Log 1.3

"Good morning, Nixed." Demi greets me.

"Good morning, boss," I say back.

As Demi runs through my downtime's cached data - filtering it for me to investigate - I take a look in the mirror.

Mirrors and I don't have the best relationship. Mostly because the first job I failed was because I shot a reflection in the mirror instead of my target... Also I seem to recall always hating them.

I guess self-reflection might not have been my strong suit.

Demiurge is a sweetie. They have a list of probable locations by the time I settle on something to wear.

A black and white tech-coat, flared and with lining emitters for whatever I decide for a splash of color.

Compared to the getups I normally see, it's either going to be too flashy or too retro, but fuck conventional beauty standards, am I right? The 2270s was the golden age of weird clothes. All these 24th Century sellouts with their neocorporatist black suits can kiss my neon blue ass.

Speaking of which, blue is a good color. I switch my emitters to it more often than others.

Now, I'm supposed to tell you about Demiurge.

They don't really care about what I wear, just that I can do what they can't. They're pretty scrupulous when it comes to letting me be the bad guy, and my kills, unfortunately, are posted for everyone to see if they are so inclined. Something about the increased potential of pattern recognition if more human eyes are on the data.

Personally, I just feel like they're making me into the boogeyman. Well, boogey-being. Still not sure about the "man" part. And with gender being a digital toggle away, why should I care? I can be whatever I need to be.

Can't fake an SIS Serial Code though. Smart people keep their identifier programs on. Judge with only your eyes and, well, you rarely get what you see when it comes to people.

Today, Demi has me patrolling the edge of the Ziggurat.

That's rich-people territory.

Strange how I never get sent into all the densest information holes the rich have carved out for themselves... But I suppose they have other ways of keeping the monsters out, like never becoming them in the first place.

I sip my memory of coffee milk from a can in my room's dispenser. Plebes like me couldn't afford fridges in 2277. But we certainly could spend our yuans on the vending machines the landlords put in our rooms.

It's all fake here, psychologically familiar but barely recognized. Yet as I "pay" for a box of curry breakfast rice, it feels practically routine.

That's been my routine ever since Demi woke me up. Eat, travel, frag the monsters, travel home, spend my downtime on marksmanship or working out my non-existent body, sleep and repeat.

Why work out when I'm dead?

Apparently the wetware my brain is in likes it. Reinforces the simulated synapses and whatnot. Plus, if I ever get a real body, I've been told that performance will be optimized based on my SIS data. A little motivating tidbit to keep me sharp.

Demi leaks tidbits now and then.

Take, for example, my weapon.

Demi calls it an Excisor. They call me killing an unfortunate, corrupted former-human "excision."

I call it deleting people.

"I place the likelihood of a required excision at 61%," Demi tells me today. "As the Ziggurat is restricted space for me, external monitoring of the site suggests that a large number of people will be in the vicinity. As such, be cautious with your Excisor.

"Yep. Sure, sounds great boss." I look in the mirror and decide to leave my gender markers in their fluid state. Let them eat cake trying to guess who and what I am. Androgyny suits me fine, and I wonder if getting a real body will change that...

"Any clues on where this one's coming from?" I ask.

Demi stays silent. They have a theory that there is a singular root to the corruption. Either something inherent to the constructs or something inherent to human nature.

I have a theory that it's the digital afterlife version of a corporate white-project. Squeaky clean front, atrocities out the back. Some asshole playing with the other ghosts, likely getting something out of the chaos. Hell, maybe it was just a sick game.

Demi doesn't care if I investigate. They're the one collating the data after all, something my merely-human mind can't keep up with. For a computer, they're oddly cagey about it. They don't exactly help me, but they don't hinder me either, once I have a target that is.

Evidence tends to be hard to get though. People tend to make themselves scarce around the Corrupted, as they're called. Sometimes I call them zombies. Thus far, no one has ever been around to witness the moment a person just stops being human.

People also make themselves scarce around me.

After all... I am the only being with a gun that can actually kill someone.

Demi likes to wait for me to confirm before unlocking it. I've killed six monsters in as many months, investigated hundreds of sites, and they still don't trust me with the safety on the damn Excisor...

It's almost touchingly sweet.

I am a suspicious bastard after all. Or would it be bitch? I wonder if some 24th-century person knows a good derogatory for a gender-fluid person like myself. Maybe I knew one once but it was excised along with my other memories.

Once I'm out of my place, I head down to the street level and chuck the little triangular chip that spawns my car into the road.

I'm about to get in when a familiar voice calls out.

I turn. "Hello, Dr. Laplace."

"Hello, Assassin," he greets. "May we try again today?"

"I'm afraid the safety is on, Doctor. You'll just have to live with yourself a while longer." I reply.

Every few days, Dr. Laplace asks me to kill him. As in permanently.

Every time, I point my Excisor at him, and he sighs and tells me what he tried to get Demiurge to agree to let me delete him.

"I begged her for three hours straight... but she wouldn't answer," Dr. Laplace complained. "I've been wondering if I shouldn't just pass on my Exa and live in a death loop."

I don't know what came over me, but I guess his words put me in a strange mood.

"Here," instead of pointing the gun at him, I handed it to him. Placed the grip in his hand. "Try it yourself."

He looked at the Excisor and then to me. Pointed at his head and then...

"Unauthorized user," the Excisor warned, before emitting a shock that fragmented Dr. Laplace's SIS for a few painful moments.

I pulled the gun away as soon as he dropped it and stowed it in its holster.

"Shit, Doctor, I'm so sorry..."

It took a bit for him to collect himself. "Don't worry yourself, sonny... a little pain doesn't compare to losing him..."

I flinch because I know what he's going to say next.

"Thank you for being there with him... at the end... I suppose I'll let you be on your way..." Doctor Laplace accepted my hand and stood. He dusted himself off despite not needing to and turned to walk up the street.

I try to tell myself how necessary it was... to kill his partner. What the Doctor's husband... became... consumed two people. He would have eaten more if I hadn't ended him. The man had been lo-res. Gave up his sight to finally pay off their debts, and bought them some years of peace.

As I drove away, I asked myself if I could really give him the end he wanted, should that safety ever come off.

In all my years as an assassin, I couldn't remember ever killing a good person.

I wished I could... for someone who needed it.