There are a lot of things that Dolan remembers. Every detail of the mission where he'd taken that bullet in the thigh, the day his favorite gun had jammed and he'd broken the thing in two and thrown it away. He remembers the deep scratch in the linoleum floor of the orphanage closet he'd hidden in as kid so many nights, and he remembers the first job he'd taken after he'd gotten out of that place.
But there are a lot of things Dolan can't remember. Like where he was the first time he'd been approached by the Umbra runner, if he'd laughed in his face or simply ignored them. He doesn't remember what he'd been drinking, only that it had been strong, and he doesn't remember what had happened after he'd blacked out that night- last week? The week before? He doesn't remember all the details of his first meeting with them, other than the feeling of the pen scratching the paper when he'd signed it. He doesn't remember who had been the first one to tell him that it's a dog eat dog world, but he guesses the sentiment stuck and that's all that mattered.
Because despite his initial disgust, here he is anyway. The night air bites at his face, threatening snowfall before sunup but he barely feels the pinpricks. He's near the back of the small group, all of them dressed in all black, tactical rifles perched on shoulders and toting backpacks full of all the other equipment they'll need.
They move and look more like a covert military operation than a well connected mafia organization for hire, but he supposes that's why they'd approached him to begin with. He's never been interested in shortsighted people and their small catches and their safe wins.
This is as farsighted as it comes. A big catch, a big risk. The back alleyway leading up to BioTech is dark, quiet, smelling vaguely of oil and burned rubber. Somewhere off in the night, some tires squeal, some sirens ring. This isn't a safe city in the day, and much less at night. But the building they're approaching is about to be the most dangerous place in town.
One of the operatives near the front of the group of about six men jerks his head in Dolan's direction and he lets his gun fall back from the strap around his arm, slings it across his back. The back entrance to BioTech is nowhere near as grand as the front, but it's every bit as secure. The building juts into the sky like a a broken, boney hand, each tall and angular tower made of black glass shimmering like deep, dark water under moonlight.
The head operative takes a step back from the entrance way, away from the security scan pad at the entrance, making room for Dolan. He fishes around in the cargo pocket of his pants and pulls out a mostly empty latex glove, ringed with dried blood around the edges. When he flips it inside out, several fingertips fall out into his gloved palm, the skin grayish-green and hacked away at the edges.
Dolan rolls the appropriate ones across the screen at the prompting, and then digs in a different pocket, pulls another bloody mass from a plastic bag and holds it up to the scanner, holding his palm up as background as the laser lights leap from the screen, bathing the removed eyeball and ocular nerve, writhing across it and down. Once the lights fade, the security system is silent for a long moment, and the head operative casts a steely glance in Dolan's direction, wordlessly warning him.
Then the system gives a low chiming noise followed by a dim green lighting flooding down from above the entrance way, then a series of hollow clicking noises as the door unlocks itself and starts to automatically slide open.
Dolan nods his head in mock politeness, sweeping his arm out toward the door to signal the head operative to go in first, even though the bloody latex glove full of all the dismembered body parts swings from his hand.
And just like that, the environment changes so drastically that it's like stepping into another world. Things outside are dark, dingy, ashen and made of metal. Inside BioTech, the country's leading biochemical experimentation center, everything is made of thin sheets of glass, fiber optics, and chrome. Nearly nothing inside doesn't shine or reflect some sort of light, including the floor, which in some places is also made of glass, opening up all the floors below it in a vast cavern where the light ultimately cannot follow to completion.
"Spread out. All security should be gone, but look alive. We're after Lab P-211. Basement level."
The head operative jerks his hand forward and the group splits into three pairs, one taking the winding glass stairs upward to monitor the control center at the top of the east tower for threats, while the second two snake down the stairs toward the basement level labs.
Dolan had only asked for the bare minimum of information needed to complete this job. He hadn't agreed to it for any reason other than solely the money, which he currently finds himself hard up for. He has no interest in the organization, as tight-knit and fraternal as it is. They'll probably try and get him to stay on after this. Unless, of course, they realize how he's planned to make this job actually worth his time. They won't. They'll ask him to stay and he'll say no.
All he knows about this job, really, is that they're here to steal weapons. Biochemically engineered weapons that any high bidder would kill to get their hands on. Who that high bidder is currently doesn't interest Dolan. All he needs to know currently is where Lab P-211 is so they can load up the vans waiting outside and go back to headquarters, where Dolan's real prize is.
Down at basement level, the rooms are chopped up along the long, opaque glass hallway. From the waist up, all the walls are transparent, making it easy to scan through all the labs and their strange, other-worldly contents. Some house transparent refrigerators of vials full of brightly glowing liquids. Some are eerily empty save for a metal examination table, a large flickering overhead light, and an inconspicuous drain in the middle of the floor. Some simply house floor to ceiling metal filing cabinets.
But near the end of the hall, one of the operatives shoots his hand up silently, waving the rest of them to him as he pushes open a metal door to a metal-encased room with P-211 stamped on the door.
But there are a lot of things Dolan can't remember. Like where he was the first time he'd been approached by the Umbra runner, if he'd laughed in his face or simply ignored them. He doesn't remember what he'd been drinking, only that it had been strong, and he doesn't remember what had happened after he'd blacked out that night- last week? The week before? He doesn't remember all the details of his first meeting with them, other than the feeling of the pen scratching the paper when he'd signed it. He doesn't remember who had been the first one to tell him that it's a dog eat dog world, but he guesses the sentiment stuck and that's all that mattered.
Because despite his initial disgust, here he is anyway. The night air bites at his face, threatening snowfall before sunup but he barely feels the pinpricks. He's near the back of the small group, all of them dressed in all black, tactical rifles perched on shoulders and toting backpacks full of all the other equipment they'll need.
They move and look more like a covert military operation than a well connected mafia organization for hire, but he supposes that's why they'd approached him to begin with. He's never been interested in shortsighted people and their small catches and their safe wins.
This is as farsighted as it comes. A big catch, a big risk. The back alleyway leading up to BioTech is dark, quiet, smelling vaguely of oil and burned rubber. Somewhere off in the night, some tires squeal, some sirens ring. This isn't a safe city in the day, and much less at night. But the building they're approaching is about to be the most dangerous place in town.
One of the operatives near the front of the group of about six men jerks his head in Dolan's direction and he lets his gun fall back from the strap around his arm, slings it across his back. The back entrance to BioTech is nowhere near as grand as the front, but it's every bit as secure. The building juts into the sky like a a broken, boney hand, each tall and angular tower made of black glass shimmering like deep, dark water under moonlight.
The head operative takes a step back from the entrance way, away from the security scan pad at the entrance, making room for Dolan. He fishes around in the cargo pocket of his pants and pulls out a mostly empty latex glove, ringed with dried blood around the edges. When he flips it inside out, several fingertips fall out into his gloved palm, the skin grayish-green and hacked away at the edges.
Dolan rolls the appropriate ones across the screen at the prompting, and then digs in a different pocket, pulls another bloody mass from a plastic bag and holds it up to the scanner, holding his palm up as background as the laser lights leap from the screen, bathing the removed eyeball and ocular nerve, writhing across it and down. Once the lights fade, the security system is silent for a long moment, and the head operative casts a steely glance in Dolan's direction, wordlessly warning him.
Then the system gives a low chiming noise followed by a dim green lighting flooding down from above the entrance way, then a series of hollow clicking noises as the door unlocks itself and starts to automatically slide open.
Dolan nods his head in mock politeness, sweeping his arm out toward the door to signal the head operative to go in first, even though the bloody latex glove full of all the dismembered body parts swings from his hand.
And just like that, the environment changes so drastically that it's like stepping into another world. Things outside are dark, dingy, ashen and made of metal. Inside BioTech, the country's leading biochemical experimentation center, everything is made of thin sheets of glass, fiber optics, and chrome. Nearly nothing inside doesn't shine or reflect some sort of light, including the floor, which in some places is also made of glass, opening up all the floors below it in a vast cavern where the light ultimately cannot follow to completion.
"Spread out. All security should be gone, but look alive. We're after Lab P-211. Basement level."
The head operative jerks his hand forward and the group splits into three pairs, one taking the winding glass stairs upward to monitor the control center at the top of the east tower for threats, while the second two snake down the stairs toward the basement level labs.
Dolan had only asked for the bare minimum of information needed to complete this job. He hadn't agreed to it for any reason other than solely the money, which he currently finds himself hard up for. He has no interest in the organization, as tight-knit and fraternal as it is. They'll probably try and get him to stay on after this. Unless, of course, they realize how he's planned to make this job actually worth his time. They won't. They'll ask him to stay and he'll say no.
All he knows about this job, really, is that they're here to steal weapons. Biochemically engineered weapons that any high bidder would kill to get their hands on. Who that high bidder is currently doesn't interest Dolan. All he needs to know currently is where Lab P-211 is so they can load up the vans waiting outside and go back to headquarters, where Dolan's real prize is.
Down at basement level, the rooms are chopped up along the long, opaque glass hallway. From the waist up, all the walls are transparent, making it easy to scan through all the labs and their strange, other-worldly contents. Some house transparent refrigerators of vials full of brightly glowing liquids. Some are eerily empty save for a metal examination table, a large flickering overhead light, and an inconspicuous drain in the middle of the floor. Some simply house floor to ceiling metal filing cabinets.
But near the end of the hall, one of the operatives shoots his hand up silently, waving the rest of them to him as he pushes open a metal door to a metal-encased room with P-211 stamped on the door.