At the Dawn of Tomorrow

By Alexandre ottoveggio

John Levin, an ex veteran who has since become a bounty hunter, currently resides on the planet Neptune. He is employed by the Kingdom, a supreme power that exerts control over both cyborgs and humans throughout the galaxies. John has been tasked with a mission to travel to Earth, where he must apprehend a rebellious leader and return them to the Neptune planet However, his task will be intricate as he will encounter betrayal and fierce battles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandre ottoveggio
• Release date: Apr 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224610471

Alexandre ottoveggio

Alexandre Ottoveggio is a French-Italian actor stuntman Screenwriter, and writer who was born in Casablanca. He started working in the film industry when he was sixteen Years old and worked on Hollywood films. His work has won multiple awards for its unique storytelling style, attention to detail, and ability to capture the essence of human emotions. His directing has taken him to many countries, including Sweden The United States, Morocco, and other countries, as he has Developed work in independent cinema. As a writer his writing is cinematic, blending fiction and Reality, carrying the reader through a unique experience, and Broadening their horizons.

Book preview

AT THE DAWN OF TOMORROW

Chapter 1 / The Mission

John Levin surveyed the shadow-draped room, his silhouette a Stark contrast against the gleaming arsenal that lay before him.

The air hung heavy with the scent of oil and metal, the quiet Hum of the city's decay seeping through the walls. Each weapon Was a familiar companion in the solitude of his chosen path.

He picked up his laser pistol, fingers tracing the cool, sleek Barrel.

Never let me down, he murmured, a whisper lost amidst the Silence.

His thumb flicked the magazine release with a satisfying click.

Full. He slammed it home with a practiced motion, the sound Sharp in the stillness. Every round promised precision, a dance Of light and destruction for those who dared challenge the order He imposed.

John's grip tightened. The scars etched into his flesh were maps Of battles past, yet his resolve never wavered. Eyes, steely and Focused, reflected a man shaped by conflict, hardened by necessity.

Tonight would be no different. The city waited, its chaotic Heart beating to the rhythm of survival.

He holstered the pistol, the magnetic clasp engaging with a soft Thud against his thigh. Ready.

His mission awaited, a siren call to the warrior within. Duty Beckoned John Levin once more into the fray.

2.

John cinched the bulletproof vest around his torso, its fabric Hugging his muscles, a second skin of survival.

He exhaled, the weight anchoring him to reality—a reality where Flesh and blood were cheap, shielded only by Kevlar and resolve.

Protection or coffin, he grunted, adjusting the straps.

The vest pressed against him, its presence a grim promise that Danger loomed as surely as night followed day.

His gaze shifted, catching the soft glow of the holographic map.

It flickered, casting azure light across the room's bare walls.

Points pulsed on the projection: red for replicant cyborgs Yellow for insurgent humans. He studied the blinking nodes, each A potential confrontation, each a step on the path he must tread.

East End... too quiet lately, he muttered, tracing a route With a finger that left no mark upon the intangible terrain.

Ripe for trouble.

He leaned closer, his shadow merging with the topography of Chaos projected before him.

The map detailed ruins and remnants of a once-thriving Metropolis, now a maze of peril.

A crease formed on his brow as he plotted a silent course Through the city, a hunter's path, solitary and precise.

Time to hunt, John whispered, the map dissolving into Darkness.

His mission was clear; his resolve, steel. The night beckoned And with it, the certainty of conflict.

John's hand hovered, then descended. Fingers wrapped around the

3.

Goggles lying dormant on the scarred table. They were sleek, a Mesh of carbon fiber and microcircuitry, designed to slice Through darkness and deceit.

As he lifted them, the room's dim light caught on their lenses Casting prismatic flares that danced briefly across the walls.

Time to see the unseen, he murmured, the words barely escaping His lips. He slid the goggles over his eyes, the world Immediately sharpening into focus. Data streamed into his Vision—a cascade of infrared signatures, probability vectors Biometric readouts—all superimposed upon the stark reality of His surroundings. A ghostly overlay that revealed the hidden Truths of his environment.

With a blink, he calibrated the display; the information now Tailored to his intent, a silent companion whispering secrets Only he could perceive.

He turned next to his utility belt. Each pouch, each loop was an Ally in the arsenal against uncertainty. His fingers traced the Worn leather before gripping the handle of his knife, its blade Honed to a lethal edge. The metal sang softly as he slid it home Within its sheath, a symphony of readiness.

Never know when you'll need to cut through more than just air

He said, securing the fastening with a decisive click. Pliers Wire cutters, and a compact multi-tool followed, each finding Their designated place. The belt settled around his waist, a Familiar weight that anchored him in the here and now.

His preparations complete, John stood motionless for a moment, a Statue carved from purpose and past regrets. Then he moved, a

4.

Shadow slipping through the fractured remains of what once was Toward the uncertain promise of what must be done.

John inhaled, the air cold and sharp in his lungs. His chest Expanded with the weight of resolve. Eyes closed for a brief Moment, he summoned the image of the chaos these threats had Sown cyborgs and rebels, each a tear in the fabric of a kingdom He vowed to mend.

Focus, he murmured, the word a mantra against the fear that Clawed at the edge of his thoughts. This was more than a hunt; It was a crusade to carve order from the bedlam that had become This world.

He stepped through the doorway, the barrier between preparation And execution. The streets greeted him with silence, a haunting Echo of abandoned hopes. Rubble crunched beneath his boots, a Whisper in the vast emptiness.

Above, drones sliced the sky, their presence as oppressive as The desolation around him. Their cameras swiveled, unblinking Eyes that never slept. John tilted his face upward Acknowledging their silent vigil with a hardened gaze. Watch Me, he challenged under his breath, knowing full well they would.

The scent of decay hung heavy, a pungent reminder of what lay lost. It mingled with the metallic tang of his own anticipation A cocktail of adrenaline forged in the fires of too many battles Past.

With each step, John's shadow stretched across the cracked Asphalt, a dark specter moving with singular purpose.

5.

He advanced, his heart the drumbeat to which the ruins kept Time—a bounty hunter cloaked not just in armor, but in the Mantle of his mission.

John snaked his way through the labyrinth of decay, each turn a Calculated risk. Buildings loomed like skeletons, their walls Riddled with the scars of conflict. His boots found silent Purchase on the debris-strewn ground, a dance of shadows and Dust. Eyes scanned the dark crevices, ears tuned to the Slightest aberration in the quietude that blanketed the city.

He paused, a flicker of movement catching his attention.

A rustle, a whisper of displaced air—the city spoke in hushed Tones to those who listened. John's fingers brushed the grip of His laser pistol, a cold comfort against the uncertainty of the Ruins.

Rounding the corner, time slowed. The clash unfolded before Him—an erratic ballet of aggression and survival. Replicant Cyborgs stood poised, their synthetic muscles coiled, eyes Glowing with artificial life. Across from them, humans Brandished their weapons, defiance etched into every line of Their weary faces.

Stand down! One human bellowed, voice slicing through the Tension.

Impossible, returned a cyborg, its voice devoid of emotion, an Echo from a hollow chest.

The air bristled with the charge of impending violence, a Current that ran beneath the surface of both flesh and metal.

John's presence went unnoticed, a ghost amidst the standoff. He

6.

Assessed the scene, the gears of strategy whirring in his mind.

Last warning, the human said, finger trembling on the trigger.

Your threats are inconsequential, replied the cyborg, stance unyielding.

John edged closer, the distance closing with each silent step.

His hand steady, his resolve firmer than the concrete underfoot.

This was the world he navigated—a place where the line between Man and machine had blurred into obscurity, where every Encounter could be your last.

He was ready.

The standoff shattered with a spark. John Levin, silent in his Approach, became a tempest. His laser pistol flared to life Spitting beams of coalesced light that cut through the twilight Gloom. Each pull of the trigger was deliberate, each target Falling under his seasoned gaze.

Down! He shouted to the rebels, voice rough with command.

The humans scrambled, finding cover behind the remnants of a Crumbled wall.

Cyborgs staggered, their advanced circuitry sizzling beneath Precise shots. Synthetic skin charred, revealing the metallic Skeletons beneath. John moved methodically, conserving motion And ammunition—a predator amidst the fray.

Gunfire resonated, a cacophony that filled the void between Buildings. Screams of wounded rebels harmonized with the Electronic whines of damaged cyborgs. Smells of ozone and iron Mingled, stinging nostrils and throats.

7.

Push them back! One rebel cried, emboldened by John's Intervention.

Retaliate, a cyborg commanded, its voice a digital snarl.

John sidestepped a returning volley, his vest absorbing the Impact of a stray shot. He recalibrated, firing again.

Cyborg limbs detached, wires sparking like fireworks against the Darkening sky.

Keep firing! The rebels' determination swelled, their shots More confident now.

The street became a canvas of conflict, painted with bursts of Energy and the desperation of survival. John Levin, caught in The storm he had unleashed, was a force of retribution—cold Efficient, unstoppable.

John's pulse thundered in his ears, a drumbeat keeping time with The staccato rhythm of gunfire. He ducked low, weaving through The chaos, his body remembering old dances of war. Each step was Measured, each breath a calculation.

Left flank! he barked, and the rebels shifted, their movements Echoing his urgency. Their guns roared in response to his Command.

A cyborg loomed before him, its optical sensors gleaming with Artificial malice. John pivoted, laser pistol finding its mark.

The machine stumbled, circuits frying, collapsing into a heap of Twitching metal.

Advance! The word tore from his throat, raw and commanding.

The rebels surged forward, emboldened by the fall of their Metallic foes. They fought with a ferocity born of necessity

8.

Their cries painting the air with the colors of rebellion.

Another cyborg fell, taken down by a well-placed shot from John's unerring hand. Its synthetic voice cut short, its threat Extinguished.

Push them! John's call rallied the rebels’ spirits, their Volleys intensifying. They closed ranks, an impassioned tide Against the cold wave of their enemies.

One by one, the remaining cyborgs faltered under the onslaught.

Sparks flew, steel bodies crumpled. The battlefield quieted Save for the panting breaths of human victors.

Clear! A rebel’s voice rang out, tentative at first, then Swelling with triumph.

Check the wounded! John commanded, holstering his weapon. His Gaze swept the scene, lingering on each fallen comrade and foe Alike.

Cheers erupted among the survivors, a chorus rising amidst the Ruins. They clapped each other on the back, relief etched into Their dirt-streaked faces.

Good work, John said, nodding to the rebels. His voice was Steady, but his eyes betrayed the toll of the skirmish.

They gathered their injured, the living tending to the living.

John stood among them, a sentinel still vigilant, his resolve as Unyielding as the concrete beneath their feet.

The city loomed silent around them, a monolith to decay. John's Boots crunched on the rubble-strewn ground as he stepped away From the huddle of rebels. They were patching wounds, salvaging What they could from their fallen adversaries. The air reeked of

9.

Burnt metal and blood.

Levin, one called out, we wouldn't have made it without you.

John's reply was a terse nod. There was no time for Sentiment—not when danger lurked in every shadow, every pile of Debris that was once a skyscraper's spine. His gaze swept across The horizon, the skeletal remains of buildings piercing the sky Like grave markers.

He pulled the goggles down over his eyes. Data streamed across His vision—maps, heat signatures, an overlay of the world as it Once was. A ghostly echo. His jaw set firm; he thumbed off the Historical view. Nostalgia was a luxury he couldn't afford.

A wind picked up, stirring the ashes of yesterday’s world. It Whispered of the desolation, of the control that had slipped Through humanity's fingers. John felt it against his skin, cold And unyielding as the path that stretched before him.

More will come, he said, his voice carrying over the murmur of The gathered fighters. His words were not a warning but a Pronouncement. Inevitability hung in the air, heavy as the guns They carried.

Then we'll be ready, a rebel shouted back, defiance lacing his Tone. Others echoed the sentiment, a rough chorus of resolve.

John didn't join in. He turned his back on them, facing the Wilderness of concrete and steel. His finger traced the line of His knife's handle at his belt—a familiar sensation, grounding.

He let out a slow breath, feeling it catch against the filter Mask that shielded his lungs from the taint of the world.

Ready... He tasted the word, finding its flavor lacking. No

10.

One was ever truly ready. But prepared? That, he could manage.

He started walking, his steps measured, his eyes scanning Always scanning. The drone of surveillance craft drifted faintly From above, a reminder that even the sky was no longer theirs.

John did not flinch. He moved as part of this landscape, a Figure born of its chaos.

This fight was a ripple in a larger storm. And John Levin—the Hunter, the human, the harbinger—would ride the gale, steadfast In his mission to forge order from ruin.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow On the briefing room's concrete walls. Commander Harris stood Rigid, his silhouette slicing through the dimness as he Addressed John Levin. Levin, he began, his voice low and Gravelly, Luc Storm. He's your target.

John's boots anchored him to the floor, his posture betraying Nothing of his thoughts. The air was heavy, charged with the Weight of the mission. Storm's the head of the resistance,

Harris continued, punctuating each word with a tap of his finger On the digital file projected in the air between them. He's Stirring up too much trouble. Must be contained.

Understood, John replied, his tone flat but resolute.

The assignment was clear: capture Luc Storm or face the Kingdom's merciless retribution.

Harris's eyes narrowed. Don't underestimate him. He's not just A thorn in our side; he's the kind of weed that strangles Empires.

Failure is not an option. John's words sliced through the

11.

Tension. His gaze remained locked on the hazy image of Luc Storm Suspended in holographic light, a ghostly specter of rebellion.

Good. Then get it done, Harris concluded, the finality in his Voice echoing off the walls.

As Harris strode out, leaving shadows to reclaim the space, John Stood alone. His eyes, cold and hard, reflected a past littered With battles — scars etched not only on his skin but deep Within. He took a breath, accepting the silence like a shroud And turned on his heel to leave.

No hesitation. No fear. Only the mission. And the silent Understanding that should he falter, the cyborg enforcers would Not.

The door hissed shut behind John Levin, sealing him inside the Briefing room. Faint light from the holo screens flickered Across Commander Harris's stern features as he turned to address His subordinate.

Levin, Harris began, voice carrying the weight of unspoken Threats, you are tasked with apprehending Luc Storm.

John stood motionless, his silhouette carved from the shadows.

The commander's words echoed in the sparsely furnished chamber A stark reminder of the chaos brewing beyond its walls.

Storm is the linchpin, Harris continued, the voice rallying The masses to rebellion. He must be stopped.

A projector whirred to life, casting the image of Luc Storm onto A crude concrete canvas — the face of defiance. Harris's finger Stabbed at the air, tracing the outline of the rebel leader.

12.

His capture is paramount. The stability of our regime depends On it.

John's gaze remained fixed on Storm's image, his eyes two dark Pools reflecting a history of conflict and loss. They betrayed Nothing of his thoughts, but the set of his jaw spoke volumes.

Understood, he said, his voice betraying no tremor, no hint of Doubt.

Failure is not an option, Harris added, leaning forward, the Light glancing off his insignia. You know what awaits should You falter. The enforcers are unforgiving.

Consider it done, John replied, the words slicing through the Tension in the room.

Harris nodded once, sharply, a gesture that dismissed both John And any further conversation. The room's stillness settled Heavily around them as John turned on his heel, his steps Measured and soundless against the cold floor.

With each stride away from the commander, John felt the burden Of the mission settle upon his shoulders, a familiar weight.

He exited the briefing room without looking back, the door Sliding closed with a finality that mirrored the gravity of the Task ahead.

The door slid shut behind John Levin with a hush, sealing him Inside the confines of his apartment. The room was small, the Space clogged with relics of his past pursuits and the ongoing War against disorder. He moved through it with purpose, each Step an echo of discipline.

John's hands, coarse and steady, ran over the sleek surface of

13.

His pistol. His fingers disassembled it with practiced ease Inspecting every component. The metallic scent of gun oil Lingered in the air as he worked, rebuilding the weapon to its Deadly whole. The muscles in his arms flexed under the fabric of His shirt, honed from years of service now channeled into a Solitary crusade. His short-cropped hair bristled as he leaned Forward, scrutinizing the alignment of