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.