The interior of the stolen VTOL was silent, save for the rhythmic hum of the twin turbines and the soft groans of Agent Johnson, who was currently zip-tied to a support strut in the cargo hold.
Rick sat in the pilot's seat, his hand hovering over the glowing, pulsing obsidian Cube. The holographic prompt hovered in his vision, a digital temptation that pulsed in time with his own heartbeat.
[SYSTEM UPDATE 2.0 READY.] [WARNING: Integration will be invasive. Neural rewiring required. Survival probability: 88%.] [Install?]
"Eighty-eight percent," Rick muttered. "I've played poker with worse odds."
