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Sunsetting

A city, night. A train that was once sleek, now dressed in peeling advertisements for companies that have already gone under, rattles on elevated rails through the forest of lights. Illuminated billboard screens, antique neon, too-dim street lamps, and the occasional sleepless window in the tower blocks above. Driving rain coating the street furnishes each of these with their own flat, shimmering double.

Such a sight might be beautiful, if there was anyone to behold it. But the train's only occupant, looming in a darkened car, is a killing machine. Though it stares out the window, any hint of romance in the damp-scented air is lost on it.

The killing machine could easily be mistaken for a person, by those not familiar with such things. It has the same two legs, the same two arms, the same size and shape. It has a warm pulse. If something cut it, it would bleed red and sticky. The resemblence is uncanny, perhaps because it was manufactured in the same way. Authenticity requires attention to detail.

Long, straight black hair frames its face, wholly unremarkable except for its piercing, narrow eyes. It wears a gray jacket over a black button-down, a dark skirt, and shiny tights beneath. Combat-ready boots are forsaken in favor of the rugged loafers that were in fashion last season - or, rather, the indistinguishable counterfeits that flooded the market. All synthetic and easy to clean bloodstains off of.

The killing machine dutifully misses its stop, and waits two more before getting off. Pulling up the hood of its jacket, more to make itself anonymous than out of any need to block the rain, it unhurriedly trudges back to its destination along a circuitous route. Though it sees the occasional human, nothing and no one pursues it, not in this weather. Cameras follow it but fail to recognize the threat it poses.

The buildings around it grow steadily more luxurious as it walks its winding path. It passes from five-story apartment blocks clad in drab colors to dizzying pillars of corporate might, illuminated even in the wee hours by workers on the early shift. Though the skyscrapers' varied appearances make them seem distinct entities from one another, in reality the same corporation ultimately controls each of them, only pretending at being surrounded by its peers to evade government oversight. The killing machine makes for this central spire, the grandest and tallest building in the district.

The foyer is different than it remembers. Where once there were towering, abstract metal decorations, lit from below and throwing twisted shadows onto the ceiling, the killing machine now enters into a hall festooned with plants. It has to step around a tree to continue into the room. A pot dripping with foliage infests every corner. Behind the desk, now made of a light wood whose edges still bear natural bark, a wall of leaves is the receptionist's backdrop. It's a new receptionist, too, but that's hardly unusual.

The killing machine wordlessly shows her its company ID card. This too is part of blending in - the receptionist, and many of her fellow lower-ranking workers, aren't exactly unaware that their company uses every method it can to get ahead, but they might panic unduly if they could recognize the killing machine for what it is. They might hallucinate blood that it made sure to clean off already and grow a conscience.

The logo in front of the wall of plants is different to the one on the card.

The receptionist is finished squinting at its ID and accepts it, passing it under a scanner that emits a petulant sort of squeal. She turns to squint at her monitor instead. "Okay, this is still valid but it's marked as needing further action," she informs it. "You'll have to pay a visit to HR. When was the last time you came in to work?"

"I was at a trade show out west," the killing machine tonelessly recites. "Just got back in." The best lies are true. Trade shows are target-rich environments when corporate rivals need crippling.

The receptionist hums. "Wow, what a time to be out of the office. You missed the whole restructuring."

The killing machine doesn't respond.

Shrugging, the receptionist returns its card. "HR is on floor 46 now. Hope your job still exists."

The killing machine ignores her. Its destination is sub-level B13, the lair of the so-called Liquidation Department which owns and operates it. Or it should be. When it scans its card, the elevator's only reply is a scolding error buzz.

It has never been on floor 46, so it can't tell whether that has been changed too. If the foyer was a forest, this floor is a lush jungle. The plants make for something to look at, at least, as the killing machine is shuffled through a sequence of increasingly confused managers. Though the killing machine's credentials are accepted by the system, not a soul has ever heard of the Liquidation Department.

As this snarled bureaucratic tango enters its second hour, a growing air of suspicion begins to cloud the proceedings. When the killing machine is eventually told to wait in a windowless room with no supervision, it immediately takes the opportunity to slip out. The now-anomalous ID card, it quietly deposits in a shredder.

The rain has stopped in the interim. Sunlight peers through the foliage of the foyer.

"No luck, huh?" the receptionist opines at the killing machine's retreating back.

It shrugs mechanically.

At least the years of deep-cover infiltration required it be instructed how to write a convincing resumé.