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—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: New Venice

Dom sits down on a folding chair, a few slices of cold kielbasa on his styrofoam plate, an apt foundation to the mound of lukewarm sloppy joe and artificial cheese sauce. Great to pour into his gullet. He can see Han out of the corner of his eye, and notes she’s probably watching him, too. Manspreading, he has a free seat on either side of him. Nothing wrong with that, there are always more seats than people. He turns his gaze to the Dragon, who begins by saying:

“There are several projects we’re considering, for those brave enough to pick them up. Cooperate on which ones you want, work out how you’ll achieve your objectives. I don’t recommend solo play. Always good to have another eye to check your plan for flaws. We don’t want them to look like victims.”

He glances at his notes, then, as if he’s repulsed by them, practically spits: “An Azot performer over in Flatiron. Was processed by the portal security a few weeks ago, coming out of Ximbic. She’s stealing business from human buskers, dancers, and the like. That needs to stop.”

“Next up, a would-be diplomat, probably a spy, from that alien prison camp across the pond, we’ve been observing him for a while. His schedule is on file. Seems he’s trying to negotiate better terms for the xenos in Allure. We can’t be having that, now can we? People need to know they stand on the side of humanity. That means we focus on our own before making life better for those murderous interlopers.”

“Finally, a family of Mirr—those brass asses—got off a hyperlight shuttle from Veris, supposedly they’re part human, if we can even call those people who ran off to the Gnaritas System human anymore. Inbreds, if you ask me. Abominations. Anyway, I guess space is at a premium in Gnaritas, and they want to emigrate here. Let’s give them a reason not to.”
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Welcome To The Jungle - Chapter 5: The Escape


Location: Earth-F67X New New York City, NYU Langone Health 550 1st Ave Manhattan

A mire of intrusive thoughts stifled Genesis' soul, smothering her in a bog of quicksand neck down. Turning blue, the pressure had her bulging bloodshot fish eyes protruding like blackheads between two fingers. She failed to as much as even whimper through the morass of guilt applying pressure to get ribcage. "I don't deserve to live." With so many individuals persevering, tooth and nailing their way through the cesspool which was life, her meandering existence was something Genesis wanted to change. The ebb of emotions dragging her further into the abyss felt more like a riptide, leaving one logical way to escape. Going against the way destiny set out for her only caused suffering.

"Pitty is reserved for those who succumb to the will of others. I am stronger than that."

A voice, thunderous and with conviction, echoed through the ocean, submerging her unmuffled.

"I did not erupt from the womb of a woman to be submissive and reimburse patriarchy. I am no calm waters. I am a force, rapids even…"

The voice resonated with Genesis. Through her flooding ears, the gospel spoken was what aspired to be. Someone who could take reign over and reconstruct the woeful circumstances of her life so far. It was sweet to imagine just for a moment that she could bolster the confidence to be what her daughter needs in a mother.

Nothing prepared Genesis for what she was about to hear.

"I AM YOU!"


Upon this epiphany, not only did Genesis bolster enough strength to swim horizontally to the current, but instead of returning to the shore, she swam further out into the sea. Nautical miles even, but now, at a leisurely pace, taking on whatever lies ahead of her.



Genesis awoke to the sound of chirping birds competing with the noise polluted city streets below. After opening her almond eyes, the night sky stared back at her, causing her to question why so many song sparrows hung by the window sill parallel to her hospital bed. The whim to let them in overtook her, and once doing so, several nested on her lap and shoulder tweeting up a storm in such a manner convincing enough to believe they were trying to communicate. Genesis couldn't quite articulate it, but it felt urgent. Like she had to leave immediately. But why?

Face to face with the open window in nothing but her hospital gown, a calm breeze ruffled her curlish fro. Looking down stories above the chaotic city streets, there wasn't a way down, but the birds urged her to. As crazy as it seemed, Genesis saw herself taking the leap.

"Ah, Cartagena, you're here. Timely as always. Seeing the patient in room 1107? Right down the hall. I wasn't aware Ms. Morant was a part of the government. When it was requested that she was placed in such a luxurious level of care, I assumed she was famous."

Not one for the small talk, Cartagena's thunderous brown steel toed boots approached from down the hall. As a leader in scientific research within the Mobius Ops, he felt the obligation to see this wonder of science for himself. In his mind brewed a plethora of ways to subvert this technology into the blueprint for the next generation of super soldiers operatives. All in the name of defending against the imminent Val'gara threat. With every inch of progress, Earth-F67X became closer to taking the offensive opposed to its perpetual state of paranoia based defense.

Out of the orifices of Cartagena's rust-colored trench coat, hundreds of thin mechanical fibers wove together, pulling up his bulky emerald plated visor. His deep, unnatural, nebulae-like eyes dilated, focusing its biological scope until the operative's spinning kaleidoscope vision made out the shape of a patient standing before a window in a far left room.

"She's awake. Perhaps I can get some answers. If not, I'll ship her off to New Roswell to deal with Tartalo." Cartagena thought sinisterly. As with just his eyes, he examined Genesis's vitals. "Unbelievable." It appeared as if her body ran with perfect efficiency. Prior to the operative's lumbering frame approaching the doorway, Genesis already felt his intimidating leer. The birds fled.

She didn't know what to think of the strange man's looks. He was a rugged, bronze-skinned individual, not too much off from her complexion, sporting a trenchcoat with an excessive number of pockets. Under was a matte-silver breastplate akin to what gladiators wore but modernized. At his waist, a bandolier of capsules and cork plugged vials of colored liquids. The operative's spiked knee pads were plagued with rust caused. His whole existence caused Genesis to question why such an individual was even approaching her. He was clearly suited for combat elsewhere. The second eye contact was made, none of that mattered. She felt like a cornered fox. Instinctively, her body tensed up.

Clearing his throat, Cartagena's voice softened a bit before he spoke.

"Ms. Morant, it's nice to meet yo–"

He paused, acknowledging the spike of adrenaline visibly pumping into her system. With his microscope eyes, he visualized the mobilizing nano machines in her system.

"BACKTHEFUCKUP!"

The light switch flip to anger in Genesis expression resembled a scowling cheetah. He examined her abromally large canines with visuble concern. Lost for words, Cartagena tried to quell the intensity of the situation.

"I'm just here to ask you a few questions."

Right foot forward, knees bent, right leading arm posed like a claw. She was dead serious. The befuddlement within the operatives head space was short-lived once realizing the Val'gara nanomachines manipulated her to a dangerous level of aggression. Though Genesis' sleeveless hospital gown, his eyes surveyed the extremity of her chiseled muscle definition. Cartagena siphoned the uncountable mechanical fibers present in his body as a response. The tension was so thick in the air that you could cut it with a knife. It was like a western showdown. Who would draw first?

The instant a single fiber left his sleeve, Genesis sprang across the bed with the grace of a cat, springboarding towards Cartagena with the conviction of a lion. Thousands of wires exploded out of his clothes, overwhelming her in a sea of threads wrapping all of her limbs. This included her downward slashing arm, which was just centimeters away from his chest. At first glance, it was easy to mistake her elongated nails as acrylics, but they were outright razor sharp claws. As they crept close to the operative's armor, the bulging vein on his forehead became pronounced. This defied logic. Cartagena could stop a speeding SUV in its tracks, and here he struggled to contain her. She was winning the tug of war, and with a vigorous slash, she shredded his body armor like cardboard, inflicting a grievous cut across his chest.

Blood stained his boots cherry like dripping chateau montrose. Autonomously operating threads performed like stitches sowing his wounds proactively.

No longer playing nice, Cartagena tightened his grip in a fit of rage, outright ragdolling her with the combined might of his bulky grappling frame and constricting threads. He suplexed her, propelling as much of her body as he possibly could through the top of the room's doorframe and into the next across the hall. The entire floor went into a frenzy as patients, nurses, and senior medical pactitioners scrambled to get out of the way, screaming hysterically.

Clenching his chest with his left glove, Cartagena couldn't believe he allowed himself to take such a blow. There wasn't much time to dawn on it, however. Through the walls, he saw the target already up, healthy, and near another open window. His threads urgently contorted themselves, rocketing around and into the next room infused with bioforce, lassoing her as she reverse dove like an olympian into the night. As soon as his rope knotted tight, her body dispursed into swarm of nanomachines, self destructing into the wind, leaving Cartagena wrangling smoke.

She was gone.

Uncharacteristically, a smirk made it onto the Mobius Operative's face. He began to record an audio log of the interaction.

"In a brief moment, she cloned herself and camouflaged traces of her real form that even these eyes couldn't notice. I counted only three blinks on my part throughout the whole exchange. I suppose this settles the debate of whether this technology is worth pursuing..."
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The blondie expectantly waited for his reply, keeping her young blue eyes on the man as he tried to collect himself before replying. It was no problem for her of course, all processes usually had delays and waiting for an input was not that grave of a situation, this was no hard real time system after all. “Huh…” She noticed the man staring down at her attire, as well as the bulge within his pants, though something within her made her think about that more. Image processing was something she could do very effectively, so after a few moments she knew what to do.

Reaching for her gun she immediately took it out and stashed it in her crotch, imitating what the man had done but with her small subcompact 9mm pistol. “Is this how it is supposed to be done?” She said as she adjusted the pistol inside her pants. “It seems a bit hard to-” She now tried to whip it out, taking a few moments just to get it out. “-Aim and shoot rapidly by keeping it there…” With her theory confirmed, she once again placed it on her hip, being held by her black jeans and web belt which contrasted with her pale skin, the only thing matching her clear skin being the chrome buckle that kept her pants from falling with the extra weight. Lowering her shirt, she continued her way to the table alongside the man.

Following Dom, Han took a seat. She reached over and grabbed one of the many fold-able chairs that were available and, after grabbing two of the hotdogs and filling them with mustard, she sat down, heeding his advice on the matter of nourishment. “I didn’t remember this place having food-” She commented, looking around as she took a bite, chewed, and swallowed remarkably quickly. Hearing his comment, she stopped herself from talking too much about the interior of the Holy Knights of Terra headquarters and instead focused on answering his question. “I want to shoot things again!” She said cheerfully, her smile contrasting with her statements. “It has been a while since I went to the range, bullets are expensive, and I have not yet used my hog.” Though, she was also left with a small blank, a gap in her memory that she could not call from her libraries. “Dragon? Who is that?”

Her attention was immediately shifted once the Dragon began speaking, her focus being diverted entirely as the other spoke. With laser focus, she listened to what the man was saying, her eyes scanning all his movements rapidly as well as the photos, cataloguing them for future reference like a mechanized target acquisition system. Each of the contracts was interesting, though there was one that felt like the easiest from her perspective, something she could do as a start. “I like the performer one.” She said with a smile after the speech was over, turning to Dom. “May we take it? It seems like the least dangerous.” How exactly Han came to that conclusion was unknown, even she did not why she felt that way.
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—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: New Venice

Damn, she’s fake, but — what was that quote about Hepburn’s character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s? A real fake. Nothing fake about her, just, well, almost more mannequin than human. Yeah, that describes this Han girl pretty well; mannequin.

“Performer? That Azot? Seems easy pickings. Frankly, we don’t need to, err, off it. We can probably trick it through one of those portals, send it to the pink piss streak in the sky. It wouldn’t even want to come back, stinkin’ rat. Bet on it.”

He glances at Han to see if there is any sort of affirmation, even though it was technically him agreeing her to suggestion, then scrawls the number 27 on a sticky and slaps it on the cork board underneath the word Azot and the address 20th and Fifth.

“Altuve’s jersey, good luck. Usually. Pick a word, number, whatever. Random. Somewhat. Easy to recall. They’ll set that as your contact. Anyway, we should get going. Unless you’re still hungry,” Dom finishes, noting the ravenous intake of hotdog and remembering Han’s comment about needing money so she wouldn’t starve or whatever. She is by no means anorexic, but she could use a few more curves. Odd girl. Maybe an immigrant from some impoverished Scand NatStat struggling to compete against Apollo’s government.

Maybe something sinister. A plant.

Dom’s dark eyes narrow in concentration, then he laughs at nothing.

“But yeah, eat and walk. Grab whatever, get steppin before these other Knights beat us to the punch.”
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Her thoughtless clear pale blue eyes remained on Dom, completely oblivious to his inner thoughts as she smiled and listened to him explain that violence would perhaps not be necessary. A bummer, Han thought, her smile waning as non-violent alternatives were presented. “Awh-” She let out. Nevertheless, she followed him as he walked over to the board.

“Something easy to remember?” She echoed, bringing a finger up to her chin as her countenance immediately changed. Her focus was spent completely on this simple task, what would be easy to remember? She recalled people would not usually remember long numbers, nor unknown words, but she also had to make it memorable. “How about Lattice?” A simple yet not too simple word, two syllables, and with no real connection to her. She liked it though sought approval from what she now saw as her new mentor, Dom.

Being who she was of course, she got a sticky note and wrote down her new code-name under Dom’s number. Han made sure to pick a sticky note that was magenta in color, and a pen that was red, as to make it very bright to the eye and hard to read, almost asking to be examined further. “Neat!” She exclaimed, her arms forming two handles at her sides as her fists rested on her hips. One affirmative nod later and she was ready to go.

There was just one thing she had to get though. Her head turned to Dom, her smile brightening as he said she could get whatever. “Anything…” She thought out loud as she rushed over to the hotdogs and took a bottle of Canola Oil, downing half of it before capping it again. “Let’s go.”
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—— Earth-F67X: New New York City, Chinatown

It took nine hours, well after business rush. The genetic tweakers finally subsided. Mateo lay on warm white tile, curled in the fetal position, automation rinsing the transient fur off his body. Every bone and muscle was in agony, morphing from wolf anatomy to human. In particular, his asshole stung. This was the type of spa he personally avoided, the type where horny patrons saw a wolf chained to the floor and decide to let their deviant kinkster natures run wild.

Bastard! I’m going to kill him. Does Fesyen think my wrath can be quelled by cheap bling? No, it’s not that. He doesn’t take me seriously. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. Well, the prick is going to find out!

At some point, unnoticed, the loader relieved Mateo of his bonds. Alone, he needed some time to recover, so he found a private booth and locked himself inside until the tremors lessened. Once his fingers were servicable, he took the collar off. He glared at it in his grip. Yeah, it looked sick, favorite color and pattern and all. Matched his drip. But wolfing out without warning was not cool.

Waiting outside the booth, he found his socks and swim trunks atop a teakwood chair; as promised, pristine clean. Clothed, he returned to Feysen’s warehouse.

He didn’t make eye contact with Fesyen or say a word. Just started shopping. He’d pick things up, take a gander, and put them on or put them down if they weren’t to his liking or he heard a chirp of disapproval from the watchful designer. First, he slipped on some a-low kicks with built-in phase-step, then a vintage Arivex air force A2 leather bomber jacket with activatedc camouflage and climate control.

“Good taste for street such pretty trash,” Fesyen purred, “Now sit down and let me do your hair, just as I promised.”

“We’re all street trash,” Mateo mumbled, plopped down on the ripperdoc surgical station.

Including his mastoid implant, this was his second mod. The first that altered his appearance in any meaningful way. Cyber hair. Programmable to look however he wanted. Taken off the day old corpse he dragged in here, now maggot shit. Maybe it wasn’t wise to wear something off a dead body, not because of any serial signatures — long gone, those were — but the karma. Not that karma was a friend to his sorry ass. Anyway, it took three hours of laser-searing his existing follicile roots, shaving his head, applying a cutaneous grid, and then meticulously grafting the synthetic hair into his scalp. A miraculously bloodless affair. The grid meshed with his mastoid implant, which meant Mateo could reprogram his hair with a thought: spiked, forward, linear, neon red.

“Any recommends? Weapons?”

“Mateo, baby, I’m an artist — a collector, not an arms dealer. The best I can do is a Fairbairn-Sykes. A knife, good quality. Worth a prize at the right auction, no doubt. Built-in razzle-dazzle. Mmm. You need pants. Maybe a shirt. Although you have such lovely skin. Covering it would be criminal. Tragic, even. Nano body sleeve, the anti-rape variety gives quite the shock to anyone who touches you without permission. Resembles a tattoo, your choice of pattern animation. Powered by body heat.”

“Fine. And charcoal gray cargo pants,” Mateo included, “light arms resistant, minimum. Better if you have the military grade they give to war journos that can stop mortar shrapnel.”

“Nothing but the best,” Fesyen promised.

Mateo stretched in front of a full-length mirror, flicked the blade in front of him and caught it deftly, well-balanced, and asked, “Remaining credit?”

“I do~o have the right to a profit,” Fesyen answered.

“Then we’re done here,” Mateo agreed, flicked the blade out again, and left a red smile under Fesyen’s chin. He wiped it clean on a bright stack of polylinen on the way out. Didn’t wait to hear the body hit the floor. The loader and warehouse cameras saw him, but their memory units were fried. His A2 made him unrecognizable to the city-level cameras stationed outside.
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—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: New Venice

Dom exited HKT HQ with Han at his side. A sidelong glance. Not his type. Kind of an airhead, although that category of beautiful woman had its niche too. They made their way through the half-flooded subway tunnels of New Venice. At one point, Dom waved at a restaurant named The Frier’s Tuck and said, “Don’t eat there. Was on that show, Bad Dream Cuisine. Their meat is all spoiled, which says something for stuff grown in a lab parasite-free. But the real reason not to go is that they, uh, what’s the word, oh yeah — they garnish with pubic hair if they think you’re Catholic. They think everyone is Catholic.”

Eventually, the pair came to a flight of stairs leading back up to the surface, or at least what use to be the surface. Good luck seeing sky from there. Two perpendicular signs illuminated in harsh yellow neon read Fifth Ave and 19th ST.

“Got a few hours before, well, that’s my business. Keep your eyes peeled. You know what it is we’re hunting yeah? Azot?”

To Dom, Han’s expression seemed incapable of change. Blank, perpetually confused. That’s at least how he read it. Maybe that’s why he identified as a man. They were easy, understandable, relatable. Women were fucking Sphynxes.

“Monkey people, blue and green fur. Well, we see an alien, we’ll know. They aren’t us. Far cry from it.”

Dom turned around and started walking away, watching for any activity. Maybe they’d come across the little bugger.
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—— Ximbic-8: Tuscré, the Fae Fields

Portal light etches its way through Czes’ bestial extra-armor and into his eyes, blinding him during his superluminal transit. Though he cannot see, his journey is of no lessened intensity. Goosebumps distort his skin, his hackles rise, and his breath catches in his throat. Without warning, he is falling, spiraling, dying, yet so rife with life and expectation that, rather than dread, his soul swells with wonder. The stimuli calms — he is at peace. Cool grass traces the backs of his bare arms while alien branches sway a gentle frame around the violet-tinged night sky creeping above. Motes of amber and fuchsia drift above him, quite akin to disturbed dander or milkweed seeds. Through it, he can make out Earth; a small blue dot, the size of his thumbnail. Something is missing, he realizes: his defense, his armor, his exo-skeletal beastframe, worth billions of dollars back on his now-abandoned home world, rejected utterly by this place.

Yet it let him enter in.

Guess I’m not evil after all. Maybe ... maybe I just don’t need it anymore.

He sighs, and it is like the demon straddling his chest for the last four centuries is gone.

On the back of his hand, a glow, both in light and in warmth, distracts him.

“Constellation of a baby jaguar sound asleep beneath a shooting star, morphing into a Möbius strip and back,” he chuckles, then drops his hand down on the comfortable blanket of grass, “Sanguine, shimmering, blood. Apt. Sleep sounds good. A truly peaceful sleep, for the first time in forever.”

He nods off, alone but not lonely, bathed in the light of opalescent night.

… Ϟ


—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Flatiron

When Dom turned the corner of Fifth and 19th, at the foot of the old 115 building, the sky was beginning to dim, which meant very little in such a city of neon night. What struck him was the garish glint of the Empire State Building so distant, yet so bright. Nearer, though, were a slew of run-down diners, salons, and dive bars. Mixed residential, not his thing. A slum, hidden from the light of day by the almost incomprehensible bulk of the Canopy — a behemoth superstructure that made him think of that pre-unification movie, Independence Day. Neither conformed to his preference of a clean and orderly barracks.

Almost immediately, he saw the Azot.

His first reaction, to his chagrin, was smiling. The Azot was in the midst of a one-handed handstand whilst balancing a frisbee on its tail tip. A performing monkey in a dirt-stained little Ronald McDonald costume, green of fur rather than the typical black or brown found to Earth. Same as the color infiltrating clothing design these days, skobeloff. He planned to buy Vesca a scarf in that color.

Get a grip, Dom. You’re here because that alien trash is taking business away from the people and animals that belong on this planet.

He leaned against the brick facade of a building and observed. The crowd seemed pleased, a few creds thrown in the Azot’s pot. Odd, really. Physical money, still a thing? Then it hit him, all of these people were dirt poor. Their coins were probably ancient, found in la-z-boy cushions and between the pages of old books. Everyone here was.
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Right after she exited Han began to walk back towards her car. An old relic from before Spain was obliterated by a giant alien city. The silver Mercedes was as sharp feeling and sophisticated as when it was manufactured, mostly thanks to Han being able to service it constantly, feeling every minutiae detail about it and adjusting it whenever she had some freetime. The results were not visible but rather could be felt from the air suspension being lofty yet grounded, enough to feel the road but not so much as to make the ride overly stiff, seats that were black leather yet lacking any sun discoloration or rips from the years of use, and tinted windows that like transitions lenses let just the right amount of light through yet were nigh impossible to see through from the outside. “Us living organisms do not like temperatures that are too high or low so how about some air conditioning?” She said as she strapped herself and took the wheel, letting Dom ride shotgun.

Her driving was not very featureful, in fact, it was almost too stale. She let people merge and any passerby cross the sidewalk, something not very common in New New York. After a few minutes of driving around alternate routes, considering a large highway was still destroyed, she suddenly shifted her demeanor. She shifted down gears and kept the revolutions of the car’s engine a little bit too high before she took a turn at a sketchy road. Her eyes remained locked on a car not too far away from the two, a moment later she spoke: “Sorry Dom but I don’t really like those guys. I saw them from this area’s CCTV before I arrived here and they don’t seem very nice at all!” In reality, she had just watched them as she got close to the local network and decided to let out her inner violence on the probably, definitely, totally, criminal aliens.

What came next was expected. She rolled down her window and pointed her machine gun out of the window like a MAC-11, though not sideways as she was too white for that. Adjusting the fire rate she let a two second long burst out of the gun, her aim unwavering as she sprayed her target. What she aimed for was a parked car, one with quite nice alloys and some aliens chilling. They were listening to some song she did not recognize but assumed was some alien thing that was horrendous, definitely. One of them almost managed to aim his sidearm though being the quicker draw Han managed to gun him down. All three of them were left with between 10 to 13 shots on their bodies from a full power cartridge, mostly knocked out from shock and left to die either from blood loss or organ failure. Once the casing hit the floor, and Han pulled the machine gun back into her car she rolled up the window and sped off to the location. “Sorry about that but I had to really let them know they cannot just park there you know? That’s like loitering and stuff.” She said, her face brighter now.

Eventually, the two would reach their destination, Han stopping the car a good distance away while Dom was sightseeing. “So, how are we getting this guy to follow us?” She asked her colleague for this mission, her hands on her legs as she turned off the car and simply watched from a distance and her gaze moving between Dom and Azot. She really did not understand what he was doing, or that the people around him were poor, but she recalled her mission being something along the lines of teaching him a lesson but not killing him.
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—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Flatiron

Han’s question snapped Dom to bitter reality, a candid picture of the group in which he was now an embed. Too late for second thoughts. The HKT attracted crazies, and Han was a prime example. Either that, or maybe he just didn’t have what it took to purge Earth of alien filth. That car ride. He winced. Hoped he wasn’t seen as he entered and exited her fancy vehicle, air conditioning be damned. Behind the wheel, she was smooth, perfect, calm. Mechanical, even. A little eerie. And the side roads she took him down, his leg right twitched non-stop and he kept his grip on his sidearm at rest on his thigh — just incase he was her target.

Reality past caught up with present, and he turned to her,

“Oh, so ya decided to follow, huh. How about we just watch this one for the moment, ya know, broad daylight, kids playing on the sidewalk. Not a good look to disturb that,” Dom answered.

Her eyes were dead, he realized. No emotion at all. Crazy white girl unloaded her machine gun in broad daylight, like an old time gangster movie. Dead ass.

“This is for us, Earth’s people. Community. Plus, we don’t wanna tour of Fishkill, ya know?” he joked, “So we watch, wait, and see where he goes. Keep the job clean, dirt free.”
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—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Flatiron

Just as Dom offered his unsolicited, but in his mind necessary for a psychopath, advice, his phone vibrated to life and busted out an ugly blare. He pulled it out of his hoodie’s kangaroo pouch, glanced at the screen, looked confused for an instant, then went pale — which, given his swarthy complexion, was impressive. The notification prompt merely read CODE GESTALT.

“Work. I have to leave, like, right away,” he mumbled an explanation to Han, glanced around confused, reconnoitered, and nodded resolutely.

“Sorry,” he choked out, turned, and sprinted south down Fifth Avenue. Nearest entrance to the Mainline Defensive Array was 2 kilometers away, a 10 minute run if he pushed his five-two self hard; what he lacked in stride length he more than made up for in robust glutes.

Shit. First time in a year. Is this the real deal? Nah, no way.

Frick, I hope everyone is safe.

This is bad.

It is always bad.
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