Cocoon

Harbor 9 - M15T3

“Do people fear us, sister?”

The women sat cross-legged across from each other at the peak of a ship’s spire, docked in the near-limitless spread of buildings and piers that made up Harbor 9. The woman in the purple sheet did not meet the eyes of the woman in the yellow sheet as she asked her question, remembering a critical role of her order: never see the face of another Wraith.

“Yes, sister. And as long as our existence remains necessary, that will always be the case. This city is delicate, and orders like ours ensure its fragility does not become an unsolvable problem,” the woman in yellow said, standing up to gaze out over the harbor. She continued without looking back.

“When you became a Wraith, did you not consider your own existence would be controversial? This is Vargos, there is no running from any deal you make or any debt you owe. A strange question to ask of another you’ve only just met and will most likely never meet again.”

The woman in purple shifted uncomfortably, drawing a breath and bracing herself to answer.

“At the time, I wanted to never fear again, but I admit, I did not consider that meant I’d always need to be feared.”

The woman in yellow raised a hand, cutting her off.

“Speak no more. When you surrendered your personal chit and ID, you chose to trade everything you were for everything you are now. You did so. Now, you exist with nothing to fear. The deal is done. You serve like we all do. I will hear no more of this, sister.”

The woman in purple nodded in understanding. It wasn’t the response she’d hoped for, but the woman in yellow was right. She had gotten what she wanted from the Wraiths.

Before she could dwell on it, the woman in yellow threw off her sheet, letting it drift into the water below. Though her back remained turned, the dim city lights reflecting off her exposed body revealed almost complete cybernetic augmentation. Her spine had been replaced with sleek steel plating, neon pink circuitry gleaming where her shoulder blades had once been. Her arms matched the same design, and one of her legs had been entirely replaced with a Servo-9 Violet brand cybernetic limb. It was all top-tier ware, even for the Wraiths, who always got the best.

The signal was clear. The target was nearby. It was time to act.

She removed her own purple sheet, glancing down at her own implants: mid-grade mechanized hands, high-grade cybernetic legs, and synth skin wrapped around her torso and gut, tough enough to stop most projectiles. Her cybereye—a rare early Violet model—flickered momentarily. Collectors sought them, but only the best surgeons could install them now. Their athletic shorts and undershirts remained, dirtied to help them blend in if things went sideways. They were ready.

“Target is climbing up the stairs from the dock. We move now. Requesting your sig,” the woman said with monotone indifference.

“Sig: M-1-5-T-3. Requesting your sig, sister,” M15T3 responded, steadying her nerves. She’d only gone on a handful of jobs since taking the oath, her focus still untempered. That was why she was only assigned duo jobs, it was easier for veterans to evaluate her performance.

“Sig: 8-4-R-R-O. Proceed with assigned duties.”

“Affirmative. Executing process.”

M15T3 leapt from her perch atop the smokestack, her cyberlegs dampening the speed of her descent before she landed silently on the deck. 84RRO followed close behind. Their target stood with two shipmates, a towering figure, chromed to the teeth in high-grade cyberware, resting a massive cybernetic hand on the grip of a 4-4 Titan. That thing could put a hole in someone the size of a fist, even through reinforced plating.

They looked at each other and nodded. The target knew he was on a Wraith list, and was waiting for them.

M15T3 moved first, closing the gap in a blink. At the last second, she pivoted, sending a kick upward into the lower jaw of one of the shipmates. His teeth exploded out the top of his skull before his body hit the deck. 84RRO followed, her metal hand shaped like an arrow as it tore clean through the other shipmate’s leg. He dropped to the ground, wailing, as the target leapt back and drew his revolver.

Three shots fired. One tore through his already dead crewman. The second ripped through the deck like paper. The third vanished into the air. M15T3 launched another kick toward him, but he dodged, her foot landing on a cargo crate, caving its metal frame inward as if it were soft clay.

84RRO seized the opening, her kick connecting with his head. The force sent him tumbling across the deck, slamming into the railing. He twitched once. Then stillness. Blood leaked from his mouth as M15T3 realized his chest was caved in.

They surveyed the aftermath: one shipmate dead, the target lifeless, and one man writhing on the deck, clutching the stump of his leg. 84RRO crouched, her cybernetic eyes illuminating as she leaned close to his face, permanently burning the image into his vision.

“You are encouraged to describe us as best you can to the authorities. And remember—it was the Wraiths that did this,” she whispered, voice husky and deliberate.

Without looking at M15T3, she straightened. “Process executed. Sig 8-4-R-R-O signing off.”

M15T3 didn’t respond. Instead, she stared into the eyes of the injured man, with his eyes that darted wildly, pale with terror. He couldn’t see them, yet his body radiated fear.

M15T3 felt something unexpected, something sharp in her chest. She had expected guilt, perhaps hesitation. Instead, she smiled.

He was terrified.

Just like she had been before all of this.

“Process executed. Sig M-1-5-T-3 signing off.”