stretch of jagged craters pulsed like an open wound, while the sky, a molten metal pour, was slashed by the violent beams of defense system spotlights.

Red tightened his fist around the coin while studying the battlefield.

He was the last standing. His unit — scattered, slaughtered — no longer existed. Not that it mattered now.

An implacable army deployed before him: drones slicing the air among ruins, emitting sharp whistles; androids trampled over a field of lifeless soldiers; automated turrets climbed the walls, spitting streams of plasma.

The metallic stench of raw fuel mingled with the sickly-sweet reek of charred flesh.

Red inhaled. A blink.

“Three seconds, three thousand times.”

> rewind()

Time contracted. His pupils vibrated as information flowed. Lightning-fast images pierced his mind. Every trajectory. Every shot. Every enemy countermoves.

Wind: 4.2 knots. Particulate matter concentration: 43 mg/m³

> Winning scenario found: #2112

Then he charged.

The gold coin slipped between his fingers: metallic, cold, lethal.

The ground exploded.

He jumped left anticipating the laser. The counterfeit dollar spun in the air, deflecting the red beam. A flash. Perfection.

The first turret shut down in a hiss.

The android didn’t react in time. Red was already in motion, calculating trajectories in real time. 

One step. Retrieve. Twist. Throw.

The token ricocheted off the drone’s carapace, tracing a precise angle. It pierced the android’s synthetic skull, shattering its circuits.

Enemy neutralized.

Red surged forward, snatching his precious relic mid-flight. Warm. Deadly. A perfect weapon in his hands.

New drones emerging from the shadows. Turrets in recalibration.

He brushed his helmet. “Blue, status.”

Silence, then a cascade of explosions in his earpiece. Blue’s voice was sharp, alive. “I’ve ripped half the dome. They’re deploying thermal shields.”

Red scanned the field. Every second counted. Every action had to be flawless.

“Green?”

A calm whisper through the comm. No background fire. Steady breathing.

“General neutralized. Server located on the lower levels.”

New variables. New scenario. Time remaining: critical.

“Blue, distract them. Make them turn the shield upward.”

“Copy that.” Pure ferocity.

The sky trembled. Soon it would become hell.

“Green, reach that server. I’ll cover you from outside.”

He inhaled again. New simulation.

Then he plunged into the firestorm, coin clenched between his fingers. There was no room for error. Only coded instinct and death calibrated to the millisecond.

>> SYSTEM LOG: Running 26 September 2097, Neo Babylon

The metropolis throbbed beneath a leaden sky, suspended between artificial twilight and neon gleams that sliced through darkness like electric veins.

Bionic silhouettes streaked by on hoverboards, leaving glowing trails that dissolved in the dense air, heavied by chemical vapors.

In the narrow alleys, amid mountains of discarded tech components, a throng of vendors hawked exotic goods, projecting holograms from handheld devices. Every deal was supervised by insect-like drones buzzing above the crowd.

A body fell from above, landing with a dull thud against the concrete. No one stopped when the dark blood flowed against wastes.

Only small cleaner-bots noticed the scene, clinging to the carcass, disassembling usable implants and recycling organic compounds. Tomorrow, someone else would walk the same pavement, oblivious to what had happened.

The entire system breathed, alive — a hybrid organism of flesh and technology in eternal decomposition and rebirth.

The stench of toxic miasma gave way to purified air as the human mass thinned toward the upper levels, an incurable disease where only the symptoms were treated.

The transition from slums to the corporate district was marked by streets sterilized through chemical nebulizers and hologlass barriers separating pedestrians from lower levels, broadcasting relentless propaganda and advertising.

At the edge of this border zone, a loud crash caught the attention of bystanders. A man — six mechanical arms snapping into action, each one independent but coordinated in their movements — didn’t hesitate when he struck the public projector, shattering it with his metallic fist.

The fragments rained onto the sidewalk, and his face, distorted by unauthorized facial implants, disappeared from the hologram identifying him: Class S fugitive.

“Damn informants,” he hissed, without stopping or looking back. His iron hand trembled, not from fear but from chemical rage, synaptic enhancers melting his nervous system.

Passersby moved aside, some disgusted, others with the morbid curiosity of those living safely enough to afford observing danger. No one called the authorities. No one moved to stop him.

Beneath its opulent veneer, Neo Babylon hid a dark underbelly: crime slithered like a contaminated river, infiltrating every level of society.

As the fugitive vanished into the crowd — several blocks away and twenty floors higher — a crystalline drop of water slid down the spine of the all-seeing system.

Joseph ran a hand through his hair. His fingers lingered on the scar at the base of his skull, brushing the corporate identification mark hidden beneath his dark locks.

He didn’t look in the mirror. He didn’t need to.

He crossed the apartment with measured steps, the towel barely covering the essentials. Droplets of water traced clean trails on his skin like patterns on a living circuit. He stopped in front of the hologlass, dressed in the precision of someone who has every inch of their space down to a science.

His palm rested on the cold silicon. Five seconds of silence triggered, a privilege for level-eight AndrusDynamics employees. The incessant whispering of slogans and jingles began to fade.

“Accept,” he murmured to the system, and the advertisements disappeared entirely.

Neo Babylon unfolded before him. The skyscrapers, blades of oxidized steel and opaque glass, pierced the low curtain of industrial smog; their reflecting façades stained by decades of acid rain.

Joseph’s reflection fractured against the skyline; his face sliced by neon signs and surveillance drones. His blue irises captured that image and analyzed it with cold detachment.

His lips curved in an automatic muscular reaction.

“The city, like a tentacled monster, grapples to the sky, devouring the light and hopes of men.”

He recited the ancient verse without emotion, like an access code to a long-forgotten system.

The screen resumed, vomiting a visual cacophony of artificial colors and empty promises. The five seconds had expired with the chronometric precision of an execution.

Joseph stepped away from the window without a backward glance. The droplets on the floor marked the path of his movement — faint footprints that would vanish before his return.

He crossed the threshold into the living room. His right arm stretched automatically toward the control panel. His fingers danced in a familiar sequence: nine precise touches, the same code he used to access his office.

The walls activated. The sterile apartment came alive in a spectacle of floating holograms that filled the empty space. Digital volumes, graphic interfaces, corporate reports — all meticulously arranged according to an invisible taxonomy that only he understood.

The bar drone’s optical sensors detected his presence. It hummed. The cocktail was assembled: amber liquids poured with clockwork precision.

Joseph’s irises glowed; his cybernetic ocular implants calibrated the internal brightness, projecting onto the artificial retina a constant stream of data. News headlines scrolled in one corner of his vision, stock indices pulsed in another, while the center remained free for immediate environmental analysis.

He grabbed the glass. The rum burned — a rare organic sensation in a body growing ever more  synthetic. He didn’t drink for pleasure but out of necessity, emotional fuel in an aseptic society.

His workday projected across his augmented mind: fragmented sequences of white corridors, faces of subordinates avoiding his gaze, superiors nodding in approval.

He saw himself walking past rows of technicians bent over their consoles. He walked down the hallway with methodical detachment, checking projects, signing authorizations, performing each task in a mechanical efficiency.

AetherVerse — his creation, his burden. Personalized virtual universes for those who could afford to escape reality without ever leaving it. Digital toys for Neo Babylon’s wealthy, legal drugs that he himself designed but never consumed.

An incoming call cut through the silence. Joseph didn’t flinch, but the glass stopped mid-air. The hologram materialized on its own, there was no need to activate it — a privilege reserved for few contacts on his list.

“Looking good, Wampler.” The figure staring at him had a crown of eyes blinking in asynchronous sequence. “Still drinking that garbage?”

“Better than your eyedrops.” A quick, near-invisible smile. “I still remember when you had only two.”

Malakian blinked all eight of his eyelids — the equivalent to a laugh in his augmented body language. “And remember when you said you’d stay clean? Zero grafts, zero implants?”

“I also remember when we promised to get rich without getting our hands dirty.” Joseph swirled the amber liquid, gaze locked on the reflection of it. “Look at us now.”

The tone shifted. Malakian leaned forward, reducing the virtual space between them. The sudden inclination of his torso betrayed his haste, the urgent need to share information.

“I intercepted an encrypted communication.” The central pupils dilated, the peripheral ones contracted — intense concentration. “There’s an Exo.Co. convoy approaching. Five armored vehicles, at least twenty soldiers with heavy equipment.”

Joseph set down his drink, shifting to a more serious tone. “Exo.Co. went under during the last war. Who’s still using their brand?”

“That’s the point.” Malakian showed a three-dimensional projection on his palm. “Guards’ profiles don’t match any active corporate database. They exist, but officially they don’t.”

“Like our offshore accounts.” The corporative stood up, walking through the hologram with no consideration. “What’s the route?”

“Sector 21, then a diversion toward demilitarized territories. If you observe this pattern…” A luminous path appeared in the projection. “...they’re systematically dodging high-surveillance zones.”

Joseph studied those details for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “They’re using the old maintenance tunnels. There’s one open stretch where we can intercept them before they make it into the city.”

“The abandoned junction under the old runoff tunnel.” Malakian completed that deduction. “But there’s a problem. Sensors indicate they have advanced defense systems. Military-grade stuff, not simple corporate security.”

“Yet they use a defunct logo and obsolete routes.” Joseph traced an invisible line in the air, sifting through data only he could see. “It makes no sense, unless…”

“Unless they’re transporting something that shouldn’t appear in official records.” Malakian’s eyes flashed in sequence. “Something worth hundreds of thousands of millions of tickets.”