Obscure Protocols

Chapter 4: The Descent

They emerged from the depths like synchronized specters, rising into the nocturnal arteries of Neo-Strasbourg. Their hands naturally found each other, fingers intertwined in a childlike gesture masking the deadly communion of their connected minds.

The urban night pulsed around them, sickly neon casting fragmented shadows on the wet asphalt. Every step resonated in their neural network, synchronized heartbeats beating to the frequency of programmed death.

Target at 300 meters. Thermal signature confirmed.

The data materialized in his cortex, carried by the impulses flowing between them. Yukio walked with that deceptively kawaii gait, sometimes skipping over puddles that reflected advertising holograms.

The Schwarzraum towered ahead—a cathedral of concrete and smoked glass reaching into the toxic sky. Synthetic bass made its reinforced windows tremble, heartbeat pulses of a nocturnal world in perpetual overdose.

The entrance vomited streams of post-human creatures—modified bodies wrapped in bio-integrated latex, faces sculpted by genetic beauty algorithms. They paid in neural cryptocurrency, synapses directly connected to terminals.

Pavel analyzed the data streams emanating from the club—an invisible digital architecture mapping every square inch. Cameras drew a labyrinth of optical cones, blind spots calculated in real time.

Perfect angle identified. VIP sector, level 3. Detection probability: 0.7%.

They slipped into the crowd, Pavel leading the way. Inside was a sensory nightmare—strobe lights triggering controlled micro-seizures, endorphin vapors saturating the air, industrial music hijacking nervous systems.

On level 3, the mood shifted. Softer. Luxurious. Elitist. The VIP booths stretched behind polarized glass walls—human aquariums showcasing the most expensive modifications.

The White Rabbit was there.

Slumped in a synthetic chair, briefcase pressed against his thigh like a pathetic shield. Three courtesans surrounded him, bodies reshaped by genetic surgery, translucent skin revealing modified vascular networks pulsing with accelerated metabolisms.

He sipped a cocktail of alcohol and neurotransmitters—an opalescent substance altering his perceptions. His glassy eyes, pupils dilated by chemical euphoria, didn't notice the two children watching from the mezzanine.

Pavel studied the geometry—distance, angle, trajectory. His brain computed the variables automatically, turning murder into a mathematical equation.

Optimal position: support column, sector 7. Recommended weapon: neurotoxic dart.

Yukio pulled from her bag a handgun of unprecedented design. The neural pistol seemed sculpted from black graphene alloy, its matte surface absorbing light like a dimensional void. No larger than a smartphone, it fit her small hand perfectly, adaptive ergonomics recalibrating to her morphology.

Veins of golden plasma ran along the barrel—quantum cooling circuits pulsing in sync with her heartbeat. The weapon didn't fire conventional projectiles—it emitted targeted electromagnetic pulses, neural waves capable of triggering instant synaptic failure from a distance.

She raised the weapon with surgical precision, its adaptive surface warming beneath her fingers. Plasma circuits intensified, syncing with her brainwaves to calculate the optimal trajectory. A faint electronic purr emanated from the quantum mechanism.

Target locked. Neural pulse ready.

The weapon discharged its invisible wave—an electromagnetic pulse cutting through pheromone-saturated air. The impulse struck White Rabbit's cortex with neurosurgical precision, short-circuiting his synapses like a computer virus infecting a biological network.

The man clutched his chest, face contorted in searing pain. His synapses disconnected one by one, neural network collapsing like a quantum house of cards. His courtesans kept laughing, thinking he was pretending to be drunk. When he collapsed, they assumed it was just a stumble.

Yukio slipped the weapon back into her bag, the neural pistol returning to its inert form, plasma circuits slowly dimming. No ballistic trace, no chemical residue—just a brain that had ceased functioning, like a computer suddenly unplugged.

Pavel and Yukio walked away without haste, hands still linked. Behind them, the target writhed in unnoticed agony, his central nervous system gradually shutting down under the quantum impulse.

They descended to the ground floor—ghosts drifting through the dancing crowd. No one noticed their departure—two children lost in the mass, kawaii innocence masking lethal perfection.

Outside, the night wrapped around them like a digital blanket. Advertising holograms cast their glow on their faces—masks of light dancing across their skin.

Data streamed through their connected cortexes, the next mission forming in the circuits of their shared intelligence. Pavel squeezed Yukio's hand, and they disappeared into the nocturnal arteries, carrying the secrets of a traceless death.

Behind them, the Schwarzraum continued its nightly liturgy, a temple of decadence where a man had just died without anyone noticing. For in this silent war between synthetic intelligences, death had become a statistic—a bug quietly fixed in the grand program of existence.