Hey guys, here is a story I've wanted to write for ages so I'm really pumped that I managed to get around to starting it off. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. I shall get round to update other fics soon, I just needed a little change to get the creativity flowing.


Chapter Summary: The infamous mercenary "Camera Eye", aka Max Caulfield, is on her way to accept a job that could potentially set her up for life. Her target, an elusive rebel fighting against corrupt corporations.


"Children are turning themselves into monsters and, quite frankly, it is your fault. You initiated the creation of this technology, then you allowed it to slip through your fingers." - G. S. Jennsen


Prologue: For Better or Worse?

At the turn of the 22nd Century, much changed for humanity. Vast leaps in technology heralded a new age of development that enriched the lives of humans in all aspects, from medical to entertainment. For those who could afford it at least. Those who couldn't were subjected to worse living conditions than had been experienced in over a century, barely scraping by.

Major businesses began abusing their power over the newly developed technology, using it to create domineering empires and battling among themselves to gain control over territory and resources. This only further widened the gap between those struggling to survive and the high flying corporate bosses ruling over them with an iron fist. Within twenty years, they eventually had all but drained the earth dry of remaining extractable resources. Next they turned to invasion of other countries and space exploration to fuel their ever growing domains.

Due to the unprecedented number of feuds and turf wars, costing valuable time and money, corporations turned to more violent methods to eliminate their competition permanently. They instead called upon mercenary forces to resolve these "disputes". From this a new respect, and in some cases hatred, was gained for the profession. Many turned to it as a source of income, although only a few were successful or lived long enough to reap the rewards. Those who excelled and survived the ordeal by fire gained a reputation unlike any other. However due to the nature of their job, they had to remain in the shadows, so never truly obtained the recognition for their deeds. Instead, they were forced to grind away to earn a wage so they could afford their expenses. Not to mention having to live with the consequences of their morally obscure actions.

In America, the largest of these businesses was named the Prescott Corporation, PresCorp for short. Its HQ was situated in Neo-Seattle. PresCorp was systematically taking over each state in rapid succession. The company had begun to turn its attentions elsewhere, that was until their efforts were met with heavy resistance in the early months of 2135.

While most remained out of the fighting where possible, some individuals wanted to take back the streets and destroy these corrupt companies. One such individual went by the alias "Punk Pirate". After taking out numerous other businesses, they finally decided to wage war against PresCorp, arguably the most amoral of all.

Unable to deal with this individual alone, the company turned to mercenary forces to eliminate the threat. Unwilling to take any risks, they sought out one of the best money could buy… an elusive mercenary who answered to the sobriquet "Camera Eye".


Chapter One: Camera Eye

Neo-Seattle, a high octane hive of activity. By 2117, the city was host to many a thriving and aspiring business. Because of this, it became one of the areas most affected by the corporate battles of the 22nd Century. The visceral beauty of the cityscape, with its gargantuan skyscrapers ascending ever closer to the midnight star scattered sky with each reincarnation, overshadowed the deprived underbelly of the city. Those fortunate enough to reside in the privileged sectors had access to everything their hearts desired, while turning a blind eye to the suffering of their neglected counterparts. Charity had long since been dead, with many too focused on pursuing their own happiness and indulging in luxuries to give a second thought to those struggling.

Lurking in the shadowy side streets of such a destitute area was a figure dressed in lightweight dark colored armor, with a visor helmet that had a voice changer seamlessly incorporated. A retractable sniper rifle was attached to their back, along with a small pistol strapped securely into a holster on their thigh and a penknife firmly tucked into a belt. A leather pouch also sat on the belt, containing spare ammo and other useful items. The figure was none other than the infamous mercenary, "Camera Eye" aka Max Caulfield. Very few people knew her actual name for security reasons.

Max moved silently through the streets until she reached an imposing building that stuck out among the other skyscrapers, due to a large logo stuck unashamedly to the front side a few stories up. It was a well-known logo by now, one that had overrun Neo-Seattle and many other cities just like it. The logo indicated that PresCorp had claimed the area. She only regarded this for a second before continuing on into the building with confident strides into the front desk area.

As with all the other corporate buildings she'd entered, this one was just as decadently embellished, maybe even more so than usual. Marble statues, priceless paintings and other famous artworks that no doubt cost a fortune were dotted around the lobby. All to show off of course. After regarding her surroundings with vague curiosity, she approached the main desk sat in the center of the area. One brief discussion with the smiling receptionist later, she made her way up the stairs to the top floor. She avoided using elevators and other enclosed areas where possible. They were too easy to set traps in.

She finally made her way to the top floor, not even breaking a sweat. Once there, she pressed on down the red carpeted hallway, the walls of which were lined with the portraits of the previous CEOs and initial founders of PresCorp, leading up to an intricately carved dark wooden door. Once at the door, she pressed the button on the wall with gloved fingers to signal her arrival. The door opened immediately, lifting upwards and disappearing into the ceiling above. This entire corridor was a mere illusion, designed by the CEO to demonstrate the company's wealth and power. In reality, the entire building was made up of metal hallways and high-tech shutter doors. By using a complex computer system however, this area could become just about anything.

She stepped over the threshold, hearing the door close behind her with a quiet thud. A window overlooking the streets was situated opposite her, in front of it a large wooden desk. Sat in a throne like chair behind the desk was a man with short brown hair and a beard. He wore a black suit and white shirt with the top button undone. He looked up from his work, motioning for Max to take a seat on the other side of the desk.

She recognized the man immediately as the current PresCorp CEO, Mark Jefferson. Ever since rising up the ranks to boss nearly five years ago through less than honest means, which incidentally was about the same time she'd moved to Neo-Seattle, he had already placed his stamp on the company and city… and not in a good way either. His calculated and ruthless mindset had allowed for PresCorp to prosper immensely, taking it to a new height of progress never seen before. However, this had not come without its sacrifices. Much blood had been shed and lives ruined to maintain this level of dominance over the various industries PresCorp monopolized. Hushed discontent whispers of PresCorp's deeds lingered in the background. Very few dared to challenge them directly however as they did not take slander lightly, especially when the rumors were true.

Max took him up on his offer, moving towards the chair he had indicated to and sat down. She would much rather not have to associate herself with low-life scum like Jefferson, however in her line of work she had no choice. The man before her regarded her with a probing stare, taking in her intimidating visage. His eyes lingered on her right arm for just a moment longer than anywhere else, before leaning forward in his chair and placing his hands on the desk.

"I thank you for taking the time to meet with me personally in this very urgent matter. I have to admit it was difficult to track you down."

Max flipped the visor of the helmet up, exposing her icy blue eyes. She spoke with trained intonation, the voice changer altering her pitch to a lower, more electronic one. "I make a habit of being hard to find."

He took a piece of paper from a pile on the desk, scanning it briefly, "Well, let me say that you have succeeded in that." A smug smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked back up at her. "PresCorp does however have more than sufficient resources to locate anyone we desire."

She gritted her teeth at the arrogance he was displaying over his perceived superiority. The only way she could be found was if she allowed someone to. There were ways of contacting her for business purposes of course, although these methods were indirect and heavily encrypted. She had no interest in his narcissistic small talk, but had no choice but to play along for now. People like Jefferson loved the sound of their own voice. It was better to stroke their ego in these situations.

He placed the paper back on the desk before assuming a serious expression, one that suggested they were about to move onto business. "There is a thorn in our side that we would like you to remove."

Without another word, he slid a red binder across the desk towards Max composed of a sketchily detailed profile of her target. She drew it closer to her, opening it and scanning the important specifics of the person PresCorp wanted her to take out with faint curiosity. Her cybernetically enhanced right eye focused on the information, taking pictures for future reference. This eye was the reason for her alias "Camera Eye".

There were very few people nowadays without some kind of cybernetic enhancements. They had a number of different uses, from replacing limbs and organs to causing a permanent change in hair colour without needing to dye it every few weeks. She glanced down at her right arm resting on the desk, which incidentally was fully robotic. Some people liked to hide their obvious enhancements with an artificial skin graft. Max however thought that it added to her image. Although, it did get her a few unsettled looks when she did venture out into the public with it exposed. Nobody wanted to admit how rapidly humanity was losing its fundamentals, most of the population now hybrids at most.

She'd lost her arm a few years back before following this whole mercenary thing up professionally because of a stupid mistake. Namely, showing a little mercy to an undeserving person. It acted as a constant reminder to never let her guard down again. She clenched her fist as the memory shot to the forefront of her mind, the metal fingers curling upon command, before turning back to the profile.

The first thing that caught her attention in the binder was a blurred photo taken tucked inside the cover. The only discernable feature of the otherwise out-of-focus image was the vibrant flash of electric blue. Max vaguely recognized the very distinctive shade. She'd seen it online a couple times these past few months, which instantly piqued her interest. On reading the sparsely outlined particulars of the job, her suspicions were confirmed.

Her jobs were almost always the same. Some rich bastard wanting to take out another to open up a promotional spot or cripple another company. This one though… taking out some kind of modern day Robin Hood figure, while not uncommon, was different. This case in particular was intriguing and would pose a significant challenge even for Max.

The Punk Pirate had been hanging around Neo-Seattle for around six months. In that short space of time, they had already made a monumental impression on the city. Not much was known about them, apart from the fact that they preyed on big businesses with questionable moral practice, aka the vast majority of Max's employers. The Punk Pirate had already taken down three major corporations, as well as countless minor organizations, causing a huge scare in the business world. Some theorized that they must be working with a group, while others believed them to be flying solo. Whenever the Punk Pirate hit a business, they were sure to leave a very specific calling card. A neon blue spray painted middle finger on the side of the particular company's HQ. It was a pretty old school and retro MO but it did the trick, striking fear into the shriveled and blackened hearts of the corporate bosses.

Max had to admit, she was mildly impressed by the effectiveness of this enigmatic rebel sticking it to the greed driven leaches sucking this and numerous other cities worldwide dry. She almost didn't want to take the job, enjoying the way Jefferson and others like him were squirming under the intense heat. Unfortunately, she didn't have much choice. The bills didn't pay themselves. She could really push her luck with her demanded fee considering how desperate PresCorp was to eliminate this threat.

With the vital information now stored in her head, she pushed the binder away from her and glanced back up at Jefferson, who responded to her returned attention with a practiced smile. His eyes remained as cold and clinical as before. "I presume you can do that."

The condescending tone of the man sat before Max really set her teeth on edge. It was assholes like this that made her job both financeable yet insufferable too. In the five years of doing this gun for hire gig, she'd come across so many like Mark Jefferson. Smug corporate promotion-hungry types with stupid facial hair who had to constantly over compensate by showcasing their wealth at every possibility. She couldn't care less about their bullshit God-complexes and petty turf wars. All she cared about was the money they could and would provide her for her services.

There was nobody else out there in Neo-Seattle, hell probably in the entirety of America, who could provide what she could. A quick clean kill in such a way that left no evidence tracing back to her employer. Depending on how much she was paid, she could make people disappear off the very face of the earth. As if they had never even existed. It was a skill that took many years to cultivate and perfect. Some didn't possess the patience or finesse to pursue the mercenary life successfully and if they did, discretion wasn't a priority. That is what made her such an appealing option for PresCorp.

Max leaned back in the chair. The frame groaned under the extra pressure as she rested her hands on her flat and well-defined stomach, interlocking skin and metal. "So long as you pay me I can do anything. Not that I necessarily will mind you."

Jefferson offered up a strained grin, his brow twitching from Max's minor resistance. "Well, will you then?"

Max sat up once more, re-adjusting herself so that she was staring directly into the brown eyes of the man opposite her. She was now ready to talk business. "Depends. How much are you willing to pay?"

Jefferson seemed a little unsettled by her now glowing blue right eye, but shook it off after a moment, steepling his fingers in front of him on the desk. "Whatever it takes."

The ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of Max's lips at this statement. Enough people talked a big game in an attempt to bluff their way through, but couldn't back it up when the time came. She didn't take kindly to being fucked over. Those who had learned that the hard way.

"Those are some big claims. Can you back them up?" She challenged confidently.

This was a crucial stage in the whole process. Deals were made and broken in moments like these, when all the cards were finally laid on the table after the prolonged waiting game. She focused all her attention on Jefferson, staring him down with trained intensity.

He briefly caught her eyes before reaching underneath the table, pulling up a black briefcase and placing it on the table. "I believe that this will answer your question. This is only a fraction of what we are more than happy to give you for sorting out our little… problem."

He put in a passcode, then undid the clips and turned the case to show her the content. Inside were piles upon piles of electronic chips, the new form currency had taken at the turn of the 22nd Century. Normally, most people would have one or two chip that they would fill up when needed. Using numerous chips in smaller increments like this made it much harder to trace large sums of money, therefore making them ideal for shady business transactions such as this. Max idly picked up a couple of chips at random, using her right eye to scan them to ensure that they were genuine. After a few seconds, the results came up clear. There must be a good few million credits in this case alone from her quick analysis. PresCorp probably considered this mere pocket change, but for someone like her it would be enough to pay her rent and bills for a few of months at least, if not more.

"You must really want this one gone, huh?" Max softly commented as she replaced the chips back in the briefcase, satisfied with the proof that they could pay her fees.

A twisted grimace tinged with rage formed on Jefferson's face, his eyes burning with a passionate hatred, "Oh, more than anything." He pointed towards the briefcase still open on the table. "Consider this a gesture of good will on our part, a small tip if you will when you accept, in addition to your fixed fee of course and most likely a much large tip on completing the job successfully. Which I have no doubt you will."

Max exhaled deeply, checking the briefcase and chips over for bugs with her eye, coming up blank again. She could never be too careful these days, although she pitied the fool who decided to tail her. She reached out with her metal right arm, closed the case up and placing it by her feet.

"My terms," Max began, getting straight down to it. "You pay me half now and half when I get the job done. I am to be paid in non-traceable methods directly and for it to be deposited into these account at the percentages and time increments specified." She reached into her pocket to take out a small card, quickly adding on the specific fee she was to charge for this particular mission. She threw the card detailing the accounts she used on deals like these and other particulars onto the table just in front of Jefferson. "If not, I walk and never return. I will contact you tomorrow when everything has been confirmed."

He picked up the card, giving it a once over before nodding without even questioning her demanded fee. "Understood. Expect the first part of your payment within the hour. It's been a pleasure."


Thirty-Five Minutes Later…

Max found herself in one of the most impoverished areas in Neo-Seattle. The run down streets were lined with bars selling cheap, poor quality booze made to simply get you drunk as quickly as possible. On occasion, they had caused blindness in consumers. There were also a few stores selling bland rehydrated meals, majorly lacking in fresh produce and shady back alleys where all kinds of black-market deals took place.

She had chosen this side of town to live in because of its concealed nature… but also because the rent was cheaper. Given half the chance, she would love to live in style with the rich, famous and corrupt. That just wasn't practical for many reasons. Still, it didn't make it any less of a dream. If you wanted to make it anywhere in this world, status was key. Without that, you were no-one and therefore nobody would care if you lived or died.

Instead of rocking up to a five-bedroom apartment with a plasma TV and marble spa bath, Max made her way to her one room apartment tucked away in a dingy alleyway that smelt of piss, body odor and weed. It was a blend that caused her nose to crinkle in disgust every time she came down here. Today was no different.

She finally reached the busted door, fumbling around in her pocket for the rusted key. Some of the fancier apartments had voice, retinal and even finger print recognition to allow access, but not run down shitpits like this place that were still reminiscent of 21st Century architecture. It was any wonder how these buildings were still standing really.

Once she found the slight bent key, she pushed it into the lock and turned it, hearing a quiet click. She wiped her shoes on the worn mat in front of the door before entering, the floorboards creaking under her footsteps. While she'd tried to make the place look presentable, there was only so much she could do to combat the musty smell, no matter how long she left the cracked windows open, and keep the mold at bay. That wasn't even to mention trying to keep the room from simply crumble to dust. Despite the misgivings, it was still her home and had been ever since moving here five years ago.

The space was very minimally furnished. A creaky single bed in the far left hand corner topped with a thin mattress, several scrounged up blankets and flat pillows. To the right was a door leading into a claustrophobic bathroom she could probably piss and take a shower in at the same time. A small metal desk was pushed up against the wall nearest the door, with a high-tech laptop she'd spent an arm and a leg on sat on it. It had been well worth it though. The blue beat up couch sat opposite a TV on a low stand against the left hand wall. Some counters were pushed into the far right hand corner with a sink, microwave and coffee maker atop them. A mini-fridge was tucked beside them, which was empty apart from a flat half can of soda, a questionably off carton of milk and a part eaten ham sandwich from the other day. There was a closet set in the wall to her right, although there were hardly any clothes in there. Instead home to her supply of weapons along with other things needed for her work. Her prized possession, a guitar that had seen better days, was propped against the wall in the corner. Not that she had much time to play it these days. She used to have an actual camera too, but didn't need it now because of her eye enhancement. She could directly upload her photos to her computer whenever she wanted after all.

With her boots now kicked off, she took off her voice changer helmet and stripped off the lightweight armor she'd worn to the meeting, all used to hide her identity, and headed for the shower. She flinched as the cold water hit against her now exposed pale, freckled skin. It took forever for the water to heat up here and she just wanted to crash now. She squeezed out the last remnants of her shampoo, lathering up her mid-length brown hair, and let the water run over her body.

After a few moments, she shut the water off and grabbed a semi-clean towel from the floor. After drying herself off and changing into a basic shirt and shorts, she exited the bathroom. She grabbed the partially eaten sandwich and flat soda from the fridge after some deliberation on its edibility, then flopped down on the bed with a deep sigh. She picked at her food as she used her cybernetically enhanced eye to access the internet to check up on her accounts to ensure that PresCorp had stuck to her terms. As she had specified, three of her accounts had received the outlined percentage of her fee within the allotted timeframes. This put her mind at ease, knowing that she had some funds now.

She'd been living off her last major job for a little over half a year now, along with a few smaller ones where necessary to supplement any deficit and keep her name out there. The money from that was beginning to run thin now and so becoming impossible to live off. That was the only reason she was taking this job. She had to spend most of her hard earned cash on work expenses, which were extremely costly.

They were used to sustain a well-stocked arsenal of weapons and ammunition, to work on general maintenance and constant upgrades with the latest modifications. These included various ammo types, improved sights especially for her sniper, suppressors and increased ammo clips to keep ahead of the competition. She wasn't the only competent mercenary around after all, so needed to maintain that edge. Luckily for her, when she'd entered into the professional mercenary life there had been a lapse in the line of work. There had been a few retirements, disappearances and in some cases deaths of the most sought after mercenaries. This newly created void allowed people like her to thrive.

That was not to mention the monthly bill for her extensive cybernetic enhancements, an expense she was still repaying. At the time, she hadn't had access to the money needed to pay the extortionate fees so she'd had to agree to pay in installments. This of course included an exorbitant interest rate that seemed to just keep increasing. She was so close to paying them off now and with this job she should be set. There were also fees for any outside help she required in her missions, such as expert hackers. She was a fairly competent hacker herself, but some of the jobs she took on were impossible to do alone. There were also a few other things she needed the money for, more personal reasons that took precedent over her own comfort.

When she'd started out, she had to take up any job she could to make ends meet. Very few people had wanted to pay any substantial amount for an untested liability after all. She had more options now thankfully after making a name for herself about three years ago. She had slowly been gaining attention since coming to Neo-Seattle, which had all cumulated in the March of 2132 with her breakthrough.

This job from PresCorp was the largest she had ever accepted and would set her up for a long time. It might even put her in a position to retire earlier than she had anticipated. If she made a few choice investments with the money, she could live more than comfortably until the end of her days. Before she even considered the future, she had to focus on the here and now.

She rubbed at her temples, trying to alleviate the throbbing as she placed the plate and can on the floor before laying down and staring up at the ceiling. She knew that when she woke up she would probably step on the plate and break it, but she didn't care right now. An impenetrable haziness was overwhelming her mind, making it hard to think straight anymore. She wrapped herself up in the various blankets and curled up into a ball as her eyes began to close of their own accord, becoming dead to the world for the next eight hours or so.


As Max slept, in a bar not too far away sat another elusive individual nursing a beer. Her blue eye not covered up by an eye patch scanned her dingily lit surroundings. The flashing colorful strobe lighting briefly illuminated the faces lost in the mass of writhing bodies, dancing to the heavy bassline that vibrated through the building. On the sidelines were couches, which some were using to smoke or sloppily make out on, hands wandering under shirts and grasping at flesh.

Some were already passed out at the bar, long lost to the world until the morning when they woke up with a mind-crushing hangover and next to no recollection of the previous night thanks to the combination of booze and drugs. There was an unpleasant odor lingering on the air. A mixture of weed, cheap alcohol, sweat and other bodily fluids, but that was to be expected of a shitpit like here.

She could barely think with the noise levels and distractions, which is exactly why she'd come here. She just wanted to kick back and forget about everything for a few hours. Draining the remainder of her beer, she signaled to the bartender to get her another. She wasn't going to drink too much tonight, especially considering what she had planned over the next few days. She needed a clear head to continue making her moves against PresCorp. There was a lot to prepare and a few favors she needed to cash in on before she made her final assault.

Hopefully within the month she would have driven PresCorp out of this town and could begin working on its offshoots in other states across America. She didn't want to become complacent or underestimate her target though, that would only serve to get her killed. In fact, she already knew that PresCorp was planning a counterstrike against her, not that it would do them any good.

They, and so many other businesses, were destined to wither at the hand of the Punk Pirate aka Chloe Price.


So there is the set-up to this fic. Thanks for reading, take care of yourself and see you next time.