Into the Violet Gardens

By Isaac Nasri

The year is 2024. A ruthless cartel dominates Latin America, and the FBI's Troy Levi gets commissioned to intervene. A cyborg for the bureau's Virtual Division, Levi delivers a devastating blow to the cartel's power but encounters a wave of social resentment in the aftermath.

As the people's feelings for cyborgs grow bitter, former black-op cyborg ally and CIA operative Soriana Salazar finds herself caught between sides. Eliminating the cartel destabilized the region, fueling anti-cyborg sentiments in neighboring countries and afar. But tough decisions await Salazar after civil unrest forces the agency to sever all cyborgs ties. And that's only the beginning…

Betrayed by the government, hated by the people, a vengeful league of cyborgs spawns a sinister scheme of liberation. And While Levi searches for Solace amid the turmoil and Salazar seeks balance, both will have to take a grave stand if they hope to stall the impending chaos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Isaac Nasri
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201551698

Isaac Nasri

saac Nasri is a self-published author. He grew up in Washington DC and graduated in May of 2017 from the University of Maryland, College Park with a bachelor's degree in Sociology. His stories focus on offering allusion to recent events happening in contemporary society and how they affect his characters. Heart of the Scrapdog is his self-published work that was released in 2020.  

Book preview

Prologue

Jaguars of Apollo, Mexico. December 2023.

Nothing’s happening as of now, Ottoman, Quincy comments to his CEO on his neural interface (NI). His nerves buzzed, carrying his thoughts through like a fountain of water channeled through a tunnel.

The cyborg catches a small ball bounce in his direction. He catches it casually in time, handing the ball over to a smiling boy, who races back to his mother’s direction in a gambol. Frowning, she shakes her head at her child in admonition.

The La Bautista train moves as the sunlight slowly descends. Stars gradually illuminate outside the train’s window. The air of sweet benzene lingers inside the car, tickling agent Quincy Gunn’s nose. Nevertheless, silence remains, minus his fellow Virtual operatives trudging slowly, armed, and lips tight as solid rock. The logo of a golden leaping jaguar glimmers on each of their breastplates. The same pattern flows uniformly from one of the cars behind. Just another shift and struggle for the PMCs.

Ahora no es hora de jugar, Carlos, the woman rebuffs.

Arrival is expected to be in three hours from now to Texas, Ottoman reports inside his neural interface. And remember, kid, passengers. They are your company. Entertain. Farewell.

I wish it were simpler than that.

The cyborg straightens his sunglasses, observing through his violet lens the number of asylum passengers huddling in their seats. Small golden spikes enamor on his gray prosthetic arms and legs. His mustache was ginger as an Irish terrier’s fur, and his fair skin covered whatever human there was left in him.

With the state of Mexico deteriorating, the Jaguars of Apollo witnessed the number of residents fleeing in droves to escape the Mendoza Cartel’s wrath. Worse case is this country wasn’t his only one. It shocked Quincy how one Guatemalan neighbor could stir so much influence untrammeled, greeted with welcome arms by federal police and politicians. They sell their own civilians to keep the Fox drugs flowing. For that, Ottoman, a slick haired man in all his shrewdness, took a bold effort to confront this, and God knew how vast the enemies surrounded his PMC daily in this war. Here stood Quincy and his agents who were taking part in the most foolhardy of all missions.

Quincy faces the row of passengers with ash stains all over their faces in front, feeling his cheeks swell. One of the passengers looks away quickly as if unable to grasp the position he’s situated himself in. An aging woman behind him sings magnanimously in her native tongue, placating the discomfort gripping the train’s atmosphere, and a dog barks.

Got any jokes to crack, Quinn, he hears his fellow agent remark. The Virtual breaks into a yawn. Can’t believe I’m feeling sleepy so suddenly.

Can’t guarantee, Quincy replies.

For an agent with a wild imagination, Quincy’s fellow contractors had a boost with the anecdotes he had to share at the end of the day. But tonight didn’t seem like the case. Judging from everyone on the train, the likelihood of that suggestion will be unexpected.

Hax looms, gazing at dawn creeping over the desert. Its jaguar-like frame was darkish silver, tantamount to all Prowler prototypes. Its steely tail motions eerily. The dying light reflects against the Prowler’s marble eyes.

So much... pain, Hax says deeply. Its voice radiates like a blossom swirling to the breeze, echoing into the Virtual’s neural interface.

I can feel it. Quincy looks over his shoulder, sighing. Government left them stranded, the operative responds. His lips barely move. We’re all they got left.

Silence follows once more. Quincy opens his mouth, letting the taste of the train’s air reach inside, moistening his tongue. Soon that changes as he blinks quickly at a barking voice in his neural interface.

Report to all JOA on the train! the cyborg says in alarm within the Virtual network.

The Virtuals around Quincy stare up as if a strange essence flew over them. Once the Virtual looks over to the car behind him, his expression darkens.

We’re in a grave situation, a private military contractor (PMC) reports. Her gaze locks to the window. I repeat...a situation incoming! Stay on guard.

I don’t understand, Quincy thought.

It doesn’t take long for the passengers to pick up on the contractors’ grim expressions and raise their voices steadily to each other. A passenger, removing his straw hat, takes a stand and faces the agents. Meanwhile, the dog barks rapidly.

¡Agentes! he screams in his Spanish dialect. ¿Qué pasa? Debe haber algo que no nos están diciendo

The dog’s barking causes everyone to look over to the individual car. Gunfire from outside blasts horizontally like incoming traffic, and Quincy’s eyes shake to a grim vibration.

No! NO! They knew!

Get down! Quincy cries as he and several agents dive away from the shattering of the window glass.

Pieces of the hatted passenger's skull scatter on the floor, the bullets having passed through his mouth to destroy the back of his head. Drones swarm inside like locusts, and the cyborg rushes for his pistol. Passengers scream and duck frantically as agents return fire. The screams sizzle into Quincy’s ears, and his prosthetic fingers tremor as he presses them on the trigger.

He fires, and a drone skids in smoke. He dashes from one of the agents' collapse. Blood bubbles from the corpse’s retina. As more bodies fall, Quincy fires a second round, and his heartbeat accelerates.

The Cartel’s quad drones multiply outside, inundating the train's space, and a shadow creeps over him. He grabs the cadaver’s gear belt hastily, unbuckling it and seizing one of the grenades. Holding his breath, Quincy reaches for the spoon until a wave ignites. A number of quad drones descend, unraveling on the floor.

Quincy heaves himself up to see Hax lower its sparkling tail. The Prowler leaps over to his side. Regardless, the buzzing and commotion continue.

Injured? he asks dully. No.

Removing his shades, Quincy reaches out to Ottoman within his neural interface.

Yes?

The Cartel. Quincy’s throat twists through multiple breaths as he lies, surrounded by the bodies of victims and the flow of blood leaking on the ground. Passengers attempt to scurry their way out of the window. We-we just got ambushed. It’s not going well! We may need evac. Immediately, sir.

Impossible. I got no—

Suddenly an alternative thought crosses him, leaving him pausing, and it only takes three seconds for the connection to cease. The surviving drones invade the car upfront, raining bullets, and two passengers hitting the wall. Their backs slide downward, leaving trails of blood that sullies the glass. Gunfire enters its way into a passenger’s navel, forming a crater that leaves him clutching his stomach, and blood bursts out of his mouth like a putrid fountain. On the other hand, a woman kneels, her cries echoing inside the car’s space, dismayed by the sight of her dog’s headless corpse.

The car quakes from a violent blow, and Quincy’s head vibrates. He skids on impact. Several explosive blows ricochet against the train’s exterior, destroying all motion in the train. Quincy’s heart leaps at the lights dimming inside, finally trapping everyone and him in darkness, let alone the smoke obscuring the car. Vehicle brakes reverberate outside the car. Quincy’s mind swirls.

RPGs. Now, they’ve done it.

The moment Quincy ignites his retina, a band of glowing intruders barrage each of the entrances.

The Virtual throws the grenade only to be rammed down. The explosives from inside the belt slip from his grasp. Pain boils in his stomach. The enforcer raises his hand, but Hax intervenes, leaping and lashing at the enemy’s face. The man throws the Prowler off his shoulder, and Quincy motions for the high energy rifle. Squeezing the trigger, the plasma engulfs the enforcer in a shroud of blue fire, rotting his vest.

However, the enforcer regains his stance, looking upon his prey sharply. Tangerine blood oozes from his bare arms, dripping to the floor. Bones crack inside his muscles. Sweat drips from Quincy’s head.

The Fox drug from within, Quincy ponders.

Clenching his teeth, Quincy fires again, but the enforcer dodges it with ruthless speed. A hand clasps the Virtual’s mouth in a heartbeat, rushing him back. Upon impact his consciousness fades.

QUINCY’S BODY HITS a cold, rocky surface. He opens his eyes halfway to a burn throbbing in his throat, only for him to spit the dirt out his mouth. The agent moves his arms, but they stiffen. Quincy’s temperature drops.

Trembling flat on the dirt, cuffed at the wrists, the cyborg shakes his head as an army of enforcers roams the desert, signaling to each other. Trucks surround the area.

His sight blurring slightly, he eyes a gruff figure, close to six feet and in a brown war vest, stalking behind the bodies of multiple agents. Meanwhile, a surviving comrade in front of him kneels but barely raises her head. Soon that changes when he jolts from a crackling slash. Blood splashes on Quincy’s cheeks.

A man, strikingly familiar to him, stands in the blood of the last executed Virtual. There is a grim shaped scar over the man's eye, closing into the top of his upper lip. Blood drips cleanly from the edge of the captor’s tomahawk. Quincy’s expression turns sour. It doesn’t take long for Paolo to spot the agent’s tension when he raises an eyebrow.

Ah, you’re wide awake, he says as soon as the captive’s head rolls to Quincy’s ankle. Just in time.

Paolo Mendoza, Quincy realizes.

You! Quincy hisses.

Bautista’s train, resting several meters away, lies charred in ruins and surrounded. Screams roar from within the car, and one of the enforcers catches a fleeing young boy by the neck. The child struggles in his grasp, but the effort is futile as the enforcer flings him into the train and seals the exit shut with a brand barrier. Passengers, locked by their wrist, cry out endlessly inside, but their pleas are snubbed.

No. What is this?

"¿Están listos los explosivos?" Paolo calls out in Spanish to his men. Are the explosives set?

One of the enforcers plants a device to the train’s surface, presumably the last one. He gestures a thumbs up.

Confirmed Mendoza, he notifies. ¡Listo para irmos!

¡Okay, a moverse!

Paolo draws the remote from his vest, and his thumb presses the button. Quincy wiggles in a panic. No!

His cries fall flat as a flare radiates, gleaming hotly before him. A chain of flames envelopes the last of what remains of the train. The blaze roars, and its flakes wheeze into the star studded sky.

He puts aside the control, returning his focus to the captive. Mission failure, once again, Paolo rebukes.

No.

Quincy’s mind spins, affecting his vision. His nerves ache.

You cyborgs amaze me with your peace nonsense, he says. The fire fumes in the background, illuminating maliciously over Paolo. His scar glints. Always interfering in business you can’t control. My warning for this couldn’t get cleared.

You won’t get away with this.

Paolo laughs. I already had. The economy will go on, and we will keep it so. But, no matter what you do, I’ll always be reaching the next level. The kingpin snaps his fingers urgently. Saca a este cabrón.

Cartel mercenaries, each darkened by the night’s essence like shadows, lift Quincy upward. The Virtual’s heart freezes. He can't believe it. This has to be a nightmare. He is completely alone, crushed in his apprehension, at the hands of wolves in the desert. At this point, Quincy discovers that any external attempt in aid would be a null effort.

They stop at the edge, where a river flows downward. Quincy’s eyes widen to Paolo strolling behind.

If you survive long enough, he declares, tell Ottoman and the entire fucking American scrap dogs I’m waiting.

The cyborg’s body glides in mid-air and hits the water’s surface. Pain roars in his eyes, and a cold hand decelerates his bloodstream. The density of his body sucks him down until the force of the river’s currents sweeps him away like a scrap in its possession.

Chapter 1

Iridescent lights fluctuate in the night sky, giving color to the cold that reigned in the city of Boston. Skyscrapers gleam as if giving silent acknowledgement to the grand holiday. The transparent dome residing on the edifice’s top surface holds its stance, sheltering the gatherers from the chilling breeze outside. The pentagonal plates define the area.

Seeing the giant bottle of water residing beside the tray of sodas on the wooden table, Troy Levi reaches over with ease. A band of musicians booms smoothly with their trumpets on the podium, as if in insouciance to the officers’ heedlessness, and calmness comes over Troy. However, their jazz is overshadowed by the partygoers chatter, where plenty can be seen gathering in circles chuckling among themselves. The wine in their prosthetic hands creates an aroma that traps itself inside the club, sweetening the air around them. This is their night granted, after all.

See, you’re still not a sugar person, Levi, Taylor remarks. He takes a sip of his coke. Pouring his water into the cup, Troy shakes his head.

The agent looks around him, surrounded by his fellow Virtuals and Martial sitting on the round sofa across from him. The fireworks pop, crackling into his ears.

Cheers for a new year, everyone, Troy comments, feeling his voice trail through the noise. He raises his glass.

Taylor and Jin raise their soda cans, barely abutting each other. Meanwhile, Pitch, being the last to comply, glances strangely at the two. Instead, he raises a silver thumb, joining in awkward unison with the cyborgs.

With the exception of Pitch, Troy’s walked foot with these agents since their recruitment into the FBI’s Virtual Division. With every operation he took part in, Troy watched them evolve and harness their capacity. Their perseverance never failed to remind him of the time he first stepped his foot in, a nascent cyborg once uncertain of the future.

Troy sips his water, and he whistles mist.

Starting off, Troy remarks. He sets down his cup. It’s a shame our veteran Rebecca wasn’t able to attend tonight. But as we prep for this brand new year, I just want to offer my call of recognition.

Jin and Taylor exchange glances, sharing nods.

Troy raises his cup and gestures to his first candidate. Taylor, Troy adulates, you were at first if I can say, a goddamn stubborn one.

Taylor rubs his cap, offering a quizzical expression. The lighting reflects against his skin, which was darker than Troy’s own. In contrast to Taylor, whose prosthetics covered his left arm and lower limb, Troy’s bionic components encased his right arm and left leg. On the other hand, Pitch stares blankly at him, as if waiting for him to implode.

Well, reckless. Even, Troy continues. He retains his earnest expression, but that changes as he says, But I’ve seen you evolve from that over the years, analyzing those mistakes. One by one.

I needed it, Taylor replies as his expression transitions to an assuring smile. Troy lays sight on Jin, who rubs his slanted eyes with his scarf.

Now, Jin. As a starter, you were a bit anxious at first. Weren’t too sure of yourself. But I did get to see you blossom through these operations.

Troy can recall the paleness flooding Jin’s skin as he first stepped foot alongside him in the wilderness of Panama years ago, in pursuit of a recruiter from the Mendoza Cartel. The tension rose, and so did the former rookie’s heartbeat. However, the instant Jin’s bionic hand transmuted and flared into the damp wilderness became the moment Troy saw his potential. It was his first task within the Division, and Troy couldn’t be prouder.

Jin stares downward at his hand, caressing its wrist as if in encouragement to his experiences. His hair had been slightly disheveled brown, now as polished and black as a raven’s feather and lengthened at the top. A diminutive trace of hair peeked above the top of his lip, giving age to his youthful face.

And I’m proud to say, Troy goes on, you overcame it.

A Special robot can be seen in the back motioning to retrieve the empty trays of cups from one of the tables. The robot attempts to make its way to the four, but Troy easily waves his hand, dissuading the Special, and the waiter moves on. Suddenly Troy narrows his focus to Pitch, smiling.

Pitch, Troy says. You may be the Martial. But I got to say: You’re one of those veteran agents that GAVE us that chance to grow in the Division. And here’s something, guys.

The three nod, waiting. Imbibing the last ounce of his water, Troy says, Starting out from recovery, I was a goddamn angry one. I was burning inside for what the Cartel did. Yet I was still in shock.

I mean, we’ve all been in that phase? Taylor remarks.

Yeah. I couldn’t believe where I was. Until you—Pitch and the others showed—

Wait. Pitch signals, interrupting Troy.

The silver Martial stares upward, and his golden digital eyes obscure, as if malfunctioning. Taylor shifts in his seat while Jin’s cheeks redden. Troy grimaces.

Come on. What’s going on?

Hey, Pitch, Troy says dauntingly. Your Apt Brain. Is there something—

Oh, this doesn’t sound good, Pitch says. He lowers his head, facing everyone slowly. His eyes remain tenacious behind the lens, and his reverberating voice carries a strong dullness.

An asylum train was eradicated a day ago.

Hours—a day ago, Troy repeats imminently. The air numbs him. He frowns. The—

Mendoza Cartel, Pitch says flatly.

Taylor burps under his breath. Well, that may have killed my night.

Jin, on the other hand, conceals the red burning on his nose. Such news couldn’t get any perfunctory, yet at the same time, a part of Troy knew this wasn’t to his surprise, coming from the Guatemalan syndicate responsible for the deadliest drug market in Latin America. This Drug War gets worse every year, and the Cartel finds any limit they can break to push the FBI to the edge.

Imagine if Rivers gets his hands on this.

He’s alert, the Martial replies arbitrarily. PMCs of the Jaguars of Apollo were assigned to secure the seekers from Mexico. Until...

How many of them died? Troy asks.

He’s seen plenty of these fellow Virtuals roaming the metropolitan cities in broad daylight, taking in the seats of those who’ve abandoned their purpose wittingly. With their warfare, it was an understatement for the Cartel to deem them underdogs easily exploited. Together, the FBI and JOA were the main allies that were dependent on ending this war.

Not enough information, Pitch replies. The last survivor was an agent. His recovery didn’t last.

Goddamn. This can only get worse.

Aye! a lady’s voice greets. Right on time!

The chilling vibe breaks like a shell shattering into the cube’s exterior, and air whooshes its way inside. Troy’s heart beats to the reminiscent voice behind. Turning his head, Troy catches a human, approximately five-eight in height and suited in a leather coat, approaching his way smoothly on her bronze boot’s heel, which matched the texture of her jeans. She brushes icy dandruff from the side of her black hair, which was laced with a tinge of an auric shade. Her round earrings dangle gently on her ears, and the Dome’s lighting reflects on it. She smiles, waving fervidly.

So, you’ve finally made it.

Alana! Troy greets. Welcome!

The Virtual finds himself beaming at Alana Torres' arms wrapping around his neck. His blood warms to her embrace and salubrious whiff. Troy skids, and Alana motions to an open space on the sofa, sitting close to him. She puts her purse on her lap.

Mind? Troy questions the three agents lightly.

He sees Taylor beckon her almost flirtatiously with his glass, his grin mirroring at its surface.

She’s... human, Jin comments gauchely. A smile wobbles nervously on his lips upon locking eyes on Troy’s longtime companion.

Alana holds back her laugh, but it blossoms out either way. Gloss glimmers over her lips, and the color dims, giving a pristine sight to her light olive skin.

Well, guys. And yeah, Jin, Troy acknowledges. He gives Alana a glance. Special invite. This is Alana. We’ve known each other for a long time. Good company.

Alana Torres and he had held a deep camaraderie since Boston University, as colleagues, back when he was just as equal to the majority in nature. In times where bonds easily fade to dust, Troy was, without doubt, thankful for this. Even as he underwent his involuntary initiation into the FBI’s Virtual Division, she never turned her back on him. At times she stuck her nose out for him randomly from afar during his operations. For that, though she was no native to his home in Boston, Alana was a special kind of human.

Yeah! Alana complies. She looks at Troy, rubbing his shoulder. We’ve been tight companions since BU! And I usually like to say to y’all. I’m from Miami, but this is like a second home to me now.

The group hums in approbation. Pitch nods as if bearing eyes at a piece of motionless stone.

Removing his winter cap, Troy clasps his hands, and his steely palm numbs. You guys are definitely free to take a stretch. He gestures to Alana. I’ll be giving her a tour.

Troy’s nerves vibrate, spreading a ringing sensation in his head. That is until he glances at Taylor.

Should be fun, Taylor’s voice utters musingly within Troy’s neural interface. His mouth barely moves.

Troy flashes a casual grin in return before moving on. The Virtual and Alana motion to the Dome’s glass, marveling at its byzantine texture. Fireworks continue to splash in the sky, and Troy can witness the train of colors descend in Alana’s hazel pupils like a rainbow showering down.

No wishes for this year? he asks. Troy’s dreadlocks, styled in a ponytail, sway freely behind his neck. The Dome’s lighting gives a small shine to the white, simplistic, fire emblem on the posterior of his gray bionic hand. His left human fingers flex on the railing.

Alana tilts her head, placing her fingers gently upon the plate’s glass. Naw. Same old shit every year. I mean... She moves her gaze toward her Virtual companion, who stood in his towering frame over her. Smiling, she undoes her coat’s buttons, giving air to her cold shoulder sweater, decorated in blue tribal prints giving semblance to Aztec aesthetics.

To be honest, she says, I am only relieved you're still in one piece.

I’m not too easily broken, Alana.

Alana reaches her hand over, caressing his back. A Special makes its way toward the two, handing over a fresh glass of juice in the direction of Alana. She winces to the pixels glinting in its lens, but Troy simply beckons in reassurance.

She’ll like it, Troy voices into the robot’s Apt Brain.

Oh, that for me? she remarks, flabbergasted. Damn, you are so wonderful.

She takes the drink lightly. Sipping, she turns her focus to Troy again. Somehow her expression turns ominous.

Aye, she continues, heard something deep went down at Mexico,

Troy’s eyes widen, nonplussed by her sharp awareness. The tension creeps in his chest again.

So, she knows.

Yeah, he says. I was told.

Family was telling me. Alana drinks her juice in full, forming a bubble in both her cheeks before it subsides. She steps close to Troy. They are actually saying the drug lord, he,  himself called it down.

Goddamn, he says chillingly. If that’s true, you’re way ahead of us.

He anticipated more detail behind this incident, but it turns out this one is one step forward. Several more to go, and everything will be wholly grim.

Troy rubs his left eye, attempting to suppress the eeriness behind this incident. He returns focus to what’s outside, and Alana follows. The two remain close. She taps his hand eagerly, locking his attention to fixed-winged planes gliding above. Its propellers glisten in the clouds like a butterfly embracing its newfound capability to explore the skies, and the nocturnal scenery plays itself out for the two.

Chapter 2

Bethesda, Maryland

Eva Moreci looms curiously near the frozen stream, analyzing the three deer roaming the field across from her. She sits at the boulder, crossing her bionic legs comfortably as she reaches for her whiteboard.

She dips her fingertip into the paint box, feeling her prosthetic bones vibrate as she paints over the first antler.

The sun shines dully, obscured by the clouds above. Snow spills from one of the tree barks before being blown by the air’s gush. The stream remains rigid as concrete, and vapor breezes from the surface.

Her scarf wraps tightly over her neck, but the inhibitors in her body were enough to warm her blood. Mist whistles from her nose as she brushes the paint meticulously. She looks up closely and finds one of the deer exchanging glances with her. Her reflection shines behind its pitch black eyes, as if the creature is eager to know what she’s concealing. The crosshairs in her eyes zoom toward the creature. Naively, Eva gestures her finger over its head, and her cheeks blush.

Don’t be scared, she whispers.

She may not be as fond of this season, but nature never failed to amaze her. Her hometown of Bethesda is home to parks like this which gave her that chance to embrace its beauty, and she basked in its tranquility since she was young. To her, the best kind of art came from solitude.

She sees the paint gradually stiffen, and Eva dabs her tongue at her index, moistening the paint. Before proceeding, she arches her shoulders to a child’s yelp. The deer scatter to a group of young boys tossing snowballs obnoxiously, hoping to get a hit, until an adult intervenes, waving off their indecorous demeanor. Eva stares down at her incomplete artwork, rolling her eyes.

Well, that killed it. No thanks to them.

How irksome can one be to disturb an entire space just for attention? The question speaks for itself when her smartphone vibrates, and she reaches for it reluctantly. She witnesses the contact’s identity, and her chest freezes.

Director Wayne?

Moreci, her director acknowledges deeply. Greetings!

Director, she replies, shocked. Glancing in both directions fastidiously, Eva sets it on speaker. Same.

She attempts to slant her art piece against a wooden log, only to bite her lip deeply upon the paint drizzling freshly like teardrops. What a pity.

I may be curtailing your creativity there, officer, Wayne comments randomly.

Eva winces, stunned to hear such a coincidental remark until she realized Wayne had usually been the person to know her routine outside his office at Langley.

He continues, But now this is a significant report I’m uncovering for your benefit.

What’s the situation, sir?

The phone rests on her lap. A screech echoes in the phone line until sound normalizes.

Month ago, he continued. To refresh your memory, a grave incident at an asylum train took place. Or I can term it the Bautista Train Ambush. The Mendoza Cartel tested our patience... Bodies were recovered on sight, even from our allies from Herndon. No survivors.

Oh no, Eva says grimly. The air darkens around her, and it wraps around her shoulders. Where...where was this again?

Ciudad de México. Unfortunately, the Jaguars of Apollo were hit deeply, and the CEO Ottoman’s in serious need.

Jaguars of Apollo.

Wait. Those are the private military contractors.

Her mind jiggles as if recollecting pictures buried inside storage for decades. The Jaguars of Apollo, a state-of-the-art PMC recruiting cyborgs with military or agency experience as contractors, shared in the federal government’s grievances in the Drug War. Calling it a mere company was slight thinking; their stations were situated over Central and South America just to combat the Cartel’s dominance, which spread like locusts. She owed them for recovering her fellow officers from death’s hands many times. As civility dwindled in the Latin countries, she remembered the Jaguars of Apollo declaring it their mission to get as many asylum seekers out of Latin America with no question.

That’s correct. Now the kingpin, Paolo Mendoza... we found he was present. In response, all agencies decided on the union in targeting and bringing forth the drug lord in El Salvador.

Eva frowns. He can be anywhere.

The past never fails to rear its head. So many operatives over the years went out of their way in hunting down the kingpin, only to come up missing or anguished. Worse is when someone is like herself, a Virtual.

Our sightings are firm, Moreci.

The phone’s surface warms against her cybernetic thigh, followed by a brief silence.

Apologies, Wayne excuses. FBI will be down immediately to find the kingpin. We, the CIA...our target—your target’s Dante Guzman.

Eva gazes silently at the breeze unfolding in the park field, absorbing the exiguous detail like juice.

Welcome to Operation Jackal, Moreci. Guzman’s a rogue Salvadoran politician for the Cartel’s mission. He’s played a big effort in destabilizing the PMC, up to now. Your Division’s put the trust in your hands to dispatch him.

No question, she says firmly.

I know you can. More detail, it’s best you come to our HQ. My Agent Salazar will be pleased to see you. Wayne signing out.

The phone’s light cuts, and Eva sets a hand over the screen. Eva glances at her artwork resting on the log, still halfway done. Sighing, she rises and reaches for it. As much as she yearned, it was extraneous for her lingering any longer in this park at this point. So much to get done. Eva should’ve been more apprehensive about the foreign reports last month. Hopefully, her anticipation for Salazar will placate these concerns.

ENTERING THE HEADQUARTERS, Eva stumbles upon dense silence, minus the security explicating behind the desk a few feet. She removes her scarf and cap, freely throwing back her black wavy hair that was at length to her shoulder. She takes off her gloves, giving visibility to the colored pigments decorated on her bionic hands. The Virtual folds her right cybernetic palm, which was entwined with her organic arm, an element nonexistent in her fully augmented left limb. Pores manifest on the right palm’s knuckles.

The warmness embraced her like an angelic tune from the clouds, freeing the Virtual from the cold, and the red diminishes from her fair skin. Her footsteps reverberate in the lobby.

She comes across a human visitor with a sling bag motioning past her hurriedly. He glances down at her briefly, somehow with question, before raising an eyebrow and going his own way in the right direction. Eva frowns.

What’s his deal?

The silence breaks to a whistle, and Eva halts. She opens her eyes to a tall android, armored in black, waving from behind the security pools. Its eyes gleam gold excitedly.

Rip! she calls out. Eva rubs a finger to her ear, perturbed by the sound, but she smiles. Pleasure. But, don’t do that next time!

Can’t help it, officer, the Martial remarks.

Eva’s team consisted of two other cyborgs, but Rip was a special kind, the only Martial to serve under her supervision. Regardless of his irksome habits, his presence never fails to shine a light when darkness makes way for the Virtuals. In fact, Virtuals and Martials were, without question, kindred spirits on purpose.

She taps her head, catching an idea click inside instantly. Oh! Is Soriana—I mean, Salazar upstairs—

I believe she’s—

Here.

The Martial makes way and pardons himself to a uniformed officer standing on top of the corridors. The agent beckons toward it, and the android motions up the stairs, leaving the two aside. The Virtual’s mouth opens upon glancing at her former mentor.

Moreci, she greets amicably. Good. I’ve just mentioned you recently.

Waving to the guard at the desk, Soriana breezes her way easily through the poles, and the lobby lighting shines at her cheekbones. The human officer’s heels click with every motion. Standing six inches shorter than Eva, she brushed the sleeve of her sky blue blazer to which she wore over her matching collar shirt and pants. Small silver diamonds gleam on her ears. Her long dark brown hair, which held the shade of a dark walnut in tantamount to her slight owl-like eyes, was laced with a small auric clip to the side.

Good day, boss— She fumbles in her speech. I mean, Soriana. Yes.

To someone who watched over her until her near-death accident and initiation into the CIA’s Virtual Clandestine Ops Division, it’s so easy at times for Eva to fall in the habit of calling Soriana boss. She still vividly remembers that operation, Soriana rushing her out of a collapsing edifice, rigged with explosives by the Mendoza Cartel’s financial backers. Her eyes went bloodshot with shock for hours, and she was only a tyro operative then. Nonetheless, she had Soriana to thank for giving her that leeway to adapt to the malicious climate that brewed in Latin America. Though she may be a cyborg, Eva was like a sister to her.

Beaming, the Virtual nears, reaching and beckoning the officer with a tap on the shoulder. Soriana smiles, with the Stila Beso’s red shade gleaming visibly on her lips as she did, and the air between them warms.

Over thirty, and I can tell you’re still looking sharp, Soriana remarks.