The infiltration began with a meticulous approach. Deadshot, under the guise of a German tourist named Klaus Richter, landed at Bialya International Airport with a perfectly forged passport. For three days, he followed a predictable tourist itinerary: visiting the ancient ruins of Qarrat and the spice markets of Sumer, taking photos with a state-of-the-art camera, and staying in international chain hotels. He even rented a generic white SUV, the vehicle of choice for desert adventurers.
On the fourth day, as he sipped coffee in a tea house in Al-Sabbah, his satellite phone vibrated. A coded message: "The book you ordered has arrived. Al-Hakim Bookstore, downtown. 2:00 PM."
He parked his SUV two blocks away from the dusty bookstore. The interior smelled of old paper and incense. A portly man, Boris, with a graying beard and tired eyes, waited for him in the back, behind a beaded curtain.
Floyd: Hello Boris, how are you?
Boris,wasting no time: Shut up, Floyd. I've got what you asked for. I stole the identity of Sergeant Yusef Al-Javed, assigned to the perimeter security of the "Hive." I've put all the equipment in this bag. Now, we're even.
Floyd opened the sports bag and quickly checked the contents: a perfectly pressed Bialyan guard uniform, a cloned key card, a Grach pistol with three magazines, a combat knife, and a vial containing a powerful stimulant. He smiled, a cold, humorless gesture.
Floyd: You're right. We're even.
The silent pfft of the shot was barely audible. The 9mm bullet pierced Boris's forehead with surgical precision. Floyd retrieved the bag, dropped the weapon into an inner pocket of his coat, and exited through the back of the shop, leaving the traitorous bookseller to collapse behind the counter.
The base, codenamed "the Hive," was buried deep in the Karakum Desert. Deadshot, now Sergeant Al-Javed, passed through the first checkpoint with cold assurance, presenting his fake biometric ID. He blended into the machinery of security, performing monotonous rounds in the concrete-walled corridors, nodding to other guards, mentally noting every camera, every reinforced door, every shift change.
For two days, he played his part perfectly. Then, the order came: the day shift for Sublevel 12 needed reinforcements for meal distribution. It was the opening he had been waiting for.
The elevator descended slowly, groaning, to Level -12. The air grew colder, heavier, laden with the smell of disinfectant and fear. The corridor leading to the main cell was guarded by three men, looking bored, their weapons held carelessly.
Floyd, in rough Bialyan: I'm here with the prisoner's tray.
The lead guard, a burly man with a scar, eyed him for a moment before nodding, pointing to the reinforced door. "Make it quick."
Floyd entered, carrying a tray of inedible food. The cage was in the center of the room, lit by a harsh light. Inside, Utopian was chained to the wall, his body bearing the brutal marks of Psimon's "conditioning" sessions—bruises, electrical burns, deep cuts. But his eyes, when they met Deadshot's, showed neither despair nor submission, only an iron will, sharpened like a blade.
As he approached the cage, the three guards relaxed, one of them even lighting a cigarette. This was the moment. Their vigilance was at its lowest.
In one fluid motion, too fast to be perceived, Deadshot dropped the tray, drew the Grach, and fired three times. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. The muffled sounds were followed by the dull thuds of bodies collapsing, each with a neat hole in the center of their foreheads.
He rushed to the cage, pulled a small chemical detonator from his pocket, and fixed it to the digital lock. A hiss, a smell of burnt metal, and the cage door clicked open. He bent over Utopian and, with bolt cutters extracted from his boot, snapped the manacles tethering him to the wall.
Deadshot, in English, with a wry smirk: A gift from your buddy Batman.
Utopian, freed from his restraints, rubbed his bruised wrists. The pain was intense, but a genuine smile, the first in a long time, spread across his battered face.
Utopian, his voice hoarse but determined: I'll have to kiss him. Now, let's get the hell out of here.