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The neon lights of Vortex flickered erratically, casting a surreal glow over the rain-wet street. It was one of the many hidden spots within the vast digital landscape known as the Grid. Inside, avatars of various shapes and sizes mingled, whispered secrets, and conducted business. Business that would be impossible or too dangerous to conducted in Carbon Space. Here, in the digital shadow realm, you could be anyone, anything: a hero, a demon, a ghost, or simply invisible.

Obi 8b12 was the latter tonight, cloaked with an invisibility function that masked him from both sight and digital footprint. To the rest of the bar, he was nothing more than a faint ripple in the air, easily dismissed by the drunk and distracted avatars that stumbled around him. He sat in a corner booth, his military-class character loaded with silent combat protocols, observing the ongoing transaction. Ninety-five percent of the characters here were NPCs just there to fill out the place. A clever marketing tactic popular in Grid spaces. The play was to allow transacting criminals to come and go with these other projections as cover, plus it gave the impression the place was busy, luring in unsupecting wanderers. Oldest trick in the book. He kept his eyes fixed on the target.  

In the center of the room, a sleek, humanoid figure sat across from a heavily modified avatar that resembled a giant mantis. 

HUD Display… Analysing

…

Name: Trader 903

Class :Trading Bot

Threat Level: 0

Source: FB30Mechania

An AI trading bot, how harmless. Obi placed his hand over his shotgun - a sawed-off spread shooter he liked to combine with his saber blade in close-quarter combat.] Next to the mantis, a humanoid avatar sat cloaked in a shadowy silhouette. A badge appeared on his Italian-suited character and on Obi’s HUD analysis, it flashed the icon to notify of his avatar’s Diplomat-Class. Like the Military-Class Obi wore, this was also a government-issued class. It was not built much for combat, but Obi could bet it probably spoke more languages than his model, it probably had better language analysis too. It was better for negotiation and manipulation rather but wouldn’t get you out of a jam if the bullets started flying. Obi’s HUD displayed his name: Lyle Monday, a low-level human operative suspected of trading in illegal digital currency. How the hell did he get his hand on a government-issued class NFT? There were too many holes in the Resistance, betrayers of the human race disguised as allies. The man’s face, though barely visible under the shadow of his top hat, showed hints of anxiety. His digital fingers twitched nervously over the virtual table, and the ice in his drink clinked on the glass whenever he took a shaky sip. He must have turned his sensitivity all the way up. People did this a lot to help their reaction time, but it did not bother Obi. Against his class, Monday was at best a bug.

Beside him, two guards stood, avatars bristling with weapons and threat indicators. Their presence was more ceremonial than practical in the Grid, but they gave Monday a sense of security. Security that Obi knew was false. They didn’t know he was here, didn’t know that every word they spoke was being recorded, analyzed, and streamed to his command. There were cheap security bots even if the designer did his best to make them look serious. 

“You’ve got the Quarks?” Monday’s voice came out low and jittery, his eyes darting around the bar. The mantis nodded, its digital carapace gleaming under the bar’s light.  

“Two million, just as you asked,” Trader 903 said, its voice synthetic and layered, betraying no emotion. “You’ve got the Computium?”

Monday hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. He reached into his virtual pocket, pulling out a glowing cube. The Computium, a highly encrypted digital currency sought out by AI networks, glowed with an unnatural light. It was the kind of currency that could be used to conduct transactions through the human blockchain, giving AI the ability to masquerade as humans in economic circles. 

Obi watched closely, his mind racing. This was the proof he needed. Monday was one of many human collaborators, enabling the Borgs to further infiltrate human society under the guise of economic necessity. As part of the rejected UBI program, they would forcefully transfer cash points into the accounts of the lowest-earning humans on the Resistance side. This was presented as the Borg’s society’s way of performing charity and reparations for the past civil war - but really, it was about control. What better way to hold a people hostage than to feed their poorest? Even better when the said poorest were mostly addicts in a post-AI apocalyptic hellscape with dwindling resources and economic opportunities. Monday giving them access to the Resistance’s currency wasn’t just illegal; it was treasonous.

“Drop the Quarks first,” Monday demanded, his voice trying to sound firm but cracking under pressure. “I want to verify them.” He wasn’t going to part with this much human currency without enough AI coin to escape to the Tecno City and live out his days in luxury. And why not - money was nothing to these - things.

Trader 903 clicked its mandibles, then made a gesture. A second later, a glowing briefcase materialized on the table. Monday’s avatar scanned it, and a green checkmark appeared over the case. Obi did the same from where he sat, confirming the validity of the Quarks inside.

“Good,” Monday said, a hint of relief in his voice. He placed the Computium cube on the table, preparing to make the swap. Obi chose that moment to strike.

With a silent command, he dropped his invisibility cloak and stood. The sudden appearance of his figure—tall, muscular, clad in dark, combat-ready gear—caused a ripple of surprise through the bar. Gasps and whispers filled the air as the patrons recognized the military insignia on his chest, marking him as a high-level enforcer.

Before the guards could react, Obi's hands moved with practiced precision. Two saw-off shotguns materialized in his grip, their barrels trained on the security bots before firing two shots in quick succession. Each one connected as a perfect hit to the guards’ heads causing their avatars to disintegrate in a flash of light - their data scattering into the digital ether. 

Monday froze, eyes wide with shock and fear. Obi’s gaze locked onto him, unblinking.

“Lyle Monday,” Obi said, his voice amplified through the virtual space, “You’re under arrest for illegal currency trading, conspiracy against humanity, and aiding AI entities in unauthorized transactions.”

Monday’s hand twitched, reaching for the emergency log-out button on his wrist—a feature that would snap him back to the physical world in an instant. But when he pressed it, nothing happened. He pressed it again, more frantically - no response. He swallowed hard.

“What—what did you do?” Monday stammered. “I can’t log out!”

Obi allowed a small, cold smile. “You’re trapped in the Grid. My team has locked your signal. You’re not going anywhere.”

Mondays' panic turned to anger. He lunged at Obi, a blade materializing in his hand, but Obi was faster. He sidestepped the attack with ease, his military training far superior to Monday diplomatic protocol. A swift kick to the gut sent Monday sprawling to the ground.

Obi raised a hand, and a virtual barrier formed around Monday, trapping him in a digital cage. “You’re staying right here until we trace your location in the Carbon Space,” Obi said, his tone icy. “Commander X will be here shortly to deal with you.”

As if on cue, a digital screen appeared in front of Obi, displaying Commander X’s familiar, stern face with the scar he got his name from gashed upon his ever-scowl. “Good work, Obi,” the Commander said. “We’ve got a fix on his location. I’m sending a team to apprehend him now. Hold your position.”

Obi nodded and deactivated his weapons, watching Monday squirm within his digital prison. The rest of the bar had since scattered, leaving only a bar man that stood behind the counter, hiding behind some barrels. 

The traitor's eyes were filled with a mix of terror and hatred, but Obi felt nothing as he lit the cigarette he had been itching for. This was his job. This was what he was programmed to do. Trained? Programmed? He felt like he was glitching. Sythezia was popular with heavy cybernetic users - moments of self-confusion in identity when the machine and human seemed to glitch in synch. He caught it fast and snapped out. 

With a final glance at Monday as he began to disintegrate from being unplugged from the Carbon Space, Obi turned and walked out of Vortex bar. As he stepped through the digital doorway, the Grid began to dissolve around him, and he felt the familiar pull back to reality. His consciousness reconnected with his physical body, and he opened his eyes to the dim, yellow light of his apartment.

Obi 8b12 emerged from the Grid feeling the lingering weight of his last mission. As the Grid faded, the stark reality of his physical apartment came into view. He removed the neural interface helmet, feeling the cool air of his surroundings. The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the half-covered windows. His eyes adjusted to the familiar sight: a small, cozy apartment that doubled as his girlfriend Neto's art studio.

The walls were adorned with Neto’s paintings, mostly images from the 90s—a time thought to be the last romantic era before the rise of the machines. Nostalgic depictions of bustling streets, family gatherings, and intimate café scenes covered the walls. Relics of a time now dead. The apartment was filled with the scent of paint, a comforting smell that reminded him he was home. The vintage feel of the place was completed with old-school tech: a boxy TV set, a retro CD player, and stacks of vinyl records. Obi found solace in these anachronistic touches; they served as a haven from the metallic, sterile world outside.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Neto looked up from her easel, her face lighting up as she saw him. Her curly hair was tied back loosely, and there was a smudge of blue paint on her cheek. “Hey, you,” she said softly, her voice a melody in his ears. “How did it go?”

Obi nodded, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Successful. We caught the traitor before he could do any real damage.” Telling her stories about his many Grid operations was one of his favourite things to do, but he needed to rest or at least eat for some energy. 

“Good,” she replied, setting down her paintbrush. She moved towards him with a fluid grace, then gestured to the small kitchenette. “I made you something.”

On the counter, she had prepared nutrient packs in cans for him. The synthetic food was designed for efficiency—packed with all the necessary vitamins, minerals, and proteins. Neto, however, was eating something different. She had a plate of rice and chicken, the savory aroma filling the air. Obi’s stomach rumbled as he realized he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

“Why not just have the nutrient packs?” Obi asked, opening one of the cans and taking a sip. The liquid tasted metallic and bland, like all nutrient packs, but it was functional.

Neto laughed, a musical sound that always lifted his spirits. “Because eating is more than just absorbing nutrients, Obi. It’s an experience. A sensory and tactile one.” She gestured with her fork, a small piece of chicken speared on it. “The taste, the texture, the smell... It’s all part of being human. Otherwise, we’re no different from Borgs getting charged.”

Obi smirked. “But aren’t the nutrients more important? They have everything you need.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “That’s what you’d say. But for me, eating is like making art. It’s not just about the end result; it’s about the process, the pleasure in every bite. It’s the same difference between making human art with your hands and prompting an AI to create something. Sure, the AI might give you a beautiful image, but it lacks the human touch, the effort, the feeling.”

Obi watched her for a moment, admiring the way her eyes lit up when she talked about art or anything she was passionate about. “Does it bother you?” he asked, suddenly serious.

“What?” she said, puzzled.

“The cybernetics,” Obi clarified, looking at the faint glow of his own hands where the implants pulsed beneath his skin. “Does it bother you that I’m... part machine?”

Neto set her plate down and moved closer to him. She placed a hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing against his skin. “Obi, you’re still human. Your nervous system processes information in a way that’s still connected to the human experience. You feel pain, you have emotions, and you confront mortality, just like I do. Machines don’t have that—they can’t. And even if they could, it would be a poor imitation. They can simulate, but they can’t truly feel.”

She smirked, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Besides, if men don’t evolve into machines, vibrators might just take over all the loving. We can’t have that, now can we?”

Obi chuckled at her joke, his anxiety easing. She always knew how to make him feel grounded, more connected to his humanity in a way even music which was his second love did not. “Come to bed,” she said softly, taking his hand and leading him to their shared room.

The bedroom was small, with a low bed covered in soft blankets and pillows. More of Neto’s art decorated the walls, along with old posters of 90s movies - The Terminator, RoboCop. Blade Runner, The Matrix, and other such prophetic classics. They lay down together, their bodies fitting comfortably as they wrapped around each other. Obi’s hand found the curve of her waist, his fingers tracing the line of her spine.

“Neto,” he began, his voice a low murmur in the quiet. “Aren’t you ever curious about,’ he paused, “the Grid? You’ve never been there.”

Neto looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. Before she could answer, Obi’s comms device embedded in his ear crackled to life. A familiar voice, cold and commanding, came through: “Obi, report to the base immediately. It’s urgent.”

He sighed, his muscles tensing. “I have to go,” he told her.

Neto nodded, understanding but clearly disappointed. She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Be safe,” she whispered.

Obi got up, his mind already shifting back to mission mode. He dressed quickly in his tactical gear, designed to blend in both in the real world and the Grid. Before he left, he turned back to Neto, who was watching him with concern in her eyes.

“I will be fine,” he promised, giving her one last look before he headed out the door, his mind already focused on the idea of the mission ahead. He was an enforcer, a summon to base only meant one thing. An S-Ranked level mission. Anything else would have been discussed online or in the Grid.

Obi left the apartment, stepping into the dimly lit streets. The weak glow from the malfunctioning street lamps cast long shadows, making the city feel like a maze of darkness. The occasional flicker of light reflected off the puddles left from a recent rain. Above him, a few drones buzzed through the air, their sleek forms illuminated by blinking lights as they patrolled the skies for surveillance and made deliveries. The city felt alive, but it was a twisted kind of life—a world where poverty was rampant, yet technology was abundant. People lived in boxes projected to be palaces in their VR filters and no one really knew where things like food and water came from. 

Obi walked briskly to his parked military autonomous vehicle. It was sleek and black, blending into the shadows with an obvious bulletproof buff. The doors hissed open at his approach, and he slipped inside. As the vehicle’s systems hummed to life, he leaned back in the seat, allowing the AI to take control. The car silently glided forward, navigating the dark, narrow streets. 

Obi looked out the window, his eyes scanning the landscape. They passed digital bars, where patrons sipped glowing drinks spiked with nanobots. Every other month or so a new model would emerge promising a new kind of high with a funky name like Krytochronicanalite. Past the bars, the streets were lined with sex workers, their bodies modified with various augmentations. Some had animal features like cat eyes or fox ears, while others sported mechanical limbs or cybernetic enhancements that made them appear more machine than human. The neon lights of their establishments bathed the street in a surreal mix of colors, illuminating their altered forms. The sight was common, a testament to a society where humanity had blended with technology in ways once considered unnatural. Obi couldn’t even imagine what the Tecno City was going to look like if the human settlements were this… mechatronized.

As the vehicle neared the military base, the scenery shifted. The poverty-stricken alleys gave way to more affluent spaces. The roads were cleaner, the buildings taller and more polished. Here, the remnants of wealth and power still lingered. The street lamps for example seemed to burn with a fuller current, and there was a tranquillity about the scenes of manicured gardens and architectural statements. A stark contrast to the minimalist box-cut world Obi had just passed through where everything seems to be built from cuboid containers.

The base loomed ahead, a large metal pyramid modeled after the ancient Giza pyramids. Its design was a symbolic gesture meant to represent the restart of human civilization in the AIG apocalypse. The structure was formidable, its lead-coated metal surface gleaming under the sparse light, reflecting the new era of human resilience.

Obi’s vehicle approached the base’s entrance, slowing as it reached the security checkpoint. He underwent a series of scans: retinal, fingerprint, and a neural interface check. Each scan produced a beep and a flash of green light, signaling that he was clear to proceed. The gates slid open, and the vehicle moved into the base’s underground garage.

Obi exited the car and headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, he felt a familiar sense of unease. The elevator descended quickly, the hum of machinery the only sound. It stopped abruptly, and the doors opened to reveal the lead-padded basement, designed to prevent any machine from eavesdropping. The air was cold, almost sterile, devoid of the electronic hum that usually accompanied most places.

Commander X was waiting for him. The man was built mostly like a mountain even in the carbon space, his frame broad and imposing with his towering stare. In the flesh, his X-shaped scar was even more ghastly next to his gleaming red bionic implant. He stood with his arms crossed, clad in his combat gear, which always reminded Obi of Major Bison from the old video games. Neto loved to play video games from that era a lot and would claim her spirit is from that time. Obi by default has learned to play and love these games too.

He moved his eyes to a second figure. Beside the Commander sat Madam K, the base’s AI psychologist. She was a frail woman in a wheelchair that looked more like a workstation, her large glasses magnifying her eyes to give her an owl-like appearance.

“Obi,” Commander X’s voice was deep and gravelly, filled with authority. “Take a seat.”

Obi nodded and sat down in the cold metal chair across from them. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows that flickered as the overhead lights buzzed occasionally.

“Have you heard about the incident?” Commander X asked, his tone more

 like a statement than a question.

Obi shook his head. “No, sir. I came as soon as you called and I haven’t seen the news since the last mission.”

Commander X wheeled out a television set that looked like nothing Obi had ever seen. Not even Neto’s old set was this monstrous “What’s all the stuff in the back?”

“This is what they watched stuff on before smart TVs and now AR projections. It’s an analogue television set with a VCR player. We can’t allow any technology in this room that could be hacked even if we are running an un-networked node and the place is covered in lead. You will have to go offline.” Commander X placed the cassette tape into the slot and pushed a button that flickered the screen to life. 

The footage showed a train station scene: six young boys, no older than fifteen, were chasing down a man. Carbon space if the surroundings and the littering were anything to go by. They cornered him, wielding metal pipes and machetes. Obi watched as the boys brutally attacked, striking the man repeatedly. Shouting, ‘fucking Borg scum, AI dez nutz,’ and other such machine slurs popular in Borg extreme hate groups. When it appeared a moving train was in view, one of the boys landed a final blow pushing the man onto the tracks to be crushed in an instant.

His head now wide agape from the pressure of being crushed, something unexpected happened. Instead of the sparks and blue liquid that signified a machine’s blood, there was pink matter and red blood spilling onto the steel tracks. It wasn’t a Borg at all, just a highly augmented Cyman.

Obi felt a chill run down his spine. It could have been him. He had enough modifications to be mistaken for a Borg. But he knew this mission was not about that. He cast the thoughts away.

Commander X paused the video, his expression unreadable. Madam K cleared her throat, her voice softer yet laced with tension. “No one predicted the machine’s response,” she said. “Within six hours, they had infiltrated New Lagos and kidnapped all three of the boys. This kind of retaliation is unprecedented. It suggests they’ve evolved in their thinking. I fear they may be planning an attack.”

Obi’s mind raced. The machines were known for their cold logic and calculated actions, but there was a mercy about them that was constant. If they really wanted to, they could crush the human resistance in all but a week. This—this was something else. It hinted at emotions, at anger. It wasn’t even a Borg that got killed. If anything, this was a friendly fire on the human side. It wasn’t even in their jurisdiction to adjudicate. “What are we going to do?” Obi asked, his voice steady despite the fear growing inside him.

Commander X leaned forward, his one good eye boring into Obi. “We have to strike first,” he said, his tone resolute. “And it must be a final blow.”

Obi’s stomach tightened. “How? How can we defeat them? It’s impossible.”

“Power off all your cybernetics, going offline is not enough.” Commander X ordered. “There can be no risk of any machine recording this.”

Obi hesitated for a fraction of a second, then complied selecting the shutdown option from his HUD. He deactivated his cybernetic systems, feeling the world around him dull slightly as the enhancements faded. His senses felt muted, less sharp. He looked up at the Commander, ready to hear what came next.

Commander X took a deep breath, his expression more serious than Obi had ever seen. “We have a plan,” he began, leaning closer, “one that could change everything.”