The Rise of I

'i-2'

Whoever was behind the site had gone to a lot of trouble to keep it hidden. It didn't even have a name, nor was there any kind of identifiable mark or branding and its address was comprised of random numbers that regularly changed. It took a while to get onto it. Jayson first had to bounce off a series of proxy servers. When it finally loaded, he logged on and reminded himself of the details.

The target had just been verified as a 5 baller. He ignored them until then. Most did. In the past, there'd been mistakes and Jayson already had enough on his conscience. The man's name was Chris, Chris Mcilvenny and he was 112. Over the course of a year, he'd gouged out 5 people's eyeballs before torturing them for their matching pin numbers. Four had died. One had survived. All had had their accounts cleared. A group of their relatives had clubbed together to post the bounty. It was good money, too. And now the hackers had got hold of the man's ID number.

Jayson opened his photo. It was a relief when he saw it was recent. Anything older than six months was useless. In that time they could change beyond recognition. He wasn't your typical killer - his face pleasant, handsome, even. But there again, Jayson mused, if you could use someone else's eyeball to pay for it, why wouldn't you change your look? Especially if it masked your true intentions. He committed the man's main features to memory – tall - 6'2" - dark brown wavy hair that flopped over his face and eyes that were almost black. Full lips, pointed chin and slender neck. He'd had a similar, Mediterranean-type look himself a few years back, when he'd cared about such things. Except one of his eyes had been green. Shaking off the memory, he scrolled down the page, searching for some background.

Huh.

The target had changed his look alright – he'd been born a woman - Christine. He (or they) had swapped sex in his fifties. And several times since. Like most people, he'd never worked, nor had he ever had a registered partner and, from the looks of things, he had spent his entire life in George Town. He'd been linked to eyeballing quite a few times but, until recently, none of the reports had been verified.

Why's he suddenly being careless? Is he getting cocky? What's going on?

According to the records, he was currently residing on the other side of town, in one of the older, run-down districts that was yet to be recycled. Roughly in the direction where Jayson had come from that morning. He copied Chris' ID number onto his wrist-tracker and watched it come to life. They'd sent him the pill, so he knew he wouldn't be far away.

At home. Perfect.

He needed to hurry if he wanted to catch him. Jayson unlocked the doors to the security cupboard, checked the charge on his X-legs, grabbed his foil suit and bolt gun and ran to the lift. He pushed the basement button and it shot downwards. After a quick check to make sure he was alone, he ripped off his trousers and shirt, shoved them into an old carrier bag and tossed them into a corner. With a grunt, he stepped into his foil suit, pulled the hood down over his face and snapped the seams shut. Next, he dragged out an old hoover from under a pile of old boxes and attached its hose to a small valve on the side of his suit. He fired it into life and it sucked out the air until the foil clung to him so tightly, he appeared to have been hewn from solid metal. The first time he'd worn it, the claustrophobia had been unbearable. Even now he was used to it, he still didn't like it, but he didn't have much choice - without it, the street scanners would pick him up in seconds. He slipped his tracker back onto his wrist, checked there was a fresh cartridge on the bolt gun, put it in his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Time to go.

Despite the dampening effects of the aziophen pill, his heart began to beat a little faster. Jayson lifted the lid to the old drain cover and dropped into the darkness. The sewers may have been decommissioned, but the stench from centuries of use still clung to their walls. He wrinkled his nose and felt for his torch, which never seemed to be where he left it. He tried closer to the back of the ledge.