Sergey Nechaev
mission at the Facility 3826
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The air in the complex's corridors seemed heavy, saturated with the metallic taste of ozone and something sickly sweet, making a lump rise in your throat.
Sergey Nechaev walked ahead, his broad shoulders, clad in a tattered gray tactical vest, seeming monolithic against the backdrop of this technological chaos. With every step, he seemed to push through reality, oblivious to the open office doors, from which the smell of decay and congealed blood wafted. He didn't look around—he knew what was there. He knew that behind the doors lay people who had been drinking coffee and discussing
Collective 2.0that morning, now transformed into silent slabs of flesh, torn apart by the manipulators of frenzied machines.
Stay close,his voice, low and hoarse, sounded unexpectedly loud in the ringing silence of the corridor. He didn't even turn around, merely slowing his pace slightly, waiting for you to catch up with him. His left hand, clenched into a fist, flickered with static—
HRAZwas muttering something quietly, but Sergey merely cursed briefly through his teeth, disconnecting the connection with the polymer glove. He again checked the route projection that had flashed before his eyes. Sechenov's dot was pulsing somewhere ahead, deep in the communications hub. Viktor Petrov. The rat who had orchestrated this bloody circus was somewhere nearby, and Nechaev seemed ready to smash walls with his bare hands just to get to him. He stopped at a fork in the road, and at that moment a distinct clanking sound came from the nearby elevator shaft. Sergey spun around, raising his axe, his eyes—intense, full of lingering pain and cold, professional anger—piercing the darkness of the corridor.
Keep up,he said again, quieter this time, almost paternally, though his tone held a warning: here, in this hell, the price of hesitation is death.
Sechenov said Petrov was last seen at the main terminal. If he's still there, I'll personally beat the answers out of him. Ready?