Part 1.2

Part 1.2

Milton Adams, that was me, at least for now.

He was a real guy, and he died years ago.

Drugs are a bitch, and if you let them take over your life, you end up in a ditch.

Some people can escape that ditch, but poor Milton wasn’t one of them.

In a state of withdrawal, he got the attention of some very bad people.

He stole some very potent nose-crawlers from a group of very unfriendly thugs.

They called on me, and I removed the problem, but his military history was valuable.

Not valuable enough to keep him alive.

He is doing his part to help the foundation of our city to stay strong and slightly stinky.

The Third Eye lets me not only hack in real time, but it also lets me use fake credentials as my own.

I had the guy’s data, and as long as I had that, to the rich-boy, I was Milton.

He was a pretty good guy in the military.

Fighting your way up to Sergeant First Class in a meat grinder like Madagascar is impressive.

He came back, but Milton stayed behind.

It was a shame what happened to him, and I will make his name do a little good.

Moving on to the meeting.

I was told to be there at eight-thirty, and as a professional, I was an hour early.

Here is what I would do if I were to hire someone.

If they are early and look around as if they have the job, I would kick them to the curb.

That is called being stupid; you telegraph that an important person is in there.

On the other hand, yuppies and rich kids see this as initiative.

I would tell them, but they would be too stupid, and if someone listened, my job will get harder.

As I was patrolling, I knew the butler was looking at me.

How did I know?

I have been in their security for the last two months, and I can hear everything.

Marky and the butler were talking about me like I was a fucking steer.

That is good, because stupid people are easier to kill.

I heard the main gate open, and the butler stepped out.

He looks exactly how you would imagine.

A stiff black suit, balding, overly trimmed moustache, and a fucking monocle.

I walked up to the man with an extremely rigid broom up his ass.

With a smile, I held out my hand.

“Good morning, sir. Milton Adams.”

He looked down at my hand, and he slowly lifted his gaze.

“You may retrieve your hand. My name is Abraham Smythe, and Master St. Patrick shall see you.”

I took a deep breath and followed him.

The thought of throwing in the butler crossed my mind, but I realised it would be too easy to kill him.

The least I could do was to break his fucking monocle.

I followed the old man, and I was pinged a total of seven times.

They really wanted to make sure of my identity.

I almost laughed.

These guys have never met a true pro.

Too bad it will be the last time, too.

Now, I have to clarify that, in your honour, I didn’t kill him immediately.

He needed to trust me so that the broken trust would hurt him a lot before the light left his eyes.

I hope you don’t mind that I took my time.

So, as I was saying, I was led through a hallway with what seemed like gold-plated statues all over the place.

These people have no idea what money means.

To them, it is wallpaper that hides their ugliness and sins from anyone with less.

After what felt like an hour, I finally met the kid.

Here is the interesting part.

He didn’t have any upgrades at all.

That was strange.

I think it is sort of a cultural idiocy.

Rich people want to separate themselves from the poors.

By having no implants, they could have the idea of them not having to put in any effort.

I would roll my eyes, but Milton wouldn’t.

Thank God for Milton.

The butler bowed to the kid and walked up to me.

“May I have your coat taken?”

With a nod, I answered like an anxiety-ridden soldier.

“Ye-yes, sir.”

I stood at attention to add some emphasis.

Upper crusts love the performance of people who can kill them.

Abraham Smythe didn’t take my coat himself.

He snapped his fingers, and a very short woman entered.

She kept her head down the entire time inside Marcus’s room.

When I thanked her, she looked up at my face.

I noticed a bruise on her neck.

It was almost covered by her uniform.

That was the moment I decided to throw the butler in with Marcus.

Mistreating staff is like kicking a dog, and this puppy wasn't happy.

When she left, the butler took his place at the door.

As if on cue, Marko stood up and circled me.

I already knew he didn’t have an eye for mercs, so I just waited for the verbal diarrhoea.

I didn’t have to wait long.

He asked about Milton’s service and weapons.

I answered all of them as if I were the poor guy.

That was until he surprised me.

“What do your implants do?”

I knew what they were, but it was a strange thing for a rich kid to ask.

Normally, they want the bare minimum to feel safe.

“Sir, I have two main implants. I have what is called the Pulley System. It is the base implant for my role as a paratrooper.”

I went on about how it was meant to absorb the shock of a fall and to advance quickly.

I added the details: it enhances the accuracy of weapon fire, increases endurance, but not strength.

He frowned as he asked his question.

“How does that work?”

I tapped just above my left eye.

“The second implant is called the Sixth Sense. It targets enemies, and I can use the Pulley System to direct my fire quickly. Would you like a demonstration?”

The kid nodded.

I slowly pulled out my gun, took out all the bullets and turned on the laser pointer.

“In this scenario Mister Smythe will be the enemy. I have him locked on, and he is behind me. When you are ready, give the signal.”

When he did, I spun around, and in a split second, the laser was visible in the middle of his forehead.

Marky walked up to me and slapped me hard on the back.

“Milton, you're hired.”