1.5

4.47 kilometers away, 33 meters underground—a cool, raven-haired woman stood at the center of a brightly lit command station. Ren Sasaki, 29. 

She wore black combat boots with thigh-high leggings—just a strip of skin visible beneath her black denim shorts. Over her dark, form-fitting shirt was a baggy, reflective gray bomber jacket with black lettering: “DEEP” running down the right sleeve. Her hair was pulled up tightly into a high ponytail, a violet hair tie her only pop of color.

Ren scowled, her eyes clear pools of grey. Her mouth remained twisted into a frown as she communicated telepathically with her team of field agents.

【Primary objective is that bunker!】

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Back in the Ami Clinic waiting room, three special assault team (SAT) operators in armored slate coveralls fanned out around the clinician—weapons drawn. Their eyes peered out from behind their black face coverings, set beneath the rims of their helmets. 

A stark white “POLICE” patch was emblazoned across each of their plate carriers, with small Velcro strips designating their individual squad numbers—01, 02, and 03. 

The clinician appeared to be cooperating—both hands raised in the air. Unlike before, his eyes were wide open—his calm smile replaced by a mischievous grin.

【Clear the main floor, weapons free!】

【Ma’am!】

“W-what is this?!”

The clinician turned to see the receptionist staring at him from behind the counter with a look of horror and disbelief. 

“Oh, right. Speaking of guns…”

The clinician pointed at the receptionist with one finger—hands still above his head.

“That one.”

As SAT 01 sharply turned his gun on him, the receptionist dove from his chair, disappearing behind the counter. The SAT operator appeared to track him through the surface. He fired off a few rounds from his suppressed PK9—the shots ripped through the desk, revealing a dented ballistic shield under the front paneling.

When the receptionist sprang back up, he was clutching a strange-looking pistol with flat, smooth muzzle—but before he could pull the trigger, SAT 02 fired a burst from his gun—exploding the vase of poppies on the counter.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

SHIT!!! 

Keshi lay limp on the surgical bed. 

What the hell just happened—did someone get shot?!

He wanted to ask, but it was like his mouth was stuffed with wet cotton. Keshi thought for sure he must have pissed his jeans, but there was no way to tell. He was all pins and needles from the ankles up.

“Hey, you seeing this?!”

The technician seemed to be on a call with someone.

“Uhhh, yeah! He’s being controlled! It’s just like Nous said!”

Controlled?

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

As the receptionist fell back onto his chair—dead—SAT 01—swiftly turned and fired. An identical pistol fell to the floor, followed by a body—the old man in the green tracksuit—an instant kill.

The clinician turned and flashed a sheepish smile.

“Heh... Oops. Guess I missed one.”

A male nurse suddenly burst through the door to the waiting room.

“What the hell’s–gghh”

SAT 03 immediately restrained the man against the wall, while SAT 01 relayed telepathically with Ren.

【Threats neutralized.】

【Bag them up!】

SAT 03 tightened flex-cuffs around the nurse’s wrists.

【This guy too?】

【Him too. Tie his legs. Bite block.】

【Yes, Commander!】

【Emi. The cloaking system.】

“I know, I know, hold on. Don’t be so impatient!”

The clinician frowned as he interfaced with a control panel generated by his Ichor—his eyes darting about. As he spoke, a second voice could be heard on the telepathic comms line—a voice belonging to a young woman.

“You know it takes time to integrate, right?”
【You know it takes time to integrate, right?】

【You’re getting sloppy.】

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Ren watched the scene in the waiting room play out on a large central holo-display that showed the visual feeds of each field agent.

【It should have been done already. And stick to neural comms on mission. How many times do I have to say it?】

【Always nagging.】

【And stop breaking character.】

【Come on, freaking people out is the only fun part of this job!】

Ren turned her head sharply to her right.

“Yuki, what’s her status?”

A young, nervous-looking scientist sat atop a control deck, staring intently at a curved holo-display—various abstract, non-Euclidian shapes morphing before her eyes. Yuki Yudono, 23.

She wore a black button up shirt with matching slacks and slip-on shoes. Over her outfit hung a sleek, translucent lab coat—its finish blurring the fabric underneath into a dark grey. Her chestnut hair was tied into a single side bun, with one long strand falling down on the opposite side. A snowman hairclip held up a strip of bangs, the rest hanging down just above her round, frameless glasses.

Yuki turned toward a circular 3D holo-display. Above it, a cluster of smoke-like wisps rotated in a slow spiral. Inside, glowing sparks of light drifted about, flickering on and off like fireflies.

“Ego barrier fully intact! No signs of assimilation!”

A scruffy, somewhat handsome male scientist sat behind Yuki, as if shadowing her. Akashi Gennai, 45.

He was the only one to fully break the all-black dress code with a periwinkle button up, loosely tucked into light brown slacks that bunched over a pair of scuffed brown dress shoes—an identical lab coat draped over his slender frame. His messy charcoal hair was graying at the temples, tucked behind a pair of thick black frames.

In contrast to Yuki, who was clearly alert and under pressure, Akashi appeared tired and somewhat disinterested. He scratched his chin hair and nodded at Ren. 

“She’s in control.”

【See!!】

【Emi. I want focus on the mission. We can’t afford any more mistakes.】

【Cool. Everyone’s allowed to make mistakes but me. Got it.】

Yuki’s cheeks began to glow red—a pained smile on her face. Akashi reassured her.

“You’re doing fine.”

Together, they appeared to be sitting in the open cockpit of some experimental craft.

While Akashi sat in a simple folding chair, Yuki’s seat was fully integrated into the apparatus itself—her body arched forward, a built-in harness holding her in place. In front of her were a pair of handgrips that she gripped tightly.

The entire workstation was partially recessed inside a large, round hull that extended out several meters in front of them. 

Engraved on its glossy red finish was white text that read: 

“ARCHON II”

Next to it, strips of duct tape bore the addendum: “.18” scrawled in thick permanent marker.

The hull’s front section was composed of a rubbery, almost fleshy material, which peeled back, revealing a mouth-like opening—rows of grooved ridges lined the interior. Protruding out like a tongue from within was an inclined bed that hovered above the ground, on which lay the body of a young woman. 

Perfectly still, her face was frozen in a serene expression—eyes closed, mouth slightly open—her chin-length brown bob splayed out over a padded headrest. 

Emi Toriumi, 19.

An all-black bodysuit ran from her neck down to her ankles—her bare feet pressed against a foot rest on the inner bed. The suit was somewhat bulky—multilayered, with built-in electronics that flickered erratically. Over her shoulders was a cropped shrug that extended down her right arm into a fingerless glove-sleeve. Her left arm remained completely exposed, allowing for an IV tube that ran up into the inner hull.

She appeared to be vacuum-sealed on the bed—her entire body suctioned in a synthetic gossamer that glistened in the light. Were it not for her eyes twitching beneath her eyelids, she would have looked dead—no oxygen seemed to fill her lungs. 

Spinning above her head was an iridescent halo of rainbowed light.

【Aaand, done!】

On another holo-display was an aerial scan of the clinic, with glowing dots revealing the geolocations of anyone implanted with an Ichor. Suddenly, a section in the back of the clinic appeared to glitch and four more dots emerged. The system immediately identified the four individuals—their digital IDs flashed on screen. One belonged to the technician.

Mission tech Atsu Asari, 27, sat behind the display, analyzing the IDs. Thin and pale, his eyes had a natural intensity to them, heightened by his lack of eyebrows. His short black hair stuck out in every direction, giving him the look of someone who had just rolled out of bed. He wore a black turtleneck and matching stretch trousers that rode up high on his legs—his feet stuffed into a pair of black slippers. For personal flare, he paired his uniform with an orange wool cardigan and acid green nail polish, which had mostly chipped away.

Atsu spoke in a calm, almost monotone voice.

“IDs registered. Got ’em.”

Ren turned back toward the main display.

【Guy, Nagasawa, take point on our escort!】

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

SAT 01—Guy Okawara, 44—zipped the remainder of a black body bag over the receptionist’s face. Both the largest and tallest of the field agents, his voice carried a rugged simplicity.

【Ma’am.】

Two more zipped body bags crumpled to the ground beside him as SAT 02—Koichi Nagasawa, 36—tossed them over the reception counter. Just a few centimeters shorter than Guy, he was leaner in physique—with a sharp, sarcastic edge.

【Roger.】

One of the body bags wriggled on the floor.

【Hey, these are pretty cool. Do you have to actually aim them at the head, or what?】

SAT 03—Noriyuki “Nori” Kobayashi, 23—stood in the waiting room, aiming down the sight of the old man’s pistol, one eye closed. The shortest and slightest of build, his voice betrayed an eagerness not present in the other two field agents.

The clinician (Emi) opened the door to the rest of the clinic, bobbing his head cheerfully.

“Okay boys, follow--Ow!!”

Guy forcefully grabbed the clinician (Emi) from behind and flipped him over—cuffing him. He struggled, shooting Guy an indignant look—face pressed against the door.

“Watsch it! I’m shtill a lady!”

Guy quickly searched him—his eyes narrowed as he pulled out another strange-looking pistol strapped to the clinician (Emi)’s back.

Ren scolded Emi through the neural comms line.

【What did I say about weapons?】

The clinician (Emi) put on an air of faux-innocence.

【Not my fault he came with one.】

【Nori. Take up the rear. Don’t let him out of your sight.】

Nori lowered the gun.

【Understood!】

【Assume they have more than pistols!】

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

“Initiating implant installation.”

The drugs had taken full effect. Keshi’s whole body felt like it was filled with hot sand. 

As he lay there, watching a string of spit dribble down towards the plate of curry, he desperately racked his brain for an escape plan.

He could tell the cops he was kidnapped. 

If he was reported missing, that just might work.

Except—the clinician. If he was with them this whole time, Keshi was screwed.

No longer aware of the bed beneath him, he felt as though he were levitating above the floor. 

He wondered if he couldn’t float out of there.

Behind him, he could hear the sound of the technician rummaging through a pile of garbage.

“Time to see what you can do.”

“Hey… wahth goinh ohn? Eughthegehere?”

Only the surgical bot answered.

“Endless possibilities await. Enjoy your new Icho—”

The bed emitted an atonal noise—Keshi heard the arm shut down and recede back to its default position.

“Change of plans kid! Wake up!”

The front of the bed began to rise. For a moment, Keshi thought he was falling off it, but the technician had grabbed him from behind and flipped him over. He pulled Keshi by the collar until he was sitting upright on the edge of the bed.

Keshi swayed back and forth, trying to keep balance. 

On the monitor array, the clinician and the three-man SAT squad made their way down a corridor. The technician continued to mutter to himself.

“See? Those girly guns don’t do shit against proper training.”

Now that he was vertical, Keshi found he could move his limbs—he just couldn’t feel them. He reached up to touch the back of his head, then brought his hand down in front of his face.

No blood.

“Here, kid!”

The technician shoved something long and pointy into Keshi’s arms. He was now wearing a vintage army helmet and bullet-proof vest, and holding the jankiest sawed-off shotgun Keshi had ever seen.

When Keshi looked down, he saw himself cradling his own abomination—a large multi-barreled handgun.

His eyes widened in shock.

The gun was clearly the work of an amateur. Four metal pipes—held together with zip-ties, hot glue, and electrical tape—strapped to a crude wooden frame. Black and red wires ran from the metal end-caps down into two battery packs on the underbarrel. Like the two controllers, it was stippled with orange cheese dust.

“Whaht?! I canh usth thith!”

The technician leaned over him, a wild look in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I made these myself. You’re gonna be fine, but we gotta kill them all.”