Armitage’s life within the Compulsory Execution Unit (CEU) was bound by loyalty and secrecy. As a high-ranking operative within Aftershock’s elite security branch, he carried burdens that few could fathom. Every covert mission, every clandestine operation, required him to uphold the corporation’s image, enforce its will, and, when necessary, bury its darkest secrets. As much as he wished he could let Sasha in on certain truths—illuminating the depths of Aftershock's reach—he knew the consequences. Any leaks from someone in his position would mean a swift, quiet death. No one left the CEU without leaving their life behind.
After a tense yet familiar exchange with Sasha, one of few people he had real history with, he watched her vanish into the shadows. As he walked away, he felt a pang of regret mixed with cold resolve; he couldn’t let emotions compromise his duty. They had both made their choices, and he had his own path to follow.
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Armitage made his way to Megabuilding 16, one of the most luxurious structures within the cityscape, towering above the streets with its glittering windows and meticulously maintained facade. Unlike the crumbling mid-levels and crime-ridden floors, this megabuilding catered only to the city’s elite. Each floor was fortified, secured, and shielded from the chaos outside, creating a haven for the wealthy and powerful.
Upon entering, he nodded at the female robot receptionist, a sleek and polished automaton with a soothing yet indifferent voice. She scanned his ID with a soft, melodic chime, acknowledging his presence with a polite nod.
“Welcome back, Mr. Armitage,” she said with a synthetic smile. “I hope your evening is pleasant.”
“Thank you, Alice,” he replied curtly, before stepping into the private elevator, which whisked him up to the 50th floor.
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Armitage’s apartment spanned almost an entire quarter of the building's luxurious top levels. The space was expansive, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the neon cityscape below, with the endless sprawl of lights stretching far into the night. It was a curated blend of opulence and technology, combining plush, high-end furnishings with the cold, sleek metallic finishes typical of a CEU agent’s quarters.
In one corner of the room sat a body modification station—a comprehensive setup that allowed him to fine-tune his cybernetics, upgrade his enhancements, and adjust his physical capabilities with ease. Beside it, the body transfer station stood as a towering, capsule-like machine, designed to transfer his consciousness into a new, custom-designed body. Such tech was highly restricted, used only by top-ranking agents and Aftershock executives, allowing them to maintain peak performance and virtually eternal life.
Armitage’s current body, rugged and battle-worn, was well-suited for fieldwork, but it bore the weight of nearly seven decades of service. He stepped into the body transfer station, initiating the neural synchronization sequence, and selected a younger, sleeker model—one with two cybernetic arms that boasted increased strength and flexibility. The new body appeared to be around 20 years old, though his mind and experience told a different story. As the transfer began, he felt the tingling sensation of neural pathways shifting, synapses reconnecting, and his consciousness seamlessly flowing into the younger vessel.
Moments later, he stepped out, feeling lighter, stronger, and fresher. He flexed his arms, admiring the enhanced cybernetics, each joint and muscle moving with flawless precision. His reflection in the glass wall revealed a face free of the lines and scars that had marked him over the years, though he still recognized the same fierce determination in his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, Armitage moved back into his lavish apartment, his mind already churning with the night’s tasks. He knew that Sasha would continue her quest, and he might have to cross paths with her again. But for now, he allowed himself a brief moment of solitude in the quiet luxury of his world—before the call to duty inevitably came once more.
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As Sasha lay slumped on the cold ground, her vision swimming from the blow that had incapacitated her, MADCAT saw his chance. The shadows seemed to fold around him as he activated his stealth module, his synthetic body slipping into the darkened alleyways that wove through the heart of the city. MADCAT's movements were a dance of calculated precision and instinct, knowing that any hesitation would mean capture, or worse. With Sasha taken out of the equation, his primary objective shifted—escape, regroup, and survive.
He darted through the maze-like alleys until he reached a hidden rendezvous point. The remaining members of the underground resistance were already there, waiting in silence, their faces a mix of worry and frustration. After a hurried, low-voiced discussion, they decided it was too dangerous to stay. They’d have to relocate before Aftershock’s forces closed in on them. Sasha’s absence weighed heavily on their minds, but survival dictated they press on.
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After the escape and reconnection with her allies, Sasha eventually made her way back to her own refuge: her small apartment in Megabuilding 09. This building was a stark contrast to the shining towers of the corporate elite; its halls were dimly lit, the paint peeling from the walls, and the lingering scent of sweat and cheap alcohol hung in the air. Outside the entrance, homeless residents huddled in groups, nursing bottles of strong drink, inhaling clouds of smoke, and drowning in their vices to forget the bleakness around them.
Sasha ignored them, her focus solely on making it to her apartment on the 11th floor. The building’s elevator was slow and clunky, rattling as it carried her upwards, almost as if protesting each floor. She finally reached her door, entering her small sanctuary—a space that was modest but meticulously clean. The apartment was sparsely decorated, with only the essentials, yet she took comfort in its simplicity. It was a stark contrast to her world of constant violence and secrets, a place where she could catch her breath, if only briefly.
In the corner of her room sat her body modification station, a worn but functional setup. She lowered herself into the padded chair, sighing as she strapped her damaged arms into the mechanical restraints. The machine's robotic arms whirred to life, gently clamping onto her cybernetic arms, precisely loosening them from her shoulder sockets with a quiet hiss. A slight jolt of pain reminded her of the nerve endings as her arms detached, the machine carefully placing them aside. Moments later, new arms were lowered into position, clicking into place and calibrating to her neural network.
She flexed her fingers, feeling the seamless integration, as if they’d always been part of her. The fresh arms moved smoothly, their mechanisms responding instantly to her commands, and she allowed herself a brief smile. The job had been rough, and she was lucky to have made it back, even if she hadn’t been able to finish what she set out to do.
Her attention was suddenly drawn to a light outside her window—a blaring neon advertisement casting a sickly glow over her apartment. The holo-billboard lit up with a politician’s face, a grinning figure promising hope and stability to the city’s masses. The text below flashed brightly, enticing with its bold slogan: “Vote for Progress, Vote for [Official’s Name]! 20% off your next neural implant purchase!” It was another corporate ploy to buy loyalty through shallow promises and minor discounts, but Sasha couldn’t help but feel a bitter amusement.
Then, her thoughts shattered as the window exploded inwards.
The air was filled with the deafening roar of high-velocity gunfire tearing through the walls, the sheer force blowing apart everything in its path. Fragments of glass, chunks of concrete, and shredded metal scattered across the room in an instant. Sasha’s body instinctively dropped to the floor as bullets ripped through her apartment, tearing apart her body modification station, shredding the furniture, and reducing her small sanctuary to rubble.
Through the smoke and chaos, she glimpsed a dark shape outside her shattered window—a sleek attack helicopter materializing out of thin air, its cloaking field disengaging as it hovered ominously. Its guns continued to blaze, sending streams of HV rounds directly into her apartment, relentless and unforgiving. It felt like the end, like she was drowning in the thunder of the assault, her world turning to shadows and pain.
And then, silence.
The helicopter hovered a moment longer, scanning the ruined apartment with its sensor array before disappearing back into the night, its cloaking field reactivating to leave no trace of its presence.
The story leaves the reader wondering: did Sasha survive the onslaught, or was this the end for her? The broken remnants of her sanctuary stood silent in the aftermath, a lone testament to the violence of the city—and the relentless grip Aftershock held over those who dared to oppose them.