Saving Grace
October 15, 2055 | 7:45 AM | Brooklyn, New York
Maxon stood by the window of his dimly lit safehouse, his silhouette framed against the orange glow of a rising sun piercing through Brooklyn's crumbling skyline. The borough, defiant in its stubborn authenticity, resisted the march of time and technology. While parts of New York gleamed with polished steel and neon, Brooklyn clung to its graffiti-splattered walls and the uneven rhythm of its patched streets.
A duffel bag rested on the floor nearby, half-packed with essentials: a smart tablet, a loaded pulse pistol, and survival tools. His tattoos pulsed faintly, their intricate symbols glowing under his skin, signaling that the safehouse's defenses were active.
The leg injury had fully healed leaving a faint scar as a souvenir. It was time to leave.
His exit wasn't going to be easy. His enemies had undoubtedly locked down every major transit hub in the city, keeping an eye out for unusual cargo. Oracle couldn't accompany him through any conventional means. He glanced at the heavily reinforced courier case sitting on the counter. The device was locked inside, shielded from EMPs and equipped with a biometric seal that would only respond to him.
Oracle would be sent ahead to Nova Cascade via a trusted dead-drop service, a shadowy network of couriers who moved high-risk items for those who could afford their exorbitant fees. The package would be stored in a secure, unmarked warehouse, awaiting his arrival.
He exhaled deeply. If Oracle's journey was planned to perfection, his own escape required improvisation.
---
9:30 AM | Underground Transit Hub, Queens
Maxon slipped through the shadows of the underground transit hub. The location, hidden beneath an abandoned railyard, was a smuggler's dream, a network of discreet tunnels and private subways leading to the outer cities.
A sharp-eyed woman in her forties, her short hair streaked with gray, leaned casually against a terminal as Maxon approached. Her weathered jacket, adorned with subtle tech patches and frayed edges, spoke of countless dealings in shadowy places. Her face was lined, not with age, but with the weight of experience, someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.
"You're late, she said without looking up, her voice carrying the clipped efficiency of someone who had no patience for excuses.
Maxon smirked faintly. "Good to see you too, Emilia," passing her a data chip.
The woman scanned it before pocketing it. "Everything's in place. You'll arrive in Baltimore undetected, but getting out of there? That's on you."
Maxon nodded. "I'll manage."
The smuggler gestured to a waiting pod, a dented and nondescript transport designed to blend in with service vehicles. "Get in. Keep your head down. If anyone asks, you're maintenance."
Maxon climbed into the pod, settling against the cracked seat. As the pod hummed to life, the woman added, "Good luck, Whisperer."
The nickname sent a flicker of irritation through Maxon, but he said nothing. The pod accelerated into the tunnel, darkness swallowing him whole.
---
10:45 PM | Baltimore, Maryland | International Airport
Maxon stepped into the bustling airport, the air in the terminal was thick with tension. Maxon's augmented lenses swept the crowd as he moved, highlighting every detail; the subtle bulge of concealed weapons under jackets, the deliberate movements of those pretending to blend in, the too-casual eyes scanning for someone. His enemies were here, crawling through the airport like ants on spilled sugar.
His tattoos hummed faintly under his skin, sensors feeding data to his internal systems. Every step was calculated, his posture unassuming, his face hidden behind the subtle shifts of his organic synthetic mask. He looked like any other traveler rushing to catch a flight. But every instinct screamed danger.
The first sign of trouble came from the terminal display. His lenses highlighted a subtle flicker on the arrivals and departures screen, a packet of scrambled data transmitted from the system. It was nothing to most eyes, but Maxon's finely tuned-paranoia caught it instantly. Someone was running predictive analytics on passenger data.
They're not looking for a person, he thought. They're looking for patterns.
The pursuers had nothing concrete. No face, no fingerprints, no blood. What they did have was metadata: fragments of security footage from the facility he'd infiltrated, residual traces of digital interference, and an educated guess about how he'd move.
The predictive algorithms had flagged his likely profile: male, late twenties to early forties, high probability of traveling alone, and exhibiting signs of calculated evasion, choosing indirect routes, avoiding security cameras, and consistently opting for manual over automated check-ins. The system's predictions, combined with boots on the ground, were enough to narrow down suspects.
As he approached the gate, his lenses flashed a warning: [UNKNOWN SURVEILLANCE DRONE DETECTED.]
Maxon cursed under his breath and ducked into a nearby alcove, feigning a clumsy drop of his tablet. The drone was hovering ten feet above the crowd, its sensors sweeping in a wide arc. It wasn't a standard security drone; this one had corporate fingerprints all over it.
"Lilith," he murmured under his breath, his lips barely moving. "Can you spoof it?"
"Working," Lilith replied. "Their encryption is tough. Thirty seconds, minimum."
His augmented lenses continued feeding him data as he approached the checkpoint. He could see it now: the subtle adjustments in the behavior of those around him. A guard shifted position slightly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd in a practiced rhythm. Another operative near the metal detectors tapped twice on his comm device.
They're coordinating.
He needed to move. Fast.
His synthetic mask ensured his face wouldn't match any database, and his microneedle treatment had neutralized any biological residue he might have left behind. But his movements, his meticulous care to avoid exposure, and his apparent lack of baggage fit the profile they were searching for.
"They're running a probability matrix," he murmured under his breath.
"Correct," Lilith replied. "And you're trending higher with every checkpoint. You need to disrupt their model."
His mind raced. They were closing in, not because they knew who he was but because his methods matched the archetype of someone they were hunting. It's not personal yet, but it will be if they catch me.
He adjusted his stride, slipping into a duty-free shop filled with shelves of overpriced liquor and perfume. The glass displays gave him a distorted view of the terminal beyond, his enemies' movements refracted into jagged pieces. He kept walking, grabbing a random bottle off the shelf to complete the illusion of browsing.
"Lilith, status?"
"Drone spoofed. But I've flagged five heat signatures converging on your last position. You've got company."
"Of course I do," Maxon muttered, slipping the bottle back onto the shelf and making his way toward the back exit.
As he pushed through the shop's rear door into a maintenance corridor, the hair on his neck stood on end. He turned just in time to see two men enter the shop from the opposite end, their eyes scanning for something or someone.