DEUS EX: BEYOND TRIAXIS

Prologue

Granny used to tell me; always look for good in people. That nobody is evil because they want to be; that everyone has their reasons. That in order to make the world a better place, we need to look at the reasons, not the people... and fix them.

I don't believe that. Evil people exist. Objectively... evil. Sociopaths. Megalomaniacs.

Bullies. Narcissists. Those who think their calling, their manifest destiny, or just their ego, allows them to destroy lives on a whim, and shape humanity's fate. And I'm going to kill them all for what they've done to me and my family. Them, their families, their loved ones. Everyone. No-one is innocent. I will destroy their worlds, like they destroyed mine. Make them watch as I do it, like they made me watch. It's only fair. I will show them that all... all happiness, is an illusion. And that no matter how much power they think they have, they suffer, bleed and die just like anyone else. They turned me into a living weapon. Their mistake.

How to begin... ? It took me a while to even get here. Tiffany tells me that putting this out in text, should come from the heart, that putting one's pain on paper is the best way to confront and objectivise it, without letting it take over. The best way to begin... healing. I don't think I can heal. But here we go. Not really on paper... my hand-writing sucks anyway.

I'm Yelena, of the house of Fedor. I was born in 2001, to a Svani Georgian mother, and a Russian father, in Khakheti region of Georgia. It was a simple life, but my last name always made me stand apart. Mother's choice to renounce her maiden name in favour of my fathers'... but it did not make life any easier for me. But in time, the schoolyard bullies learned the hard way, that I'm no pushover, dozens of busted noses, flattened ballsacks, and twisted arms later. Eventually, it earned me my own clique... and acceptance in it. Strength is respected, even from a girl. Girls were worse though, with their disgusting pranks, mindfucks, and attempts to psychologically destroy me. But they paid for it worse. Biting off a piece of one's nose in a bathroom fight, got me kicked out of my first school. But it was worth it... I think I swallowed it. Yelena the Cannibal, that's what they called me that last week, before I was expelled.

With me gone, things got a lot worse for my brother. He had already earned himself a reputation of being a coward, hiding behind his big sister's skirt. Letting a girl, do his fighting for him. In the Svani culture, and honestly, most of the former Soviet bloc to some degree or other, that is tantamount to being prey. A punching bag. Bully-bait. Less then a man, less then a worm. Less then nothing. It broke him, early on, turned him into a self-loathing, introverted shell. It... calcified... me, early on. Taught me to hate people, with a passion. Hold grudges to anyone, hurting my family. He was a gentle soul, a dreamer, a poet, and he had his own form of courage... but it didn't have a chance to blossom.

Father was a career officer in the Russian army, mother was a housewife. Yet with him away most of the time, carrying out his duties for the motherland, it was she, that raised us in the traditions of the Svani. No good deed should go unrewarded. No bad one, unpunished. Kindness, for kindness. Pain, for pain. Blood, for blood. Death, for death. All circles must be closed. All scores, settled. Family, is everything. Brother didn't take to it, spending his time in his own... imaginary worlds, where he could escape reality. Writing poetry, playing clarinet and oboa... putting his own pain to verses more beautiful then anything you could imagine. Baby sister... she was still too young to understand. But me...

Long-lost memories keep coming as months go by, in dribs and drabs, like dry leaves being tossed by autumn winds. Oh wow... poetic. Brother would be proud! More come when they come. Like pieces of a widely scattered puzzle, slowly being put together. Will this be a – a diary? Memoirs? Or just a collection of random memories, some of which I'm still not sure how accurate they are? But Savage is right... it helps, to put it down in text.

Granny was the magnanimous one, despite her own Svani heritage. She had learned to be, the hard way, with my grandfather dying in someone else's blood feud, before I was born. Or so she told me... She refused to let it define her. She tried to balance mother's... traditionalism, father's... lack of involvement, and our own wildly differing personalities. In her summer home during holidays, we could each be whatever we wanted to be. Free of expectations or judgement.

Looking back, I think the times I spent at granny's, were some of the only times I was ever truly happy. And certainly the only times I had ever seen my brother, truly happy.

It was she who first enrolled me into a ballet school, outside our tight-knit community, in wider Russia, hoping to curb my rage, being around people outside our provincial attitudes. But even there, the world found a way to remind me that all happiness is an illusion.

I was gangraped, while on a studio trip to Manchester, England. They took their turns on me for over two hours. Cue the therapists encouraging me to move past it, for months after. Generously paid for, by my ballet school. Even the Russian ambassador got involved, as I understand, pressuring for arrests and convictions. Quite a scandal. But they never came. Those pigs got away with it. For the time being, at least.

That is my curse. I do not move past. I don't forgive. I don't forget. I avenge. Victims move past, then pat themselves on the back for rising above it. Living in denial. Coping. But I'm no one's victim.

A year later, my world ended, as I watched my entire family murdered, by a man I worked with, for the next seven years. I still can't recall exactly when, or how... but I remember the details. My mother, steepled in her own ways, but who loved me all the same. Who... taught me not to be a victim. My father, who tried to protect us with all his skill and training, but couldn't stop the cybernetic human tank, called Jaron Namir. My gentle brother, whose dreams ended forever, without ever being realised. My baby sister, still a child. And my granny, who showed me how to be truly happy. But I didn't die with them. I was taken, and transformed. Tortured, mutilated, conditioned, and turned into something else. A cybernetic angel of death, trapped in my own mind. It became my purpose. Then my passion. Then my instinct, as natural as breathing.

I took my turns on them, two years down the line, when I finally tracked them down, one by one. My first act of revenge, now that I had the means to do so. For overtwenty hours, each. Torture. Emasculation. Flaying alive. Disembowelment. Death. A blade offers much more – personal - pleasure, in a kill, then a gun. Take it from me. They didn't deserve, a bullet. It was the first time I ever castrated a man. The first four times. It wouldn't be the last, and for lesser reasons. Reasons more to do with my own pleasure, then simple revenge. I had the power, and exercising it was catharthic. By the time I was finished, each of them begged me to end it, their testicles shoved down their throats, their guts open, spilling out. I didn't. I let them bleed and suffer for hours, before I finally slit their throats. I like to think the local investigators in Manchester fell all over themselves, trying to find the culprit! But by then I learned well, how to disappear without a trace. And I had built-in means to do so.

If I've ever a mind to visit Manchester again, I might look up the police records of that time. It should make for entertaining reading!

Three years ago, I was tasked with stopping a man named Adam Jensen. My last assignment, for the Tyrants. It was not meant to be, of course, but – I'm very, very glad it turned out like it did. He was someone whose own life ended, making him become something else. Similar to me, but not the same. He kept his humanity. I failed, though. We fought, he won. I should've died that night, but I did not. My machine-self kept me alive. The closest, by far the closest, I've ever come to death, over those years.

But he released me. Released me from my own mind-prison. Then an AI construct callled Eliza, saw into my soul. Ironic. That a machine, was the one to see past my machine-self first. I suppose it takes one, to know one. She paid the price for it, for her compassion. I will also avenge her. And yes, I call her she, not it. She deserves it. No matter what they've done to her since, and I have to believe they – reprogrammed her. Each time I see her on the news... she sounds the same, but – she seems more subdued. More – robotic. Less vibrant and animated. I can't help but see – emptiness – behind her eyes. The same one I had. One of the reasons I didn't tell anyone yet, who – what - Eliza Cassan really is. I want them to see her as a person, not artificial intelligence. She deserves that much. My gift to her, such as it is. My way of saying thank you, for what she did for me that night. Literally saved my life, as I was about to blow my own brains out. Jensen knows too. But I get the impression he also kept it to himself. Good.

And then there's Irwine. Irwine. It is funny... in all this time, he never told any of us his first name. Not even me. When I asked him, he says it carries too many bad memories. When I made discreet inquiries to his old command in the New Sons, they didn't know, either. I suppose that is why he puts up with me and my own demons. Because he has his own, and he understands. I know he was burned, in several relationships, I can only guess it has something to do with that. Maybe... I haven't asked him about it since. I don't care. I love him as he is, and he doesn't need to tell me anything he doesn't want to. And he loves me. As I am. Damaged. Someone told me once, that unconditional love is a precious gift. As more time goes by, I understand more how true that is. But at the same time, I'm worried about him. I'm worried that despite everything he knows about me, everything I tried to tell him, he still sees in me what he wants to see. A perfect woman. Someone to build a future with. Someone to live out his days with, maybe even in marriage. Someone who can be saved.

I hope I can be. If only for his sake. Not my own. I don't care. I don't have the luxury of dying yet, not until I'm finished. Not until I close the circle. But I don't want to break his heart. He deserves all the happiness there is in the world. However illusory it might be. If I can be the one to give it to him... I will.

I found a new family, in the Juggernaut Collective. Including people who, for all intents and purposes, should never accept me. Jamella Couture. She hated me. She almost killed me, on the first day we met. A part of me still wishes she used the killphrase. An easy way out. But she found it in herself to forgive me for what I did to her brother. It shamed me. Because I know I can never do that, regarding my family. I don't have it in me to forgive. Ever. She's a remarkable young woman. Despite everything, she tries to keep her optimism and innocence. Despite everything, she sees something in me that I cannot. It's partly because of her that I even decided to begin counselling.

Her, Quinn, Irwine... my friends. My – family. They want to be right about me. Want it badly enough that I can almost feel it. I wish I knew if I can live up to their expectations. But I'll try. In the meantime however, my search continues. Namir had paid the price. His family had paid the price, by my own hand. I settled that score. But there are more. The ones who gave the order. The ones who wanted me, as raw material to turn into a weapon. I have the name of one of them. If it is accurate, since I still don't really fully trust the source. But it is the best lead I have so far.

I'll find him. Volkard Rand. But I will not make a snap judgement. I will verify. Make sure. If he did do it though, if he really was the brain behind Triaxis... his death, and his family's, if he has one... will make Jaron's pale in comparison. It was over quickly for them. It won't be, for him and his.

I'm trying to move beyond the need, to kill and punish. But some people need killing and punishing. And if I do not do it, who will?

Chapter One

Antigua, Saint John's Parish, Saint John's – Northshore Seaside Suites rented apartment

Lounging on the balcony in a comfortable chair, just in a white bikini, letting the sun tan her, Yelena scowled slightly under a wide-brimmed hat, at the last sentence, as she dictated it to a pocket secretary.

Kill and punish? Isn't that one and the same? Whatever. Semantics. At least it's a tangible reason to kill someone, not a spontaneous act, like most times in combat.

She shrugged, saving the transcript document in a password-protected file, before she set the device aside onto a lounge table, next to a cocktail she was sipping on. Looking out to the seaside, and further down to the beach and crystalline-clear waters beyond. Irwine was there with Jamella, some distance out on the sea in a rented boat, the two of them doing some fishing, their long fishing poles swaying gently in the breeze. Sports fishing had become Irwine's favourite hobby while here, and Jamella had developed a taste for it too.

She smiled at the sight, instantly dispelling her melancholy mood. The two of them had become fast friends. Along with herself, it was almost like... a family of sorts. Jamella had compared it to one, more then once.

When she brought it up with Quinn, requesting the young hacker's assignment to her as her tech support abroad, she cited the need for a cyber-expert as an operational advantage, given her inexperience with computer-security. Privately however – it was Yelena's way of taking the girl to, what amounted so far, a vacation. For the past five months now. And not just a vacation from work, but a vacation from the prejudice and hatred towards the augmented. A chance to spend time in the real world, not cooped-up on the ship, without being subjected to discrimination and fear. Because Yelena guessed it right – Panama wasn't the exception, it was the rule. The central American countries were far more relaxed, in their attitudes towards the augmented, being spared the worst of the madness of the Incident. Aside from a nominal check at the airport – she hadn't encountered a checkpoint so far, anywhere on the island.

Antigua and Barbuda was a step up from Panama, however. The cartel influence was less, but still enough to keep a thriving black market, giving her easy access to certain maintenance-related components, and curtailing the hand of the mainstream lawmaking. United Nations was just a term here. Not an all-pervasive influence. Deals under the table were still a norm, not the exception. A favour here, a return favour there... a stack of credits in the right pocket, or something someone needed – handled. Discreetly. The augmented had their place, and a way to keep themselves very much connected with the ruling structure, and a part of it.

Privately, the aquiline woman had to smirk at that. She read about Nathaniel Brown and the Santeau Group, and their utopian dream of a 'city by the augmented, for the augmented'. Rabi'ah. It was all she could do not to let her contempt show. Some filthy rich natch 'visonary', thinking he had the right to determine what the future should be, for a marginalised group he didn't understand the first thing about. Probably basking in his own ego, how he was 'doing the right thing', and 'taking the moral high ground', in 'healing the rift between peoples'. All the assorted crap. It would just be another kind of segregation, a more 'civilised' one. And frankly, she wouldn't be at ALL surprised, if this Santeau Group was just a front, for... them. Another tool they planned to use to tighten their grip.

A walled, policed aug-only city... what better way to keep the populace under surveillance? She didn't buy the idealism of it, for a moment. To her, it sounded like an idealised version of any number of Santeau-sponsored aug ghettos. Like the Utulek Complex in Prague.

Over here, there was no need for a special city. No need to plan anyone's future. People just got along. Natural, augmented – it didn't matter. As long as they had mutual interests, and were useful, to one-another. The law was a loose guideline, not a ball and chain. And the gray areas were plentiful, and easy to take advantage of.

In short – she got to like this country. A lot. It was just the kind of controlled chaotic environment, that Yelena approved of. A place where no one interest could really gain an excess of influence. Where accumulation of power was all but impossible, where tribalism and personal interest trumped any structured attempt at centralisation of authority. A melting pot of ambition and drive, of locals and tourists, of above and below board deals. A place to make a life for onself, or get lost in, if needed. Like Panama, but less overtly dangerous, and more... ambiguous.

She could see why so many crooks and shady businessmen used this place as a money-laundering haven. Why her prey, the two runaway UralPharma board members, would set up their shadow-accounts and credit-lines from TYM, here in a bank that really didn't ask a lot of questions.

Now it was a waiting game, until the two finally decided to try and do something about their frozen assets. So far, there had been no word from Madalyuk, on any inquiries made. And certainly no sign that either was going to pay a visit. Yelena didn't mind the wait, since – again – it amounted to a vacation in tropical paradise. A five-month-long one, so far, with all expenses paid for. Irwine certainly got his wish, to get away from it all for a while. Especially with his new cybernetic shoulder, and getting acclimated to it. And it gave her time to plan her own detour to New York, and look up mister Rand.

Eventually.

A chime on the entrance door, back inside, got her – reluctantly – up and gliding inside, throwing a pareo over her cybernetic hips as she did. And just as she was starting to slowly marinate in the lovely sun – how typical!

Once she got to the door, she didn't immediately open it, or look through the spyhole. She paused, off-centre from the door and behind a wall, to break any potential firing solutions someone might have if they had Smart-vision, listening hard through her cochlear implants. The wall itself was rebar concrete and brick, and would stop anything but a very high-calibre anti material AP round. No matter where she was, and who she was... her instincts never slept. And Yelena's many years of experience taught her that a healthy degree of paranoia was a survival trait.

"Who is it?" - trying to smooth-out her hard Slavic accent, as much as possible. She had quite a bit of practice with her new identity, Elle Steyn, an ostensibly Canadian exotic dancer, but the accent was... very hard to get rid of.

So what she now sounded like, when trying, was a curious amalgamation of different tonalities in English. Out here, she suspected nobody would really pay attention, since Antiguan accent of English was very unique itself. Once she did get to New York however... Yelena knew she needed a lot more practice, to sell the act. And even then, she suspected it would never really work fully. Just one of the reasons she didn't plan on her detour, yet.

"Albu, missus Steyn!" - came the jolly-sounding reply. Yelena relaxed. It was their landlord, a chubby, mixed-race woman in a mood that seemed to be perpetually jovial. Also affiliated with the local cartel elements, which simply opened additional business opportunities for Yelena.

"Mail for you, missus Steyn! Oh before I forget, guys at the Nelson Club hope you'll be droppin' by this evening!" - the jovial dark-skinned woman beamed at her, handing her an envelope, before she shuffled off.

"Thanks! Tell them if it's at eight o'clock again, the answer's no. Prior engagement. But I can make room at nine!" - before she closed the door.

The Nelson Club was ostensibly a gentlemans' club catering to high-end clientele. Part of her cover here, was as one of the entertainers at the place, a professional poledancer, and a part of an in-house acrobatic dancing show. Jamella had made a face about it, of course, but Yelena loved it. It finally gave her a chance to... well. Do what she always loved to do. Perform in front of a captivated audience. And she'd be lying if she didn't admit that she loved the attention. Including occassional private performances for select patrons who could afford it. Additional... services... rendered upon agreement. Irwine also found his own cover there, as one of the bouncers.

It was as she told Jamella, five months ago. She was a whore. For Yelena, the idea was empowering in it's precept. Seduction, lust and sex was a weapon she wielded with proficiency that rivalled her skill with either a blade, a gun, or barehanded. And her... experience... with Madalyuk, was something she very much took to, and wanted more of. It... appealed to her. And out here, there was much more interest in augmented entertainment. And much less restrictions on it.

In reality, the place was also the main Collective contact point, in the country. Not really a front – the Juggernaut Collective didn't work that way – but a safe place to stay in contact with the Kiss, and receive updates on the assignment, without risk of signal interception. And a very safe place, for Jamella to set up her own crypto-den, while in the country, and stay in constant communication with the other cyber-specialists in the Collective, via Neural Subnet links.

Moving back to the balcony and plopping into her chair once more, the aquiline woman opened the letter. Her face lit up. It was a reply from Ben Saxon that she expected to arrive eventually. But not like this. Not via Cartel courier, to her inquiry about any information about VersaLife New York, that the agent may have gathered since the first time she contacted him about it, not long after their arrival. The fact it took this long to get a reply, and the means of a reply, told her two things:

One, that Saxon had done a thorough job snooping around. Probably taking full advantage of Kelso's lingering connections in the USA federal agencies. And two, that it had produced results. Results that he didn't feel comfortable relaying via an Infolink channel, even an encrypted one. A written letter delivered by a reliable courier... was the ultimate anti-surveillance tool.

Taking a sip of her cocktail, she began reading.