Will Morgan was on his way to the office in an elegant armored limousine with bulletproof windows, staring impatiently out the side window from the back seat, thinking. He adjusted his monocle, which didn't seem to fit properly today. An unlit cigarette hung from the right corner of his mouth. Smoking was forbidden in service vehicles, and he abided by the rule, even though in his position he could have easily afforded to ignore it. He just felt better with the cigarette already in his mouth. Traffic was as heavy as ever, and two accidents on the route had already caused a half-hour delay. Since his promotion to Chief of Police for all of Elysium, Morgan had been entitled to all sorts of privileges that still took some getting used to for him - a thoroughly pragmatic public servant. In this car, he felt more like a politician or a celebrity than a civil servant, and he wasn't sure he really liked the attention it brought. But there was no alternative to the security measures. As head of the homicide squad, he was used to operating in the background and had even managed to avoid giving a single television interview in all those years, even though the requests for them had been piling up. This would be different in the future, there was no escape for him. He would have to show his face to the camera. His predecessor had often jumped from one talk show to the next, loved to make big speeches and present himself. He had allowed himself to be celebrated as an expert by the often state-subsidized private channels, but his expertise and performance were sorely lacking. This so-called expert was partly responsible for the fact that police units hardly dared to enter entire districts. The northern part of the city was largely anarchic, and the Wild West was in the hands of numerous gangs who had carved up the area after brutal confrontations. The crime rate in the industrial area in the south had risen steadily since the crawler crisis, and the police were losing more and more ground there. At least the situation in the subway stations had calmed down a bit. Will Morgan was determined to turn things around. The situation didn't look rosy, but there was still hope. He would not allow Elysium to suffer the same fate as Brightland. In this city on the planet's second largest continent, which was also dominated by American culture, the government had been deposed almost 15 years ago by a gangster boss who had been financed in the background by a large IT company. From then on, he called himself *the Commandante*, and if you wanted to negotiate with the city, you couldn't get past this criminal. In Brightland there was no government, no elections, no rights or justice, no democracy... What was American about a place that had completely lost the idea of freedom and self-determination? Morgan was aware that Elysium had its problems, but compared to Brightland, it was a haven of law and order. He had to make sure that law and order were restored throughout the city. Unfortunately, he had comparatively limited resources at his disposal.

Rick, his new driver, was in an extremely good mood today, humming to himself and grinning broadly despite the hellish traffic on the streets. It must have something to do with his new acquaintance, the girl Rick had recently met in a downtown nightclub. Suddenly a bell rang from Morgan's briefcase. He opened it, took out the large cell phone, pulled out the antenna and answered the call.

"Morgan," he answered curtly.

"Chief, this is McCullen. There's been a major incident tonight on the edge of the industrial park. The press is already here, of course. Either we've got a mole in the police department or the vultures have found another way to listen in on our radio," he said over a bad connection.

"Incident? What kind of incident? And where exactly?" Morgan asked with a grimace. He had developed an allergy to the word *incident* because it never meant anything good.

"The production facility of Safecorp, the company that makes the bulletproof vests for the police and various security companies. Right next to the subway station Down Under. We've already been able to analyze the surveillance footage. At about two in the morning, a man shot the night watchmen at the main entrance and then entered the compound. He ripped off the barrier chain with his bare hands and then shot any other guards who got in his way. We have recovered a total of twelve bodies so far, and the number is growing. He then destroyed the production machinery with incendiary devices. The fire department is still working on that. We don't know what kind of explosives he used in the attack, but the stuff just won't stop burning," McCullen explained excitedly. Morgan was stunned. What had he just heard?

"One man did this? How is that possible?" he interrupted his colleague.

"It's completely inexplicable to us. He had a fully automatic machine gun and two handguns. He was also wearing a mask, so we don't have a face for the perpetrator. What we do know is that he was enormously tall, more than a head taller than all the guards. And... Well, this may sound pretty crazy, but if I hadn't seen it on the footage myself..." McCullen hesitated.

"Yeah? Spit it out, I want all the information!" Morgan urged. He hated this kind of report before the first coffee. The cigarette bobbed nervously in his mouth.

"The guards fired at the man, but it didn't stop him. The intruder didn't shed a drop of blood. They tried to stop him with all their might, but he just flinched a little with each hit and then marched on. He must have been wearing some kind of armor under his clothes that we've never seen before," McCullen continued. Morgan thought about it and then answered in an emphatic tone.

"The press must not get their hands on the camera footage, are we clear on that? I would like a detailed report with all the facts of the incident in my office as soon as possible. Is there anything else I need to know?"

"The man was wearing a black uniform with no insignia. So far we have no information as to where he might have come from," McCullen concluded.

"Thanks, I'll see you later," Morgan ended the call.

"Trouble?" Rick asked with interest. He had only caught bits and pieces of the conversation because he had to concentrate on the traffic. The driver had just turned into the underground garage of the police headquarters and was now heading for the reserved parking lot.

"Yes, and a lot of it," Morgan sighed.

A beautiful sunny day was followed by a warm summer night. Three days had passed since Abigail had removed the encryption of Yanny's fighting abilities, which she herself had installed in a deeper layer of her subconscious during her creation. Since then, the cyborg had felt bad. She had usually used her nights to read books and magazines, improve her medical skills, watch TV, do housework, or make minor repairs to the house or technical equipment. Not having to sleep had its advantages. Now, however, it felt like a curse. She could pretend to be asleep, but she couldn't fool herself. The original purpose for which she had been created prevented her from completely shutting down her bodily functions, at least for a while, and from shutting off her thoughts unless she was seriously damaged. And when danger was imminent, as it was now, even a temporary state of stand-by was impossible. She was condemned to be awake, and she was afraid. Afraid of what was to come, but also afraid of herself. With the unraveling of her fighting abilities, she had become much more of what she should have been. She could live with that, but she didn't like it. It was still the only option she had, there was no other way out.

With these thoughts in her mind, she loaded the heavy silver revolver with the large caliber. Five cartridges lay before her: open the cylinder, insert the cartridges, close the cylinder, remove the safety. The time for this operation: 3.5 seconds. The fully automatic firing range in the basement of the villa began its training program. The cardboard dummies moved quickly and in jerky, unpredictable movements at the highest difficulty level. The distance was 15 meters and 2.2 centimeters - she hadn't missed the measurement error made when the house was built. Her reactivated targeting device gave her all the data on the moving targets in real time. She took aim. A man of average training would not have been able to hold this massive weapon with its overlong barrel for long with one outstretched arm. Even Yuri used his second hand as a support when shooting with this gun, because the recoil was enormous. Yanny did not tremble. She had no heartbeat, no breathing and no muscle contractions to interfere with this movement. She could feel the weight, but it was too small to have a negative effect. Her virtual crosshairs were locked on the target. She pulled the trigger and a thunderous shot rang out. 99.99 percent of the recoil was absorbed. The head of the middle cardboard figure was completely shredded by the force of the cross-shaped bullet's impact. The damage analysis showed 99.985 percent destruction at the target. A tiny piece of the head remained on the figure's neck. The following four shots to the heads of the other targets increased the average of the total damage achieved to 99.992 percent. She lowered her weapon and shook her head, barely noticing. How vast and complicated the field of medicine was. How much energy, dedication and knowledge it took to heal someone. In contrast, how easy it was to hurt or kill someone. How little effort it took to destroy.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"I'm sorry Abigail, I hope I didn't wake you with the noise? I thought the room was soundproofed enough that nothing could get through to the bedrooms upstairs?" Yanny said without turning around. The computer specialist, who had snuck in from behind and peered through the still open gap in the door, was startled at first. Then she quickly remembered that Yanny had told her that removing the encryption would have far-reaching effects on her senses. Her sensors now consumed many times more power and processor capacity due to a permanent alarm state. Capacity she would lack for further development of human behavior. She had clearly detected Abigail's approach, despite the noise of the gunfire, by analyzing the pattern of approaching footsteps, heartbeat and breathing. She could no longer keep her promise not to scan the bodily functions of her family, the other TRAP agents. Thin white smoke was still steaming from the barrel of the revolver pointed at the floor, and it was still swirling around Yanny's hand. Abigail opened the door wider, slipped into the room, and pulled it shut behind her.

"That... that was incredible! And no, you didn't wake me. I couldn't sleep anyway. I was getting a glass of milk and walking around the house when I saw the light down here," Abigail explained. Yanny nodded and tried to smile, but she couldn't quite manage it. There was something absolutely audacious about the black, belly-baring tank top with the neon pink TRAP agency print and the short black skirt combined with the oversized smoking gun in her hand. Abigail chewed her lower lip and thought about it, but then tore her gaze away and looked back at the destroyed cardboard cutouts.

"I don't think you have much to worry about anymore. You are functioning perfectly. Your *brother* may be physically superior to you, but you'll have him incapacitated before he can even get near you." Yanny placed the gun on the table beside her, then hesitated for a moment before answering, looking down.

"Yes," she replied simply. An awkward silence followed, and Abigail cleared her throat as the cyborg stood motionless, showing no further expression.

"Yanny?" Abigail asked.

"Uh... Yes?" she replied. Abigail didn't consider herself very good at interpersonal relationships, but she could clearly tell that Yanny didn't mean what she said - that reluctant yes.

"Can you give me an honest assessment?" she asked.

"I am an assassin unit. I was built to blend in, to be fast, to overcome obstacles, to perform stealth missions, and to take out human targets. I was not built to fight heavy war machines on the front lines."

"So what exactly are the chances that you will be able to take out this Lazarus smoothly? Artyom Gromov was his real name, wasn't it? Why don't you give me a number?" asked Abigail. Yanny hesitated a little longer.

"My brother was designed for missions like this battle of the northern city troops on the Japanese front in the northeast..." she continued, not meeting Abigail's eyes.

"Yanny!" she then became much louder.

"Yes?" came a whispered reply.

"What are the chances of you defeating him without taking too much damage?" Yanny appeared to be thinking.

"By the way, we should definitely go shopping again tomorrow. There were some interesting coupons in the paper and an ad for..."

"Yanny!!!" Abigail's voice cracked. She was torn between impatience and concern. Something was very wrong. She tried to calm down again, kneading her hands nervously.

"What are your chances of survival?" Every word was over-emphasized, as if teaching a child to speak. The cyborg looked up at her with wide, sad eyes.

"My chances of survival in a direct hand-to-hand combat are about 2.3 percent." Abigail started to answer, but her mouth stopped for a moment. She had to collect herself and digest this information.

"You're not saying we went through all this to give you a 2.3 percent chance of defeating Artjom?"

"We have already discussed all of this. You saw the report on the news this morning about the attack in the industrial district. That was just his first test, nothing more. He's just warming up for the big targets in town. It has begun. More people will die if I don't fight. A lot of people. Maybe even you. I can't help it, I have to take this chance, no matter how small it may be. The computer specialist suddenly felt helpless and powerless. A cold grip had tightened around her heart. She had grown fond of Yanny and didn't want to imagine what it would be like if something happened to her. From the moment they had rescued the girl from the lab, it had been clear that they would never have agreed to hand her over to their employer. For Abigail, Yanny was now like the sister she never had.

"It's suicide," she croaked in a hoarse voice.

"Aby, you can't tell the others. Especially not Harry. You can't mention how slim my chances are," the cyborg whispered.

"Because otherwise they won't let you go."

"Yes."

"And why do you think I'll let you go?" Yanny looked her straight in the eye.

"Because you know I'm right." Her voice trembled at the words. Abigail, on the other hand, just shook her head. She didn't want to accept all of this, there had to be something they could do. A desperate determination washed over her. She took a step closer to Yanny, leaning in so she could look her directly in the eyes at eye level. Then she slowly stroked Yanny's head with her right hand, letting it rest on her cheek.

"Do you really think I will just stand by and watch you get slaughtered by that killer? What do you think I should do in the meantime? Knit some socks and hope for the 2.3 percent? Do you think the others will just sit here quietly and wait for us to pick up your parts somewhere?"

"Aby, again: please don't tell the others, it's dangerous and... much more dangerous than anything you've ever done..." Yanny started to answer.

"No, forget it, young lady! What can we do? There has to be something that can help, right? Something we can do to help you fight. Talk!" Yanny's eyes became moist. Those damned eyes, even now she couldn't control them.

"Well... Um..." she replied, stuttering and slowly backing away as Abigail, with a determined look and a cold smile, pushed her into the corner of the room and gently poked her in the stomach with outstretched forefingers.