Chapter 1: Hungry Animals
It was the moment. Nodal, it transcended the dull, uninspired reality of Single's everyday life.
A
chronological space miles away from the dull gray concrete walls and
ceilings that boxed in his life and held captive his soul. From here,
from now, he could see the future stretching out ahead of him like a
thousand-armed spider, a crystalline matrix of possibilities branching
out
from this one instant, this iota of his existence. It was the moment before the kill.
He
could feel the drug coming, rushing through his bloodstream like a
bullet train, slamming his brain with the frantic, orgasmic intensity
of the primal animal within. His expression was calm, unreadable as he
paced silently along the threadbare carpet of the hallway, the matte
black
suitcase clenched between whitening knuckles. He ignored the chipped
elevator doors at the end of the hallway, the cheerful hologram who
asked what floor he would like as he shouldered past the heavy door to
the stairs. The familiar smells of ferroconcrete and urine assaulted
his nose as the steel pushbar ruffled his heavy coat in passing.
Up.
Climbing. Roof. A small sign, red Japanese kanji, below it two words,
smaller, in English. NO ACCESS. His movements were automatic as he
jammed the vibropick into the lock,
touched the power stud. The door opened away from him into the noise
and drizzle of a Nerima night. He stepped out into the misty
precipitation condensed from the tumourous overlapping domes that
defined the skyline, made his way to the edge of the roof.
Single
gazed out across the glare of the Nerima streets. He was crouched on
one knee, his eyes watching blurred lines of light shuffle back and
forth as a Sapporo beer holo rotated slowly in the sky. His hands
opened the case without him thinking about it, found the lens caps and
removed
them. Snapped the scope on the chamber. They moved like hungry animals, autonomous of his
control, practised and methodical. The drug was hitting him hard now,
the bitter grey paste still burning unpleasantly on his gums. He felt
nothing as he screwed the barrel on to the chamber, snapped the stock
into place. His eyes were elsewhere, watching as the drizzle fell,
seeming to steal the colour from the objects it landed upon. Below, in
the gutters and runnels of the storm drains, you could see the stolen
colours staring back, vibrant glow of laser and neon dancing on top of
the rainbow of oil-slick sheen.
He loaded a bullet into the
chamber and pressed the stock against his shoulder, the moulded rubber
seal of the eyepiece jutting into his cheek. The computer in the scope
read his optic nerve, zoomed with the iris of his eyes, smooth pan to a
15X magnification of a cheap Korean
convertible, its silver sides gleaming in the rain. He watched through
the scope's imaging system as the door to the nightclub opened and two
men came out, the unnatural bulk of blocky pistols and Kombinat
muscle-grafts disrupting the smooth lines of their two piece suits.
Behind them staggered a boy, 18, his pace made awkward by drink. His
clothes looked too expensive, too flashy, jacket glimmering with
reflective patches and embedded holos. The girl on his arm was
laughing, she looked expensive, well-trained.
Only the best for the son of the CEO of Matsume Softworks.
His arms tensed. Now was the zenith of the moment. The drug burned in his mind, fighting the rush of adrenaline seeping through his body. His breath was measured, his movements imperceptible as the enhanced myomer filaments in his wrists made tiny adjustments to his aim. He waited. Despite his training, despite his wishes, despite the drug, the moment swelled and loomed in his mind. The sulphur and polychloride stink of the rain filled his throat. The way the guards body armour reflected the sodium haze of the light, A flash of laughter from the girls lips, the rough, unyielding metal in his hands. Burned into his mind. Just like every other kill.
A muted, unimpressive crack mingled with
the other noises of the night as Taichi Matsume, heir to his father's
Zaibatsu reeled backwards. The burn-scored 7.65 mm hole in the centre
of his forehead was the only blemish on his face as the ground rushed
up to meet the remnants of
his skull.