"I am Crstn," he said, his voice a flat, synthesized monotone.
He was on a mission in the Sunk Cost, a drowned district of Old Chicago. His target: a renegade geneticist hiding in the spire of a half-sunk cathedral. Crstn found her easily. She was old, with eyes the color of faded denim. She didn't run.
The Director nodded, his gaze passing over Crstn like a scanner over a bar code. "Good. Decommission to storage bay. Next mission in 0600."
In the Director's office, a single red light began to blink.
Christian.
But instead of powering down, Crstn closed his eyes. He didn't need to sleep. He needed to remember .
Crstn opened his eyes. For the first time, they weren't empty. A spark of something old and dangerous flickered in their depths. He looked down at the restraints around his wrists. He had broken steel doors. He could break these.
"Report, Crstn," the Director said.