incorporated with DeepSeek
The stale, recycled air of the Manhattan Ziggurat tasted like ozone and despair. Vikar "Scorch" Novak inhaled it like cheap synth-whiskey, the familiar burn grounding him. Sixty floors up, the city below was a necropolis of glittering chrome and festering shadows, a view he ignored. His boots, worn synth-leather silent on the bio-luminescent corridor tiles, carried him towards Apartment 6037. Cleaner duty. The graveyard shift janitorial gig was perfect cover – invisible, predictable, paid in untraceable credsticks. It funded the *real* work: hitting Lone Star patrols and Ares Macrotechnology security details for the Red Hook Reapers, keeping the corporate jackals from turning Brooklyn into another sterile corp-enclave.
6037. Mr. Aris Thorne. Vikar keyed the maglock override. The door hissed open, revealing the usual scene: pristine minimalism screaming expensive taste, the ambient glow of integrated LEDs painting everything in cool blues and greys. And the smell – bergamot, sandalwood, and beneath it, the faint, sweet-sour tang of empty bottles. Thorne’s particular brand of trash.
"Mr. Novak! Right on time." Thorne’s voice floated from the direction of the master suite, slightly muffled. Always the bathroom. Vikar’s enhanced senses, legacy of the street doc’s experimental combat 'ware and something older, something *wyrder* that tingled in his marrow, caught the subtle tremor beneath the pleasant tone. Thorne was stressed. More than usual.
"Just the bins, Mr. Thorne," Vikar rumbled, his voice gravel in a cement mixer. He moved with silent efficiency, his senses automatically cataloging the space. Kitchen: six empty synth-vodka bottles (premium brand), three mineral water carafes (imported), assorted gourmet meal-pack wrappers. Living room: two champagne flutes (crystal, real glass), datachip wrappers. Home office: more water bottles, an empty stimulant inhaler cartridge (legal grade, barely). Exactly as expected. Ten minutes max. Thorne never emerged until he was nearly done, paid him 500 nuyen cash – an hour’s wage for a high-risk shadowrun, let alone emptying bins. Always a crisp, respectful "Thank you, Mr. Novak," never a lingering look, despite the unspoken current Vikar sensed. Thorne was gay, Vikar figured, but kept it professional. Vikar appreciated that. And the nuyen.
Tonight was different. Thorne’s "Please, just the bins tonight, Novak," was clipped, tight. The bathroom door clicked shut, the maglock engaging with a definitive *thunk*. Vikar finished quickly, the heavy-duty polymer trash bag barely rustling as he filled it. He turned to leave, the bag slung over his shoulder like a corpse.
Then he *felt* it.
A spike of cold adrenaline, primal and sharp, cut through the hum of the building’s systems. It wasn't sight or sound first; it was a *pressure*, a predatory intent radiating upwards through the elevator shaft like poisoned gas. Three distinct signatures. Focused. Hungry. **Killer instinct.** Active, honed, and heading straight for this floor.
Vikar froze, becoming part of the corridor’s shadow near Thorne’s door. The elevator *dinged*, soft and lethal. Three figures emerged. Corporate muscle, but trying for subtlety – dark, expensive tactical weave under long coats, moves economical, eyes scanning with cybernetic intensity. One had the telltale bulge of a smartgun link under his jaw. They ignored Vikar completely, the invisible cleaner. One produced a keycard – not Thorne’s – and swiped it against 6037’s maglock. The light flicked green. *Override key.*
The door hissed open. They flowed inside, silent as sharks.
Vikar didn’t hesitate. The heavy trash bag hit the corridor floor with a soft *whump*. His hand dipped into his own janitorial coveralls, past the spray bottles and microfibre cloths, and closed around the worn grip of his Ares Predator V. The heavy pistol felt like an extension of his arm, cold comfort. He ghosted through the door after them, shutting it silently.
The apartment was dark except for the ambient glow. The three intruders were already fanning out, professional, clearing the living room, heading towards the master suite. They hadn't seen him enter behind them.
"Clear left," one murmured sub-vocally.
Vikar moved. Years of surviving Brooklyn gutters and shadowruns in toxic zones compressed into fluid violence. He was on the closest one before the man registered movement. A brutal elbow strike to the temple, enhanced musculature driving bone into brain. The man folded silently. Vikar caught him, lowering the body with one hand while his Predator snapped up.
The second intruder, turning at the faint sound, had his hand inside his coat. Vikar’s silenced pistol coughed twice. *Phut. Phut.* Twin red blossoms flowered on the man’s chest. He crumpled.
The third, near the bedroom door, spun, a sleek Ingram Smartgun X appearing in his hand. Vikar was already diving behind a low-slung grav-couch. Chips of expensive composite material sprayed as silenced rounds stitched across its surface. Vikar came up firing, not at the man, but at the glowing control panel beside the bedroom door. Sparks flew. The maglock shorted, the door sealing shut with a *clunk* – trapping Thorne inside, safe for now.
The gunman cursed, spraying covering fire as he tried to flank. Vikar moved like smoke, using the apartment’s minimal furniture as fleeting cover. He felt the hyper-accelerated beat of his own heart, the familiar, terrifying clarity of combat focus. A flicker of movement near a chrome sculpture. Vikar fired once. *Phut.* A gurgle, then the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
Silence, thick and cloying, broken only by Vikar’s controlled breathing and the frantic pounding from the sealed bedroom door. "Novak?! What’s happening?!" Thorne’s voice, shrill with panic.
Vikar ignored him for a moment. He moved swiftly, checking pulses. All three down. He frisked them with practiced efficiency, retrieving wallets and commlinks. Then came the messy part. He hauled the bodies one by one into the center of the living room. He retrieved his large, heavy-duty janitorial bags – industrial strength polymer designed for hazardous waste. He worked methodically, grimly, stuffing limbs, torsos, heads inside, sealing the bags with heavy-duty zip-ties. Three bulky, awkward parcels leaking dark stains onto Thorne’s immaculate white rug.
Only then did he walk to the bedroom door. He ripped a panel off the wall nearby, exposing fried wires. A few brutal yanks later, the maglock disengaged. He pushed the door open.
Aris Thorne stood there, pale as bleached synth-cotton, clutching a silk dressing gown around his thin frame. His eyes, wide with terror, darted from Vikar to the three massive, ominously shaped trash bags in the middle of his living room, then back to Vikar. The cleaner stood differently now. Not slouched, but coiled, radiating a dangerous stillness. Blood smeared his coveralls. The Predator hung loosely in his hand, smoke curling faintly from the suppressor. The ambient light caught the faint, old scar tissue tracing his jawline, the unnatural sharpness in his yellow-flecked eyes.
"Mr... Novak?" Thorne whispered, voice trembling.
Vikar didn’t look at him. He was examining three plastic ID cards retrieved from the wallets. He held them up, tilting them to catch the light.
"Why," he rumbled, the gravel in his voice sharper, colder, "would Jeremy White, Bill Horn, and Jack Smith from *Tenochtitlan Realty Acquisition & Security* come for you, Mr. Thorne?" He finally turned his head slightly, fixing Thorne with that unsettling gaze. "You seem like a nice guy. Pay well. Keep your trash sorted."
Thorne flinched as if struck. He stared at the IDs, then at the bags, then at the blood on Vikar’s clothes. The reality crashed over him. He staggered back, collapsing onto the edge of his oversized bed. He buried his face in his hands for a long minute, shoulders shaking. The only sounds were his ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city.
Finally, he looked up, eyes red-rimmed but clearer. "Nice guys," he choked out, a bitter laugh escaping, "don't last long in Manhattan real estate. Especially not when they find out their biggest client is laundering cred for the Vory through shell properties... and decides maybe the East River view isn't worth selling your soul for." He gestured weakly towards the bags. "Tenochtitlan *is* the Vory's polished face here. White, Horn, Smith... they're their 'problem solvers'. I... I tried to back out quietly. Sell my stake. Move to Neo-Tokyo. Guess I wasn't quiet enough." He looked at Vikar, a desperate plea in his eyes. "They were going to make it look like an accident. Or a suicide. Depressed, lonely guy... too many bottles..."
Vikar stared at the IDs again. Tenochtitlan. Big players. Connected. The kind that employed teams like this, that made cleaners like him disappear without a trace. The kind the Red Hook Reapers spat on. The kind that squeezed neighborhoods dry.
He thought of the obscene tips for ten minutes' work. The respectful distance. The quiet dignity Thorne maintained, even drowning his fears in premium synth-vodka. Vikar wasn't a knight. He was a weapon, a cleaner in more ways than one. But some lines even a witcher from the ruins recognized.
He pocketed the IDs and his Predator. He walked to Thorne’s sleek commlink console on the desk, ignoring the man’s flinch. He pulled a small, heavily encrypted device from a hidden pocket in his coveralls – a burner, untraceable. He punched in a memorized code.
"Scorch. Need a perch. Lower East Side. Target: Eduardo Vasquez. Tenochtitlan top floor penthouse. Ocean view." He paused, listening to the crackle, the voice on the other end sharp with surprise and caution. "Need line-of-sight *now*. Clean. Fast." Another pause. "Pro bono." He terminated the call before the sputter of disbelief could form into words.
He turned back to Thorne, who was staring at him, utterly bewildered. "Vasquez?" Thorne breathed. "He's... untouchable."
"Not tonight," Vikar stated, his voice devoid of inflection. He hauled the first heavy trash bag onto his shoulder, then the second. The third he dragged. "Stay inside. Don't call anyone. Cleanup crew comes later." He paused at the door, looking at the bloodstain on the rug. "Deep clean that. Use enzyme solvent. Bio-hazard grade." He hefted the bags. "Taking out the trash."
***
An hour later, Vikar stood on a crumbling rooftop in the Garment District, the stench of old chemicals and desperation thick in the air. His janitor coveralls were gone, replaced by dark, non-reflective urban camouflage. The bulky bags containing White, Horn, and Smith were stacked near a rooftop access hatch – a problem for later. In his hands was not a trash grabber, but a disassembled Barrett-Arasaka 121S sniper rifle. He assembled it with swift, sure movements, the cold metal singing a familiar, lethal song.
His encrypted comm buzzed. Coordinates. A grimy window in a condemned tenement building, five blocks from Vasquez's gleaming Lower East Side fortress-apartment. Perfect line-of-sight. His contact, a Reaper lookout named "Echo," had come through.
Vikar moved like a ghost through the decaying building, senses stretched to their limits. The perch was a hollowed-out shell of an apartment, reeking of mildew and decay. He set up the Barrett on its bipod, peering through the high-mag thermal scope. Across the urban canyon, Vasquez's penthouse glowed like a jewel – floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a vast living space. And there, pacing near the window, a heat signature resolving into a well-dressed man gesturing angrily at someone unseen. Eduardo Vasquez. Real estate mogul. Vory bagman.
Vikar calculated. Distance. Wind. Coriolis. Humidity. The scope’s reticle settled on the center mass. He breathed out, slow and steady, the world narrowing to the crosshairs and the rhythm of his own heart. The city's noise faded. There was only the target, the weapon, and the cold purpose.
He squeezed the trigger.
The Barrett roared, a dragon’s cough in the desolate room. The recoil, brutal even for Vikar’s augmented frame, slammed into his shoulder. Through the scope, he saw the impact – a violent eruption of crimson and heat bloom against the glass, instantly turning opaque with spatter. Vasquez’s heat signature vanished.
Vikar was moving before the echo died. Rifle disassembled in seconds, packed away. He melted back into the shadows of the condemned building, leaving only brass and the fading scent of cordite. The bodies of White, Horn, and Smith would be found later, dumped in the East River by anonymous hands – a message from the shadows.
Back on the street, blending into the early morning flow of delivery drones and graveyard shift workers, Vikar felt the familiar emptiness that followed violence. He didn't do it for Thorne’s nuyen. He did it because Vasquez was a blight. Because the Reapers needed a win. Because sometimes, even for a cleaner, the only way to take out the real trash was with extreme prejudice. Dawn was staining the sky over Brooklyn, a dirty orange smear. Time to report in. The streets never slept, and neither did the shadows that cleaned them.
