[MISSION STATUS: CRITICAL]
[CURRENT LOCATION: ROOF OF "THE LEVIATHAN" - ARMORED TRANSPORT]
[SPEED: 305 KM/H]
[EXTERNAL TEMPERATURE: -35 DEGREES CELSIUS (WIND CHILL)]
The impact is not a landing; it is a collision.
Unit 73 hits the corrugated steel roof of the train car. The laws of physics demand payment for the difference in velocity. Despite the hydraulic shock absorbers in his legs compressing to their mechanical limit, the force is brutal.
He bounces.
The momentum throws him backward, tumbling toward the rear edge of the moving fortress. His ceramic knee-plating screeches against the icy metal, throwing up a shower of orange sparks that vanish instantly in the blizzard.
He claws at the surface. His gloved fingers, reinforced with grip-assist servos, scrabble for purchase on the slick, frosted steel.
Slip. Slide.
His boots find a rivet line. He digs in. His body jerks to a violent halt, hanging precariously over the abyss between the cars. The magnetic couplings below grind and flash, a maw of churning machinery waiting to swallow him.
[DAMAGE ALERT: KINETIC IMPACT]
[STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: 85%]
[RIGHT LEG SERVO: STRESSED]
[SHOULDER WOUND: RE-OPENED]
73 lies flat, pressing his chest against the cold steel to minimize his aerodynamic profile. The wind is a physical weight, a roaring wall of pressure that threatens to peel him off the roof like a loose sticker.
"Status!" Mother's voice is distorted, fighting through the magnetic interference of the train's drive coils.
"On board," 73 transmits. He does not shout; he vocalizes via the bone-conduction link. "Roof of Car 18. Target neutralized in Car 20. Proceeding to secure the sample."
"Be advised," Mother says, her voice stabilizing. "The train's AI has detected the hull impact. They think it's falling ice, but security protocols are cycling. You have active countermeasures deploying."
73 looks up.
Ten meters ahead, a panel in the roof slides open. A hydraulic whine cuts through the wind. A Phalanx-Class Automated Turret rises from the recess. It is a squat, ugly thing, equipped with twin rotary barrels and a red optical sensor eye that sweeps the roof in a jagged pattern.
It rotates. The red eye locks onto 73.
[THREAT DETECTED]
[LOCKING...]
73 cannot outrun the turret. He cannot stand up to shoot it without being blown off by the wind.
He rolls.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
High-velocity rounds chew up the metal where he was lying a split second ago. The sound is deafening.
73 scrambles on all fours, staying low, using the central ventilation ridge for cover. The turret traverses, its motor whining in protest as it tries to track the fast-moving target in the blizzard.
He reaches for his EMP Emitter—no, he didn't buy one. He prioritized the rifle.
"Improvise," he tells himself.
He draws the ICA-19 Specter.
He activates Instinct Mode.
The world turns grey. The blizzard freezes. He sees the turret not as metal, but as a collection of heat signatures and weak points. He sees the power conduit glowing yellow beneath the turret's rotating base. It is a target no larger than a coin.
The train lurches as it hits a switch track.
73 stabilizes his arm. The crosshair in his HUD sways, then aligns.
Phut.
The heavy .45 round strikes the conduit.
Sparks shower the roof. The turret spasms, firing a burst of rounds wildly into the night sky, before slumping forward, lifeless.
[XP GAINED: 150]
73 holsters the weapon. He crawls past the smoking wreckage. He reaches the gap between Car 18 and Car 19.
He needs to get inside. The cold is seeping through his thermal layers. Even with the stimulants, his bio-components are beginning to lag.
He scans the roof of Car 19. There is a maintenance hatch.
He crawls to it. It is sealed with a heavy electronic lock.
He pulls the Disposable Scrambler from his tactical pouch. He jams the prongs into the interface port.
The device hums. Red lights flash. Green.
Clunk.
The hatch unlatches. The pressure seal hisses.
73 lifts the lid and drops into the darkness.
[LOCATION: CAR 19 - ELITE GUARD BARRACKS]
[INTERNAL TEMPERATURE: 20 DEGREES CELSIUS]
The transition is jarring. One moment, the screaming chaos of the storm; the next, the hum of air recycling and the smell of gun oil, sweat, and stale coffee.
73 lands in a crouch on a metal grating, high in the rafters of the train car. Below him is a barracks area. Bunks line the walls. A central table is covered in playing cards and vodka bottles.
But the room is not relaxed. The gunshot that killed Volkov has shattered the calm.
Twelve mercenaries are scrambling. They are big men, wearing heavy winter armor and carrying AK-automated variants. They shout in Russian, their voices echoing off the metal walls.
"Sector 4 breach! Hull impact!"
"Volkov is down! I repeat, the Commander is down!"
"Sweep the vents! Find the shooter!"
73 observes from the darkness of the ceiling. He is a spider. They are the flies.
He needs to reach the blast door at the far end to access Car 20.
"Stealth is preferable," Mother suggests. "Preserve your armor integrity."
73 scans the room. The guards are alert. Their patrol patterns are erratic. Stealth is statistically unlikely.
"Violence is faster," 73 counters.
He spots a loose steam pipe bracket near the catwalk railing. He calculates the structural stress.
He moves.
He drops from the rafters, not to the floor, but onto the shoulders of the nearest guard. The impact drives the man into the ground, crushing his spine.
[TAKEDOWN: LETHAL]
Before the others can process the sudden movement, 73 rolls. He comes up holding the dead guard's assault rifle.
[WEAPON ACQUIRED: MAT-49 AUTOMATIC]
"Contact!" a mercenary screams.
The room erupts.
73 does not seek cover. He is the offensive. He triggers Adrenal Surge.
Time stretches. The muzzle flashes of the mercenaries' guns bloom like slow-motion flowers. The bullets draw lazy lines through the air.
73 sidesteps a burst of fire. He raises the rifle.
Brrrt. Brrrt. Brrrt.
Controlled bursts. Headshots.
Three guards drop.
He discards the empty rifle and draws his Specter. He flows through the room, a blur of motion. He uses a bunk bed as a pivot point, swinging around the post to kick a mercenary in the throat. As the man stumbles back, gagging, 73 puts a round in his chest.
A grenade lands near his feet.
[EXPLOSIVE DETECTED]
73 doesn't panic. He scoops it up and bowls it under the central table where two guards are taking cover.
BOOM.
The table flips. The guards are silenced.
The last mercenary, a giant of a man with a scarred face, charges with a combat knife. He is screaming, fueled by rage.
73 holsters his gun. He steps inside the man's guard. He catches the knife wrist. He twists.
Snap.
The man howls. 73 drives a palm strike into the man's nose, driving bone into the brain. The man collapses.
Silence returns to the car, save for the groans of the dying and the hum of the engine.
[COMBAT RATING: EFFICIENT]
[HEALTH: 88%]
73 reloads his pistol. He steps over the bodies. He does not feel remorse. He feels only the satisfaction of a puzzle solved.
He reaches the heavy blast door to Car 20. It is locked.
He places his hand on the keypad. "Mother. Override."
"Accessing... This encryption is military grade. Volkov paid good money for this train. Give me ten seconds."
Bullets ping against the doorframe.
73 turns. The door behind him opens. Reinforcements are entering from Car 18.
"I do not have ten seconds," 73 says.
He looks at the control panel. He shoots it. Sparks fly.
He grabs the manual release wheel. He strains. His servos whine, the pitch rising to a scream. The metal groans.
The wheel turns.
The door cracks open. 73 slips through and spins the locking mechanism from the other side just as a hail of bullets hammers the steel.
[LOCATION: CAR 20 - VOLKOV'S SANCTUM]
This car is different.
The utilitarian steel is hidden behind mahogany paneling. Thick red carpets dampen the sound of his boots. A crystal chandelier chimes softly as the train sways. It smells of expensive cigars and blood.
At the far end of the room, the observation window is shattered. Snow swirls in, coating the luxury furniture in a fine white powder.
And there, lying on a white bear-skin rug, is Oleg Volkov.
The physics of the .300 Win Mag bullet were unforgiving. The chest cavity is destroyed.
"Target confirmed," 73 says. He approaches the body. "Locating sample."
A silver, reinforced briefcase is handcuffed to Volkov's left wrist. A blue light on the case pulses steadily.
[ITEM DETECTED: THE BLIGHT PROTOTYPE]
73 kneels. He checks Volkov's pockets for a key. Nothing.
He looks at the handcuffs. High-tensile steel.
He looks at Volkov's wrist.
He draws the Fiber Wire. It is a garrote, razor-thin.
He wraps the wire around the dead man's wrist. He pulls.
It takes four seconds of sawing motion to sever the bone.
73 stands, the briefcase now in his left hand. The weight is comforting.
"Objective complete," Mother says. "Now, extraction. There is an escape pod in the floor beneath the bar. Volkov kept it for emergencies. Scan the area."
73 turns toward the bar.
Click.
The sound of a hammer cocking.
It comes from the shadows near the entrance to the sleeping quarters.
73 freezes. His sensors did not detect a heartbeat.
"You're good," a voice says. "Better than the last batch."
A man steps into the light.
He is not a mercenary. He is not wearing armor. He is wearing a tailored grey coat over a dark suit. He is bald. His face is a roadmap of stoicism—hard angles, icy blue eyes, and a mouth that looks like it has forgotten how to smile.
He holds a silver pistol—a customized AMT Hardballer—aimed directly at 73's head.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: CRITICAL]
[IDENTITY: UNKNOWN]
[POWER LEVEL: ERROR]
73 raises his own weapon.
"Identify," 73 commands.
The man tilts his head. "I'm the one they sent to clean up the mess. And you... you're the mess."
"Mother," 73 subvocalizes. "Who is this?"
"I... I don't know," Mother's voice falters. "He's not on the manifest. No heat signature. No ID tag. 73, my systems are glitching just looking at him. He registers as... a ghost."
"He looks real," 73 says.
"Drop the case," the bald man says. His voice is gravel and silk. It is the voice from the dream.
"Negative," 73 says.
"You're running the new Sanctum OS," the man observes, glancing at the blue light in 73's eyes. "Efficient. Cold. But predictable."
The man moves.
It is not speed. It is economy.
73 fires. Bang.
The man is not there. He has stepped inside the arc of 73's aim, deflecting the gun arm with a precise slap of his left hand.
He strikes 73 in the chest.
It feels like being hit by a pneumatic ram. 73 stumbles back, his armor plating cracking.
[WARNING: CHEST PLATE FRACTURE]
73 counters. He swings the briefcase.
The man ducks, sweeping 73's legs.
73 hits the floor hard. He rolls, coming up with his knife. He slashes.
The man catches his wrist. His grip is iron. He looks into 73's eyes.
"Do you even know what you're carrying?" the man asks. "Do you know what they made you for?"
"I am a cleaner," 73 strains against the grip.
"No," the man says. "You're a Xerox of a killer. And the toner is running low."
He twists. 73's knife clatters to the floor.
The man aims the Silverballer at 73's forehead.
"Game over."
He pulls the trigger.
Click.
A misfire. A jam. Even legends have bad luck.
The man frowns, looking at the ejection port.
73 does not hesitate. He kicks the man in the knee. The man grunts and stumbles back.
73 scrambles backward toward the bar. He smashes the floor panel with his fist.
[ESCAPE POD: ACCESSED]
"Go!" Mother screams. "Get out of there!"
73 throws himself into the pod. It is a cramped cylinder, barely big enough for one person. He drags the briefcase in with him.
Through the reinforced glass of the closing hatch, he sees the bald man recovering. The man looks at him. He doesn't look angry. He looks... disappointed.
The man raises the pistol again. He has cleared the jam.
73 punches the launch button.
BOOM.
Explosive bolts fire. The floor of the train drops away.
The pod is ejected into the violent, swirling darkness of the Ural mountains.
[LOCATION: FREEFALL]
[ALTITUDE: 400 METERS]
Gravity takes hold. The pod tumbles. The G-forces slam 73 against the restraints.
He watches the lights of The Leviathan disappear into the storm, a streak of yellow fading into black.
The parachute deploys. WHUMP.
The jolt rattles his teeth. The pod swings wildly in the gale-force winds.
Below, the unforgiving peaks of the mountains rise up to meet him.
"Impact in 10 seconds," the pod's computer announces calmly.
73 clutches the briefcase. The sample is safe. The mission is technically a success.
But the data in his mind is corrupted. The face of the man on the train. The blue eyes. The barcode he glimpsed on the back of the man's neck.
640509-040147
The numbers burn in his memory banks.
The pod crashes through the tree line. Branches snap like gunfire.
CRUNCH.
The pod slams into a snowbank. Darkness claims him.
[SYSTEM REBOOT]
[DIAGNOSTICS RUNNING...]
[DAMAGE REPORT]
Right Leg: Hydraulic failure.
Core Temp: Dropping.
Weaponry: Low Ammo.
Mental Status: UNSTABLE.
73 opens his eyes. The pod is sideways. Snow is drifting in through a crack in the hull.
He is alive.
He pushes the hatch open and crawls out into the snow. The cold is absolute.
"Mother?"
Static.
"Mother, do you copy?"
"I... hear... you..." Her voice is weak. "Signal... jammed... Interference... 47..."
73 stares into the white void of the forest.
He is alone. He is damaged. And he is being hunted by the ghost of the man he was built to replace.
[CHAPTER 5 COMPLETE]
[LEVEL UP!]
[CURRENT LEVEL: 3]
[SKILL POINT AVAILABLE]