Kamcy
I took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to steady myself.
My chest burned.
My side screamed with every inhale.
Something wet slid down both sides of my face—on the right, just above my eye; on the left, beneath it. I didn't know whether it was blood, sweat, or some ugly mixture of both. I didn't care.
All that mattered was the thing standing in front of me.
The specialized unit.
The one with 01 etched where its face should have been.
It stood in a boxer's stance, elbows tucked in, fists raised to guard its head. Perfect balance. No wasted motion. It didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Didn't know fatigue.
I swallowed and forced myself to focus.
Just above its head hovered a life bar, glowing faintly like something ripped straight out of a game.
A little over half.
"Damn it," I muttered.
That was a mistake.
The unit moved the instant my attention wavered.
Its fist shot forward—fast, clean, aimed straight at my jaw.
I barely reacted in time, snapping my forearm up to block. The impact was brutal. The force slammed my arm back into my own face and nearly knocked me off balance. Pain exploded through my shoulder.
Before I could recover, the unit followed up with a jab.
It landed.
My head snapped back as white flashed across my vision. My ears rang. I tasted blood.
I staggered backward, teeth clenched, forcing my feet to move—to stay under me. Instinct took over, instinct born from repetition, from downloaded knowledge beaten into something real.
The unit pivoted and threw a back kick toward my midsection.
I swerved sideways just in time, the kick slicing past where my ribs had been a heartbeat earlier. I stepped in close, closing the distance before it could reset.
My fist slammed into its stomach.
Then another into its ribs.
I didn't give it room to breathe.
We exchanged blows in rapid succession—hooks, elbows, short strikes meant to break rhythm. My arms screamed. My legs felt like lead. Every hit I landed sent a jolt of pain up my limbs, but every hit it landed felt worse.
It didn't tire.
I did.
I made a mistake—opened my left side just a fraction too much.
The unit reacted instantly, throwing a powerful hook.
I ducked under it by instinct and rushed forward, wrapping my arms around its waist and driving forward with everything I had left.
We went down hard.
I flipped it over my hip and slammed it into the ground in a rough suplex. The impact rattled my teeth, but I didn't stop. I rolled immediately, locking my arms around its neck and pulling it into a full nelson.
The unit thrashed violently.
It tried to force its head backward, trying to break the lock. I tightened my grip, muscles screaming as I leaned back, focusing on the life bar.
It dropped.
Slowly.
The unit suddenly moved its hand to its own forehead and slammed its head backward with terrifying force.
Pain detonated across my face.
Something crunched.
I screamed as my grip broke—my nose shattered instantly—but I didn't let go for long. Blood poured down my lips as I forced my arms back into position, locking the hold again.
Tighter.
Harder.
I ignored the pain. Ignored the screaming nerves. Ignored everything except the life bar.
It emptied.
The moment it hit zero, I released my grip and collapsed beside it.
I lay there, staring up at nothing, pain crashing over me in waves.
My entire body hurt.
My head throbbed.
My lungs burned like they were full of fire.
I wanted a lobotomy.
Or maybe to go back to not feeling anything at all.
Then the thought came unbidden.
No.
This was better.
There was no way I was ever going back to being numb.
[Congratulations. You have completed the mission: Martial Arts Training. You may proceed to the next mission.]
I laughed—a broken, rasping sound.
A hundred fights.
A hundred brutal, unforgiving fights per discipline.
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
Krav Maga.
Muay Thai.
Taekwondo.
Karate.
Judo.
Kickboxing.
Boxing.
MMA.
And after all of that?
Another hundred fights where I was forced to use everything.
The time I'd spent in that training cycle could've been its own circle of hell.
But it was worth it.
At least, I wanted to believe it was.
I pushed myself up, ignoring how my body protested every movement.
That was when Ms. Destiny's voice returned.
"Congratulations, Subject 1004. You have completed your current mission. Please return to your workspace. You will return on your next scheduled interval to proceed."
I nodded without thinking.
On my way out, I paused in front of the weapons.
My pulse quickened.
Soon.
Following the glowing arrows, I passed through the black door back into my workspace.
The instant I crossed the threshold, the pain vanished.
The blood disappeared.
The weight of being human faded like a bad dream.
I stretched instinctively, even though I couldn't feel a thing anymore, then walked to my desk and sat down.
A file opened.
The virus.
It wasn't complicated in theory, but execution was another thing entirely. Every method I'd tried before had failed. Either their security was absurdly advanced, or the system itself was semi-sentient.
Or worse—maybe they'd extracted people like me just to serve as permanent defense programmers.
Still, I had a plan.
If there really were hundreds—or thousands—of us in this digital space, then the system's servers would need a way to isolate and compartmentalize processes.
That's where my idea came from.
Hide apps.
I'd used them before, back when I still had a normal life—to hide... Well mhmm
my research subjects. Apps disguised as calculators or notes, hiding things you didn't want found.
My virus was built on that same principle—with a twist.
I didn't type the code directly.
I wrote each line, memorized it, then erased it.
Perfect recall was one of the few advantages of this place. I could relive memories with perfect clarity. I used that to store the virus piece by piece in my head.
I could've launched it already.
But I hadn't.
Partly because I needed the right opportunity.
And partly because…
I wanted to undergo weapons training first.
Swords. Spears. Glaives.
I'd always thought characters who used them were cool.
Also fists.
After all, fists were eternal.
Just a little longer, I thought.
Ms. Destiny
I exited the elevator with my tablet already in hand.
The hallway stretched long and sterile, white lights reflecting off polished floors. Mr. Adeyemi was approaching from the opposite end, having just left the elevator leading to another sector.
I joined him without breaking stride.
"Welcome back, sir," I said, falling in step behind him.
"All subjects have completed their martial arts mission. They will be moving on to the next phase shortly."
He acknowledged me with a nod, adjusting the dual-colored handkerchief tucked into his suit pocket. Pink and red, as always.
"Any problems?" he asked.
"Two cases of corruption," I replied evenly. "They required rebooting. No lasting damage detected. Dr. Moritemi did express concern—"
"That was expected," he said.
We entered the elevator. I pressed the panel as it scanned my finger, opening a small compartment containing a compact keyboard. I keyed in 66. The compartment sealed itself.
[Descending to ground compartment.]
"Prep them immediately," he said. "We're out of time."
I hesitated. "Are things truly that urgent, sir?"
"Yes."
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
The elevator chimed and opened onto a dim laboratory floor. Researchers moved efficiently between stations, lab coats rustling. They bowed as we passed.
At one desk, I noticed two containment tubes. One held a centipede-like organism slamming itself violently against the glass. The other contained fine red dust particles, suspended unnaturally.
Turning away, I followed him deeper into the lab.
Moritemi stood before a row of glass tanks filled with green fluid. Shapes floated within—human silhouettes, unfinished.
She turned as we approached.
"Welcome back, sir," she said. "I assume the schedule's been moved up again."
"It has," Mr. Adeyemi replied.
She sighed. "They'll function soon, but rejection risk is high. If not from the transfer itself, then from the genome introduction. The time I needed to study and implement my—"
"Will they be ready?" he cut in.
"Yes."
"That's sufficient."
He turned away.
I followed.
Kamcy
An alert yanked me out of my anime.
Weapon training.
My heart raced.
I followed the instructions down the hallway and into the training grounds.
Ms. Destiny's voice greeted me.
"Your next mission will be weapon specialization. Please follow the instructions of your specialized units as usual."
Her voice vanished.
[We will begin with a handgun.]
came the mechanical voice of 01.
It handed me a handgun—one I immediately recognized thanks to the installed skill knowledge.
Beretta 92FS.
[The fundamentals have already been installed. It is now time for the skill to be ingrained. From assembly. Grip. Stance. Sight alignment. To trigger discipline.]
Three more units appeared, marked 02 through 04.
Targets.
I picked up the gun.
It was heavier than I expected.
Cold.
Real.
We started slow.
First, disassembly and reassembly drills. Timed. Over and over. Then magazine loading.
Grip—high and firm, thumbs aligned.
Stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent.
Sight alignment—front post centered, equal light on both sides.
Trigger pull.
Slow.
Controlled.
The first shot rang out like thunder.
Recoil snapped my wrists back.
I adjusted.
Again.
And again.
I missed the first few times.
Then I hit one of the units square in the chest.
It crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
Again, I fired.
Missed.
Adjusted.
Hit.
I grinned.
This was going to be fun.
And I was going to make the most of it.