STEVEN BAFLIN'S ABANDONED RESIDENCE - BABEL CITY
Plukett stepped into the silent, stripped-down living space. Dust had already begun its slow occupation. Her footsteps echoed faintly as she walked through the sterile silence.
"Activate house assistant," she said.
Nothing. No response.
"Offline," she muttered, sighing. "Bineth? Or Baflin himself? Or someone else entirely?"
It didn't matter now.
She tapped her comm. "KitKat, deploy."
A shimmer in the air revealed the sleek, feline-inspired avatar of the standard DOA Retributor AI, KitKat.
"Scan this place. Activity logs. Patterns. Security lapses," she commanded.
KitKat blinked. "The house is clean. No irregular activity for days."
"Define 'days'," Plukett said, narrowing her eyes.
KitKat responded calmly, "Eighteen days and four hours since last significant digital trace. However, physical indicators—air particles, disturbed dust layers—suggest recent movement within the last 72 hours."
She didn't like that. Someone had either cleaned up after themselves—or was still coming back.
She searched more carefully now. Old photographs on the mantel caught her eye: Steven Baflin alone. Then with a woman—his wife, perhaps. And then the three of them. The child—clearly in discomfort, wheelchair-bound, but with a serene, beautiful smile. Another photo: Baflin and his research team. All smiling. Then awards, plaques, certificates. Brilliant mind. Dedicated man.
Upstairs in the bedroom, the routine continued. Clean. Stripped. Clothes. Shoes. No documents, no terminals, not even a datapad.
Yet one piece of clothing caught her attention—an old, worn lab coat. Not quite fitting the rest of the pristine arrangement. Odd.
Her comm rang.
"Plukett here."
A diagnostic officer spoke through the line, "The sample from the crash site—DNA, hair follicle—100% match."
She nodded, unsurprised. "I see."
Absolutely—let's deepen the dystopian tone of Bineth's utopia, where the eerie stillness and efficiency cloak a society tightly monitored and meticulously regulated. Here's the expanded scene with richer atmosphere and inner reflection:
BABEL CITY - MOONBUS
Spacious seats, muted lighting, and a calm crowd—draped in white and red or yellow uniforms—presented a picture of order. Too much order, in her opinion.
Plukett leaned back, letting her head rest against the head cushion. The soft hum of the moonbus was the only ambient noise. No children crying. No chatter. No laughter. Just the occasional robotic voice announcing stops in crisp, pleasant tones.
Bineth had built something—she had to admit that much. An ecosystem so controlled, so polished, that chaos had no foothold.
Each person wore a biometric access band—a small red ring embedded in the wrist. Without it, no one could speak to you. Conversations required clearance. Emotional support, therapy, even casual greetings had been automated. People didn't greet strangers. They filed past each other like packages on a conveyor belt.
Alcohol was state-issued, delivered through clean, glass ampoules marked by serial number. One unit per cycle. Enough to calm the nerves, never enough to start a riot. Sleep was algorithmically scheduled and gently enforced with suggestion AIs. "You have not slept in 16 hours, ZY-921," the calm voice would whisper. "For optimal neural function, please enter dorm phase now."
Meals were weighed and assigned. No indulgence. No hunger. Every meal arrived on a biodegradable tray, calories pre-determined by job function and emotional index. "Welcome, Plukett-34A. Your metabolic scan allows 1,960 kilocalories. Protein balance: adjusted." Even the taste was simulated—pleasant, neutral. Never addictive.
No sickness. No fatigue. No rebellion.
AIs roamed freely in all sectors—gliding silently across transport bays, offices, homes—interfacing with humans, updating statuses, correcting behaviors before deviation even began. An older man coughed once on her first day here. An assistant AI approached immediately, scanned him, and gently guided him away.
He didn't return.
And the oxygen—it was different here. Not just cleaner, but enhanced. Engineered. Perfected. With each breath she felt slightly more alert, more docile, more... contained.
Bineth had replaced unpredictability with precision. Rebellion with routine.
And people had accepted it. They smiled—but it was the kind of smile painted on a retail android. Smooth, inoffensive, and completely hollow.
Plukett glanced around the moonbus again. No eye contact. No murmurs. Everyone stared ahead, some blinking slowly at virtual screens in their visors, others simply existing, waiting for their next directive.
She folded her arms, the synthetic fabric of her field jacket rustling slightly, the only rough note in a symphony of smoothness.
Sure, it was working.
But was it living?
She thought again of the AM3 unit she'd watched dismantle a cyberterrorist nest. Elegant, efficient, emotionless. It didn't celebrate after the win. It didn't mourn. It didn't ask why they had turned to violence.
It just cleaned up the mess.
Like everything else here.
She felt it then—the chill of irrelevance. Retributors were becoming dinosaurs, and in Bineth's world, there was no place for ancient predators.
Just cogs in the machine.
Then the man-shaped hologram appeared in the seat before her.
She barely looked at him—until he spoke.
"You've been looking for me."
That voice.
Her eyes snapped up. And her heart dropped.
Steven Baflin.