He had to synchronize a plan with Kiwi so that no one would notice his brief absence from the factory during his effort to complete the dimensional task he had accepted, all while avoiding the surveillance circuit of cameras and the fake eyes of the supervisors.
First challenge?
Children couldn't leave the factory. For many reasons—and most of them were awful—especially considering that the factory's profits were prioritized over their safety.
Although, if they really cared about their safety, they'd at least give them better food.
Many of their "elders" were living examples (if their withered minds and personalities could still be considered that) of what happened when you went through the most critical stages of mental and physical development subsisting on empty calories of dubious origin in a hostile environment.
Their solution?
Lock himself in the bathroom with a severe case of indigestion!
It was actually quite natural for those who didn't follow their proper diet. At least half the workers, regardless of age, ended up spending two days a week that way.
There were even plants that emitted unpleasant smells, blending perfectly with that environment, so after locking the door from the inside, Faelan made several of them bloom to help sell the idea that he was unwell.
In half an hour, Kiwi would "notice" his absence and come check on him, gaining another half hour on the logs after carrying out a conversation that never happened.
Faelan reviewed everything once again.
"Alright, here we go."
He closed his eyes and focused.
Moments later, his body and clothes began to disintegrate into beautiful emerald butterflies that rose toward the industrial vents, slipping past laser lines meant to detect leaks or intruders until they reached the outside. From there, they quickly made use of nearby cover to move beyond the factory walls.
On the security room monitors, only a few unimportant light flares were visible—assuming the surveillance officer wasn't asleep, again.
The butterflies regrouped behind a metal container covered in graffiti, and Faelan took shape once more, quickly steadying himself against the metal surface while regaining his balance, thrown off by the transition.
"I hate this dizziness," he muttered to himself with a groan as he made sure no one was around—no people, no cameras. "At least I didn't throw up this time."
This druidic ability to become ethereal butterflies had only been used twice since he was born in this world—too flashy to use often. And due to lack of practice, it felt like coming out of a centrifuge.
But the sensation was only temporary, and the negative effects diminished with each attempt. He hoped that after a dozen or two uses, he wouldn't have to worry about emptying his stomach anymore.
If someone saw him, they might've thought he was a hologram or something like that.
He was still far from needing to think about such details.
Making sure his hood was in place and that his sunglasses were still intact, he got his bearings and began walking toward the mother and daughter's residence. Running would only make him stand out like a spotlight, attracting the interest of bored people—especially when he didn't have someone chasing or shooting at him.
It'd be like shouting: "I might be carrying something valuable, come rob me!"
"Alright, now to solve the second problem," he thought, as his gaze drifted over various drunks, homeless people, junkies, or scum too caught up in their stim-dances to notice anything. "I need a few safety measures in case Galina's motto is 'shoot first, ask questions later'—which is pretty standard among the city's survivors."
He couldn't do this inside the factory—it would have drawn too much attention—and he thought it might be difficult to find suitable candidates for it. But apparently, he'd still been thinking too highly of this dumpster fire.
The eyes behind the sunglasses flickered as Faelan silently selected several people on the street while walking toward his destination, each one shivering slightly from an unknown cause as Faelan "marked" them without their knowledge.
"Just enough to feel comfortable… better than nothing," he sighed inwardly, already feeling much safer. "Too many people marked on the same street would leave a clear trail, so I have to limit myself to picking a handful from the worst, and make it look natural."
Once he could move freely around the city, it wouldn't be long before he could afford to be less strict with the markings of his third trap. Too bad that between his caution and his age, he had severe limitations.
In the twenty minutes it took to reach the area where his target lived, he witnessed six armed robberies, two drunken beatings, three couples that clearly didn't care where they expressed their passion, and got scanned no less than twice by different scavenger groups—who ended up clicking their tongues and losing interest when they saw he didn't have a single implant worth "recycling."
Surprisingly, Galina and Sasha didn't live in one of the city's megatowers, but rather in a worn-down apartment block with exposed wiring. It had five floors, six units per level.
"They live on the fifth floor, first door," he recalled, looking up. "Good, the window's slightly open," he noted as he surveyed the surroundings, slipping into a narrow alleyway just beneath the windows.
The space was barely enough for a kid his age.
Faelan blinked when he saw a manhole cover at the end of the alley, recognizing the numbers on it—he'd seen another match on his way here. If he entered through there, he could exit five blocks from the factory without drawing attention.
"At least now I know how to get back faster," he thought as he approached the cover, nudging it open just a crack—though the idea of using the city's sewers didn't thrill him. "Even if it's only been twenty minutes, I'm still risking getting caught."
He mentally reviewed his plan once more, took a deep breath (away from the now-open sewer), and disintegrated into butterflies again, quickly rising toward the window and slipping into the apartment.
…
Galina's POV
I feel like shit lately. At this rate, I'll have to up my Securicine doses if I don't improve in the next two days.
The problem isn't the fever or occasional thirst—it's my damn legs giving out!
And not even the one with the wound—it's like they both just stop responding whenever they feel like it, with random painful spasms.
Ugh, I can't afford another medical visit with the last one still fresh in the system. No discount this time.
That bootlicker of a boss is already issuing ultimatums even though I used my days off. I can't lose this job—I need the money for мой ангел. Her clothes are getting tight from that growth spurt, then there are school fees, and I need to save up for new implants. I won't risk giving her secondhand junk. Even if they're not top models, they have to be unused.
The food. I can't give her the same crap I eat to survive until my pathetic salary's next transfer. She needs something genuinely nutritious—and that doesn't taste like burnt plastic soaked in formaldehyde.
They told me I could retire peacefully without worrying about money, but those ублюдки canceled my pension four years after Sasha was born. If the boss were still alive, they wouldn't have dared...
Hell, I'd probably be getting more money!
"Damn it, I need a drink—feels like my throat's been polished with hot sand..."
Sasha must be studying in her room. Best not to bother her over something like this.
I was just about to get out of bed when something shot through the window—the same one I left slightly open to air out the place, which stinks of my sweat.
"Блядь!" Before I even realized, I had taken cover behind the wardrobe and retrieved my old Militech M-10AF Liberty from under the mattress, loaded and ready to fire at the first sign of aggression.
Compact, sturdy, and as reliable as a kick to the ribs.
I haven't had to use it since Sasha was born, but not a week goes by without maintenance.
I knew I wasn't being paranoid!
Hope the suppressor doesn't fail—I don't want Sasha running into my room and making things worse.
"Did someone find out about my current condition and think now's the perfect time to 'clean house'?" I wondered, mind racing—some instincts never fade with time.
Damn it, I wish I still had the implants I had to give up when I left everything behind!
Alright, five seconds have passed. Nothing exploded, no stun gas, no bullet holes in the wall.
The floor didn't creak. Whoever it is, either doesn't have much chrome or has something like Lynx Legs to absorb the impact.
A stealth-type assassin?
No… that makes no sense. No optical camo was used, and the window didn't make that squeaky noise it always does when pushed open. The gap's not big enough for a person to get through. Then… is it a drone?
"Hello?"
…
Do assassins use child voices now to get people to lower their guard?
Third Person POV
Faelan was still a little dizzy from the transformation, but after shaking his head a few times, he managed to get his bearings and look around.
He was in someone's bedroom—and judging by the lack of childish items and the bra casually tossed on the chair, it had to be Galina's. The same woman who he could've sworn just flipped off the bed behind the wardrobe.
With a gun in her hands, which he was really hoping wasn't military-grade…
"Well, she didn't shoot me while hiding, so that's a step in the right direction," he thought optimistically.
Several seconds passed, but no one peeked out, and Faelan briefly wondered if he'd been mistaken and no one was there at all.
Was the dizziness playing tricks on him?
"Hello?" he probed cautiously.
What greeted him back was… a reflection from a handheld mirror?
Oh, right—military background and all that.
She wasn't about to stick her head out and risk getting it blown off by an intruder. Makes sense, from her point of view. Even in "retirement," she clearly still had it.
In the reflection, a woman could be seen with dark brown hair down to her shoulders, fading into reddish tips—definitely in good shape. Though it was easy to notice her hand trembling, undoubtedly due to the initial damage to her motor nerves.
"You have ten seconds to identify yourself and say who sent you, or I'll open a third eye in your forehead," said the ex-soldier.
The sound of the hammer cocking made her point clear—she wasn't joking.
"Whoa, easy," Faelan slowly raised both hands. "I just came to make a mutually beneficial deal. Is your situation really so bad that you'd shoot a kid your daughter's age?"
Should he really be mentioning Sasha in this situation? That seemed like a bad idea.
"A kid my daughter's age couldn't get in like this to the fifth floor, and wouldn't do it dressed like a rookie thief with a terrible sense of fashion."
Although a child's size would allow them to slip in through the small window opening.
"Hey, that's just rude!" Faelan protested indignantly. "It's not like I do this for fun."
This woman had no idea what chaos she'd unleash if he walked around with his face uncovered!
"What do you mean?"
"Uh, forget what I said," Faelan realized he had just slipped. "The point is, I came with good intentions. Like I said, to make a deal."
"What kind of deal is so important that you have to sneak into my house?"
He was definitely not one of Sasha's classmates.
"But I didn't hide!" Faelan defended himself from the unfair accusation. "Look, I only have a few minutes. The deal is simple: I can heal you and tell you what's wrong. All I ask in return is that you help me with something easy."
"You realize how suspicious that sounds, right?" Once Galina confirmed through her retinal scanner that the boy had no implants or weapons, she peeked out from the closet and pointed an accusing finger at him as she approached—still holding the gun in the other hand. "Also, how do you know about me and my condition?"
"I just told you I only have a few minutes, and the conversation you want to have is way beyond the time I can afford to stay here without consequences." Faelan shook his head while keeping a safe distance, near the open window. If he couldn't reach a deal, he'd wait a few months and come back at night to heal her—whether she liked it or not.
Galina frowned at Faelan's behavior. She had been planning to catch him by surprise to knock him out and interrogate him, but she stopped approaching the intruder once she saw him moving closer to the window. From this distance, she could confirm he really was an eight-year-old boy, without even a neuralink, and the state of his clothes showed he didn't live a good life.
Probably a street kid trying to survive.
Though that still left the question of how he'd made it to this floor without implants.
The only remarkable thing was that his glasses had small focal distortion nodes installed, preventing any scanner from clearly identifying his face.
Probably scavenged from some junkyard.
Smart idea—but still a rookie. Now she had a voiceprint on him.
"Do you think you're a doctor?" the only adult in the room asked. "Do you even have a license? You don't seem like someone trained in medicine."
The idea of someone so young casually talking about healing her was absurd. But considering he did know something was wrong with her—when even her daughter hadn't noticed yet… stranger things had happened.
Why had she ever thought moving to this damn city was a good idea?
"I won't give any details unless you agree."
At least the kid wasn't rattled by four words.
"You want to heal me before I help you?" Galina's skeptical tone was understandable—the deal (if real) was too one-sided in her favor.
"Yes, I'm fully aware that you could just walk away once you're healthy again. Nothing binds you to keep your promise," Faelan admitted. "It's your decision… and your consequences," he added, his tone hardening. "I'm not some naïve do-gooder. If you accept, I'll help with your situation because I expect help in return. If you refuse, you'll never see me again and can pretend this never happened. But if you accept and then break the deal… better pull that trigger right now, because I won't be happy."
It might seem crazy to openly threaten his target, but it would seem far less suspicious to present the situation as a transactional exchange than to claim he was just doing a good deed for moral reasons or some altruistic excuse.
Greed and gain were more reliable than honor or trust to most people—especially in this city. Someone who called you their lifelong brother could sell you to the scavengers to settle a gambling debt.
Besides, he wasn't lying or putting on an act. He truly hoped she could help both him and Kiwi get out of the factory faster. The current situation was too restrictive for him, but leaving unannounced would put a bounty on his head—or worse. Things he couldn't handle. Not yet, not at his age.
They both needed money.
Faelan had the product to make money—and Galina was the way to sell it.
The ex-soldier didn't accept or reject the proposal outright, as Faelan had expected. That argument was far more convincing than any other excuse he could have prepared. Along with her ability to read that the kid was telling the truth, it made her seriously consider the offer for the first time.
"And what kind of help do you need?" she asked, still not lowering her weapon for a second.
"To sell a product: natural organic ingredients."
"Well, that's lucrative… What's the catch?" Galina asked.
They both knew there was a market for organic food and multiple ways to produce it in the city. The fact he had to come to someone like her made an underlying problem obvious.
"Its origin must not be revealed under any circumstances," Faelan noted that the conversation was taking too long—he had to cut to the point and get out. "Do it however you want, eat it yourself if you like. I only care about getting my share of the money."
In short, the kid would provide a pricey, in-demand product of dubious origin, and she'd have to sell it without explaining where it came from or showing any official quality control marks.
Yeah, it sounded exactly like a kid's plan.
"And how would we split the profits?"
Faelan froze for a moment—he hadn't really thought that part through. He didn't even know the going prices for what he could produce. You couldn't exactly search for a box of strawberries online in this place—there were no references.
"What do you propose?"
"70-30. My side, 70."
"What?! No!" Faelan almost jumped at the blatant ripoff. "Anything less than 60 for me, and I'm out. I'm saving your life here—how do you dare ask for the bigger share?!"
This woman wouldn't even blink before scamming a kid her daughter's age!
Even with 60% of the profits, he still had to split it with Kiwi to save enough. So really, both of them would only get 30% each—while Galina would still earn 10% more.
Galina blinked, intrigued by the detail—so his condition was worse than she thought?
The boy didn't even hesitate before answering...
Depending on how much organic produce he could supply and how often, she might even be able to walk away from that exploitative black-market company.
"One last thing," Galina could see the boy watching the time—so he was on a tight schedule. "Before I agree to let you heal me and help you, at least tell me how I ended up like this. Convince me."
Faelan considered it fair—a show of good faith, if you could call it that.
"Biotechnica's Securicine," he pointed to the blue painkiller vial by the bed. "It has a severe side effect on those who take it, but it was released anyway because it was extremely profitable. They hid the damaging data since the effects show up slowly over time."
Galina looked at the vial and ran through her memories—from the time she started taking the painkillers to when the symptoms began.
The timeline matched…
She didn't question or defend the corporation behind the (CHOOH2). She was well aware of corporate corruption and had always been careful about the products they produced.
She just hadn't expected to get tricked anyway.
"Alright," Galina exhaled and took a moment to process the information. "What do you have in mind?"