The Serpent’s Eye Directive

Crimson sparks leaped from the obsidian obelisk as the figure in black moved. Not gracefully, but with a brutal economy. Every stride was a calculated lunge, a predator closing distance with relentless precision. Roric didn't even glance twice as the guardsmen at the archway faltered back—his path was direct, his focus singular: the stone monolith slumbering in the heart of the Gilded Cage trading district.

Nyx, the Serpent's Eye, wasn't built for subterfuge; she was engineered for consequence. Centuries of intense training beneath Theron Blackwood himself, the dread master of Krul Prime, had forged a physique both wiry and powerful. He was lean muscle coiled against an almost skeletal frame, a product of genetic alchemy and severe dietary restrictions. His height, respectable in average men, was an advantage in intimidation—six-foot-four inches planted with unnerving stillness before his next explosive movement. For this mission, his primary weapon was a sleek black shuriken gun disguised as part of his gauntlet cuff. Now, drawing it was instinct. Tiny, ruby-obsidian lenses on his mask narrowed, focusing the thermal imaging onto the approaching Gilded Cage Prefect.

The Prefect was out of uniform. Standard Prefect blues were shed for a finer, silken tunic and trousers, emerald green like imperial moss, accented with bands of gold. He carried a Khanda blade hilted in dark, beaten copper and accented with pearls the colour of ripened cherries. Fine, but predictable. Roric smiled faintly under the respirator's silent breath. Predictable meant breachable.

"My lord!" the Prefect called out, his voice betraying a hint of the forced gravity of his station and the slight fear beneath it. "It is hours since you retired. Security reports indicate a breach near the Geo-Containment vaults! Repeat, breach is confirmed! A disturbance at the station's administrative core!"

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Roric didn't relax his stance. "Breach of what, Prefect? The integrity of the ventilation systems?" he asked, his voice a low, resonant timber from the reinforced mask. "Seems hard to breach Krul Prime's most sensitive area, doesn't it?"

The Prefect shifted his weight, the refined, silk-clad figure feeling alien in this context of impending disaster. "My lord, there appear to be unauthorized personnel within the regulators room. Armed, reports say... dangerous energy signatures!"

"Regulators Room," Roric mused, his hand flicking instinctively. One of the smaller throwing darts fired from an auxiliary emitter clipped to his leg; it struck the Prefect's boots with a sharp *thunk*. Unseen actuators in his boot heel clicked open, injecting a targeted sedative agent directly into the Prefect's bloodline.

"See?" Roric said lightly. "We never knew. Retrieval droid is already outside the wounded guard sub-unit. Standard extraction protocol Epsilon-thirteen." He gestured dismissively with his chin. "Handle the cleanup. Secure logs. Report nothing to Security Command. But tell the administrative core... rupees soar at the Palastine Cassava Futures Exchange according to the intern's lunchtime chatter." The accent, though exacted digitally by his chip-crafted voice modulator, was a non-standard cant from the Qadir Collective, designed intentionally to confuse analysis protocols. "Any mention of 'containment' or 'vulcanite' is fabricated for reporting."

"On... on duty, sir?"

"Do you wish to know, Prefect?" Roric's voice dropped another pitch, losing its casual edge. "Perhaps it would be... simpler... for you to just pretend you don't remember anything after I escort you back to your quarters."

The sedated Prefect swayed slightly, his eyes glazing over. Security bots, alerted by the energy signature, skittered into view down the main boulevard, stopping dead. Their scanning lights blinked red as their multi-spectrum sensors detected the oversized utility drone emerging from the district's infrastructure, undetected by perimeter sensors until now. It stepped out, metallic joints hissing faintly, pointing its manipulators towards the unconscious Prefect, finally detecting its quarry through its lower profile camouflage outside intruder scans.

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Roric watched, his own comms unit crackling to life. Another communication channel opened, a low-priority whisper:

"Gamma-13, Delta-7… grid Xsect Plaza… Protocol Epsilon-thirteen engaged. Target neutralized. Pending pickup by Extraction Alpha."

His reply was less than a whisper, lost amidst the city's rumble.

He turned, the obsidian obelisk finally calling his name. The Serpent's Eye project had turned its operator into something cold, calculating. Its first directive: maintain stability. Its definition of stability sometimes involved elaborate fictions.

He walked towards the glow of the artifact, the city lights painting shifting patterns on the formidable black armor covering his form. The signal from above would be the confirmation, the 'breach' sealed, whatever price had to be meted out next simply part of the required accounting.

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