Kevin slipped out of the crane control tower, ears still ringing with the operator's words. A Vision Officer was on his way, a death sentence wrapped in protocol. He sprinted so fast a drone would've been lucky to spot him.
Searchlights swept across the port's yard, and from his vantage point Kevin caught sight of Goldstar's container dangling high above the port, swinging slowly as the crane carried it further from danger. Relief set in, the first part of their half‑baked potentially shitty plan was actually working. But the feeling died quickly when his eyes fell on the rows of containers ahead, his own among them.
F8 agents had gathered in front of his container, scanners pressed against its corten steel frame. They circled like vultures, glancing at one another while chatter rippled across Mind‑Link. One agent barked, "That's the one. I recognize it from Agent J's feed. Set the charge."
Kevin froze and ducked behind the side of another container. They weren't scanning Goldstar's container, they were scanning his, mistaking it for hers.
A thunderous crack split the night as explosives ripped its door clean off. The agents stormed inside, weapons raised, only to find stacks of personal relics: artwork, old books, and the clutter that represented a man who had once lived free. No goo. No fugitives. Just Kevin's life in boxes.
"Nothing here but a chipless illegal's trash," one agent spat.
"Burn it all," ordered another. "Especially the books."
Flames erupted, coating the walls. A flamethrower roared, devouring canvases, family photos, and memories in seconds. Kevin remained hidden but watched the remains of his life go up in flames, his fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms nearly cutting through the calluses. Smoke curled into the night sky, carrying the last traces of who he had been.
He bit the antenna of his walkie, forcing his voice steady. "Goldstar, do you copy? How am I supposed to get out of here now? They torched my spot. Destroyed everything. My whole life."
Before her reply could crackle back, a shadow fell across him. Kevin turned. A F8 agent loomed with weapon drawn.
"You're not going anywhere," the agent said firmly. He raised his hand, eyes glowing with fascist level loyalty as he engaged the Clarity interface within his mind's eye. "Freeze, or I'll deactivate your motor functions." He was invoking the standard F8 arrest protocol: through Clarity, an agent could instantly shut down a suspect's body like flipping a switch, freezing them in place without the need for cuffs or pursuit. But Kevin was chipless, outside their network, so the command had no effect on him, a fact the rookie agent hadn't accounted for until it was already too late.
Kevin smirked despite the fear, sliding his hand toward the side-zip of his jumpsuit. "Nah. You lose."
The agent's eyes expanded to the size of planets as he began realizing his fatal mistake. Kevin's quickdraw was that of a western masterpiece, his gun whipped out, and fired point-blank, placing the shot right between the agent's eyes. The bullet's exit wound popped through the backside of his skull, and his body dropped to the ground in a lifeless thump.
Before Kevin could process the finality of his instinctual survival decision, a thick whip of glowing blue-pink goo from m00m lashed down from above. It constricted around him, yanked him skyward, and slammed him onto the roof of Goldstar's moving container. Sticky residue clung to his clothes, his hair, his skin, but he was alive, cemented to the top of the container as it continued its path across the port into the night. As he wiggled to release the goo, in the distance he saw several higher ranking agents examining the body of their dead colleague.