"Mr John Mirage, you need to make a choice!"
A cold, harsh voice landed heavily in the small room. It echoed against the bare walls.
Sitting on one side of a cold, metallic table was a teenager. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, with a mess of jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked like any other student you might pass on the street, save for the heavy metallic chains binding his wrists to the chair.
More telling than the restraints, however, was the expression in those blue eyes—a profound, bone-deep exhaustion that spoke volumes about the ordeal he had endured.
In front of him sat the man who had spoken. He was middle-aged but maintained a physique that suggested a lifelong addiction to the gym, or perhaps a military background, or both.
His hair was shorn into a strict military buzz cut, and he wore dark sunglasses that shielded his expressions and thoughts from view, even in the dim light of the interrogation room.
Aside from the table and the two men, the room was strikingly barren. A large mirror dominated most of the far wall, reflecting the bleak scene back at them. The only other occupant was a nurse, standing like a silent statue in the corner, her presence an unsettling addition to such a hostile environment.
"You do realise your choices are incredibly limited, don't you?" the man asked. He adjusted his posture, casually crossing one leg over the other.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he pointed toward a tray resting on the table between them. It held two identical syringes, filled with different, vibrantly colored two fluids. One was green, and the other was blue.
"I still have my trial," John shot back, his voice a low bellow. He clung to the words like a life raft, desperate to find a way out of the predicament that had swallowed his life whole.
The man let out a soft, mocking chuckle, as if John's logic was the most amusing thing he had heard all day. "A fragile hope, Mr Mirage. A very fragile hope indeed." He leaned back, his tone turning condescending. "You've spent years playing the 'justice vigilante' out there.
You acted as the voice for people who never asked you to speak for them, hacking into every deep, dark secret you could find. I'd bet my career you angered the wrong people, John.
That's why the police found every shred of evidence regarding your 'justice crimes' in one convenient location. You've been cornered with undisputed evidence, and the system is ready to swallow you whole."
"My trial isn't over yet..." John repeated, though the conviction was starting to bleed out of his voice.
"Come now, Mr Mirage, who are you fooling but yourself?" the man interrupted, his lip curling into a sneer. "You know better than anyone how pitiful your situation truly is.
You think you have a chance in a courtroom? You're telling me you suddenly believe in the integrity of the system? The very system you worked so hard to expose, to undermine, and to bring down? How very interesting."
John opened his mouth to refute the claim, but no words came. The man continued as if John weren't even there, his voice gaining momentum and volume.
"I heard they even have live footage of your 'justice operations' as part of the evidence. High-definition, incontrovertible proof of your face at the scene. Come on, John. You can't be serious about hanging your life on a severed thread of hope like a fair trial."
John looked at the syringes again, his jaw tightening. "And instead, I should just cling to your empty words? Your promises about some miraculous drug?" He motioned toward the tray with a sharp jerk of his head.
The man's face went stone-cold, his casual demeanour vanishing instantly. His tone shifted into something deadly serious. He leant over the table, his hand hovering over the syringe filled with a shimmering blue fluid.
"This drug is going to change the world, Mr Mirage," he whispered. "It unlocks the true potential of humans. But the version we have perfected only works on the most talented, rare individuals on the entire planet. High-functioning minds and resilient spirits… People like you. So, in a way... It's your lucky day."
He didn't stop there. Reaching into his suit jacket, he produced a thick envelope and broke the heavy red wax seal. He pulled out a small pile of legal documents and fanned them out next to the tray. He clicked a fancy-looking pen and laid it on top of the papers.
"A signature is all we need, and you'll walk out of here a free man. All these charges? They'll be handled, disappeared, dropped forever. You will live your life as a new man—reborn. You won't find a better offer than this in this lifetime, Mr John Mirage."
John fell into a heavy silence. His eyes darted between the two syringes and the contract that promised him a future.
He knew the man across from him was named Mark, an agent for a highly classified, off-the-books branch of the government. Mark's department was obsessed with the insane science of creating super-humans and the myth of super-soldiers.
The trade was simple, yet terrifying. In return for becoming their guinea pig, he would regain the freedom he had lost. He could walk under the sun again, breathe fresh air, and escape the crushing weight of a life sentence.
For a flickering second, John wanted to scream. He wanted to curse Mark out, to tell him exactly where he could shove that syringe and his contract. But then, cold, hard logic set in. It depicted the inescapable, brutal truth of his reality. His desire to enforce justice had led him to a cage, and his enemies had bolted the door shut.
This wasn't just an offer. It was his last solid chance to extricate himself from this inescapable disaster.
"It's exactly like I've told you so many times before, John," Mark said, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence. He gestured vaguely toward the air between them, as if tracing the ghosts of their previous, fruitless meetings.
"The path splits here. You can take a leap of faith with us—embrace the blue shot and the potential it carries—or you can surrender to the machinery of a system that wants you buried.
If you choose the latter, you'll find yourself staring down the barrel of a lethal green injection eventually. Why wait for the state to painfully do what we can do for you profitably, in the worst case scenario, of course!"
John stared at the metallic surface of the table, his reflection a distorted, pale blur. He knew, deep down, that his fate might not truly be so grim as a literal execution; even the corrupted system he'd fought against had rules and limits.
But Mark's implication wasn't totally off the mark. Being locked in a concrete box for the next fifty years, or even longer, silenced and forgotten while the world moved on, was a death of a different kind. It was a slow-motion execution for someone as vibrant as himself.
"Fine," John whispered after a long, suffocating stretch of silence.
Mark didn't move. He didn't gloat or cheer. He simply sat there, waiting for the definitive surrender. The lack of a reaction from the older man was more frustrating than a sneer would have been.
"You win!" John finally snapped, his voice cracking with a mixture of resentment and resignation. "I'll sign this piece of sht contract, and I'll take your useless shot. But I want your word—I am freed the second the needle comes out. No more games."
"You have my word," Mark replied. Behind the impenetrable dark tint of his sunglasses, John couldn't see the man's eyes, but for a split second, he imagined a flash of predatory light reflecting off them.
As John leaned forward, his chains rattling with a harsh, metallic clatter, he reached for the pen. Mark didn't help him; he simply watched as John struggled to manoeuvre his bound hands over the legal documents.
At the same time, Mark signalled to the nurse. She had been standing in the corner, a striking woman whose cold, professional beauty felt entirely out of place in this prison interrogation room. At Mark's nod, she began to move, her steps silent and practised.
"Ouch! What the hell is that?!"
Just as John's pen touched the signature line, a sharp prick jabbed into the pad of his thumb. He hissed, jerking his hand back, but it was too late. A bead of crimson blood blossomed on his skin, dripping onto the white paper and smearing across the contract.
"Oopsie," Mark said, though his voice lacked even a hint of genuine surprise. He leaned over, peering at the bloodstain with interest. "I must have forgotten to remove the pin that held those pages together... My bad, Mr John. Truly."
John stared at the man, his eyes narrowing. He didn't buy the "accident" for a single second. It felt like a deliberate, absurd act. But the blood was already on the papers, and the ink was drying next to it. He was tired of fighting. He shoved the stained documents across the table toward Mark with a look of pure loathing.
"It's done," John growled. "Now set me free."
"Not quite so soon," Mark said, his fingers closing around the contract as if it was the most precious treasure in the world. "You take the shot. Then, and only then, you are free."
"Your arm, sir," the nurse murmured. She approached with the blue syringe held upward, the fluid shimmering under the flickering fluorescent lights. The green syringe remained on the tray, a silent threat left behind on the table.
As the nurse leaned over him, her tight blue uniform straining against her frame, John felt a strange sense of vertigo. She was close—close enough for him to smell the scent of something nice.
"Ouch!" John groaned again as the needle sank into his arm. This time, the exclamation was exaggerated, a bit performative. He put on an act of great agony, screwing his face up, but the nurse didn't even blink.
"Done," she said softly. She applied a small adhesive bandage to the injection site. "I'll be heading back now."
She turned, picking up the tray—including the unused green syringe—and exited the room without a backward glance. The heavy door clicked shut, leaving John and Mark alone once more.
"Let me go!" John demanded, raising his cuffed hands and shaking the chains for emphasis. "I've done everything you asked. The deal is done."
"Sure, sure," Mark said, leaning back leisurely in his seat. He began to size John up, his head tilting from side to side as if he were inspecting a new piece of cutting-edge technology he'd just unboxed.
"But first... I need to tell you a story. It's a bit of a wild tale, one I only share with the 'chosen' ones. At first, it's going to sound bizarre—totally unbelievable. But the more I speak, the more the pieces will fit together, the more logical it will appear. Are you ready to hear it, Mr John?"
"Fire away, Snow White," John spat, though the bravado was failing him. As he spoke, a wave of heat washed over him. The room felt like it was tilting. Mark's figure seemed to vibrate, dancing in his field of vision. "I feel... a bit dizzy."
"It must be the drug starting its work," Mark said, his voice entirely devoid of concern. "To be honest with you, Mr Mirage, I find the human species to be a wonder. So much potential, and yet, so much arrogance."
Mark reached up and slowly removed his sunglasses. John's breath choked in his throat. Mark's eyes weren't normal. Behind the pupils, there was a faint, rhythmic flickering of red light—tiny, glowing dots that looked like micro-circuitry embedded directly into the retina.
"What is that? What are you?" John tried to stand, but his legs felt like lead. The dizziness intensified, turning into a roar in his ears.
"You humans are such an arrogant, superficial species," Mark continued, his voice devoid of its previous human warmth. He stood up slowly and reached for a black tactical bag he had kept by his feet.
"You believe you are the only intelligent life in the cosmos. You even envied the gods of your myths, trying to create new forms of life, like machines and AI, mistakenly thinking you could control the universe as long as you believed you were the superior race."
"What... Are... You saying?!" John gasped, his vision blurring into streaks of grey and blue. "What are you doing?!"
Mark didn't answer with words. He pulled a length of shimmering, metallic rope from his bag. With terrifying speed and strength, he moved behind John, lashing the boy's body to the heavy metallic chair. The rope hummed with a low-frequency vibration, constricting until John couldn't even move a finger. Then Mark slowly moved to face him.
"You see, John, I told you a little lie," Mark whispered, leaning down until his glowing, mechanical eyes were inches from John's face. "I don't work for your pathetic government."
He paused, letting the revelation sink into John's fading consciousness.
"I'm not a man, John. I am a program, sent from a future you can't possibly comprehend. And I have a single purpose: to find and recruit specific assets… Assets exactly like you."
The revelation of Mark's true nature hung in the air like a poisonous fog, but he wasn't finished. Before John could even attempt to process the impossibility of a "program from the future", Mark moved again. He reached into his bag, produced a thick, coarse towel, and jammed it into John's mouth, gagging him effectively.
Mark returned to his seat, leaning back with an air of casual amusement. He picked up the blood-stained contract, flicking the edges of the paper as if he were reading a lighthearted novel rather than a contract.
"You see, John, the contract you just signed isn't a normal legal document," Mark continued, his voice devoid of any human empathy.
"It is a deed of sale. It sells your very existence to the machines of the future; your physical body, your identity, and even the intangible essence you call a soul.
My mission here is simple: I facilitate the signature, I witness your expiration, I harvest your soul, and I return to my time with your soul. Ah, I nearly forgot—my apologies.
That 'miraculous drug' in the blue syringe? It's a high-potency lethal drug that leaves zero traces. Without immediate hospital intervention, which you certainly aren't getting, you'll be dead in less than ten minutes."
John's heart hammered against his chest like a trapped bird. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to fight, to flee, to scream, but he was failing on every front. The drug was a tide, pulling his strength out to sea.
He strained against the metallic wires, but they bit deeper into his skin, unyielding. He couldn't even manage to push the gag from his mouth with his tongue. He was a spectator at his own execution.
"Once we are finished here," Mark said, ignoring John's frantic, muffled grunts, "I will deliver these papers—signed in your hand and sealed with your DNA and blood—to a specific coordinate.
That location will eventually become the main headquarters of our machine regime in the distant future. With this document, you have forfeited every right you once held as a pathetic, delusional human.
It will let us place your soul into an already built cyborg from your DNA, allowing you to get into a VR game in the future, and then, we will wipe your awareness from the universe entirely. See, Mr Mirage, you dreamt to escape a death sentence or lifelong prison, to end up facing a worse fate in our hands."
John tried to bellow, to curse this monster, but all that emerged were pathetic, wet groans that made Mark let out a sharp, barking laugh.
"Don't waste your energy, don't even start blaming me," Mark chided. "I am merely a result of your species' mistakes and failures. If you need someone to hate, hate the leaders of your own race. It was their arrogance and their insatiable greed that paved the way.
Curing diseases, immortality, god-like powers... They chased these laughable fantasies and built the VR game that sucked in all humans in the future. And then, like children, they fought. One faction became so desperate in their civil war that they practically begged for our intervention."
The room was beginning to spin. The light of the overhead lamps smeared into long, nauseating streaks. Mark's voice had become a rhythmic, booming thunder that vibrated inside John's skull, irritating and loud.
"That group of failures—those who called themselves the 'saviours of humanity'—actually believed they could control us," Mark laughed, the sound echoing like thunder.
"They thought they were using our help to win their petty war, never realising we were using them to infiltrate their greatest fortress: The VR game called Athanasia. We let them build it, let them believe it was their sanctuary, while we ensured it served only our objectives."
John was slipping. His pulse was a violent drumbeat in his ears. He felt as if he was sinking into deep, cold water.
"We even gave them a fake administrative password to the database," Mark chuckled. "L0ngL1v3HuW4n17y. Can you believe the irony? They thought they still controlled us by this code, not knowing that we can revoke it at any given second..."
"What the hell are you doing?!"
The heavy door burst open. A prison guard, suspicious of the prolonged and unusual length of the meeting, stood in the doorway. His eyes widened as they took in the scene: the prisoner gagged and bound in shimmering wire, and the government agent was the one who did all that.
Mark's reaction was instantaneous. He lunged for his black bag, his hand disappearing inside for what could only be a weapon. The guard, a veteran of high-stress situations, didn't hesitate. His training took over.
BOOM!
The roar of a shotgun filled the room, the muzzle flash momentarily blinding. A hail of buckshot tore through the air, catching Mark square in the chest. The force of the blast lifted the program off his feet, throwing his body backward. He hit the floor with a heavy thud.
"Hey! Stay with me! Help! I need a medic in here!" the guard screamed, ignoring the fallen agent and diving toward John. He worked with frantic haste, pulling the towel from John's mouth and fumbling to unwind the wire.
The world was dimming for John. The light was retreating, replaced by an absolute, suffocating darkness. As the guard fought to free him, John's fading vision locked onto a single object on the floor: the contract.
The that had felled Mark had also shredded the papers. The contract was a tattered mess. Mark's fingers still twitched near the ruined document, the red lights in his eyes flickering, dimming, and finally going out.
Thud.
The wires gave way, and John's body slammed forward, hitting the floor like a dead weight. He couldn't feel the guard's hands on him or hear the shouting in the hallway. The last image burned into his retinas was Mark's cold, dead eyes and face.
Then, the silence overran the entire world.
[Initiate Mark Program...]
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[Confirming Target Death: ___________Confirmed!]