The city's underbelly was a maze of echoing drips and scurrying rats. Sophia ran, her lungs burning, the metallic scraping sound of the grappling hook echoing behind her like a death knell. She burst up through another manhole, finding herself in a narrow, claustrophobic alleyway hemmed in by the towering, windowless backs of old industrial buildings. A dead end.
Rain sluiced down the brick walls, collecting in a grimy pool at the alley's center. At the far end, a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire offered no escape. She was trapped.
The rhythmic, heavy tramp of boots grew louder, approaching the alley's entrance. Two of them. Their cybernetic eyes would be scanning, cutting through the rain and gloom. She scrambled behind a large, overflowing dumpster, curling herself into the smallest possible ball, trying to control her ragged breathing and the frantic hammering of her heart. This was it. They had her.
Then, a new sound cut through the rain. A whimper.
It was small, terrified, and instantly smothered. Sophia's blood ran cold. She peered through a gap in the dumpster's rusted metal. Deeper in the alley, huddled in a recessed doorway barely visible in the darkness, was a woman, her hand clamped over the mouth of a small, shivering child. They were trapped with her.
The two Tainted soldiers appeared at the alley's entrance, their forms silhouetted against the street's orange glow. They were walking weapon platforms, their movements economical and inhuman. They paused, their heads swiveling in unison as they scanned the confined space.
Sophia held her breath, praying their scanners would somehow miss her, would miss the mother and child. Maybe they would think she'd kept running.
One of the soldiers tilted its head, and a faint, almost inaudible click emanated from its helmet. It had heard the whimper.
Their mission parameters were brutally simple: retrieve the asset, eliminate all witnesses. The woman and her daughter had just been reclassified from "civilians" to "loose ends."
Ignoring Sophia's hiding place entirely, the two soldiers began to advance, their heavy boots splashing through the grimy water. Their movements were not rushed; they were methodical, certain. They were walking toward the recessed doorway, their rifles held at a low ready.
A wave of nausea washed over Sophia. This was her fault. She had led them here. She had brought death to this small, forgotten corner of the city. She could stay hidden. She could press herself deeper into the shadows, silence her breathing, and maybe, just maybe, they would deal with the witnesses and move on, giving her a chance to slip away. It was the logical choice. The survivalist's choice.
The little girl whimpered again, a sound of pure terror. One of the soldiers raised its rifle, the weapon's heavy stock ready to be used as a club.
Sophia watched, her scientific, logical mind screaming at her to stay put while her every moral fiber, every shred of her humanity, screamed in rebellion. The choice was a razor's edge: her life, or theirs