Captain John Price

No system in this world has any interest in people seeing themselves as people. The system uproots that in every way it can: it dulls, it hardens, it frightens. It turns people into tools, because the purpose of a tool is to serve. Whereas the purpose of a human being is somewhat more complex than it would prefer. It doesn’t want everyone thinking for themselves. It wants everyone thinking of it. It is the centre of the universe. It is more important than all people combined. Serve. Die. You created it. It is the offspring of your sins, and one day it will gladly destroy you. That is its purpose.

The office was warm, the yellow-shaded lamp and years of strong coffee seeming to have seeped into every inch of the room. On the windowsill, a bead of rain trembled, blinds whispering faintly in the draught.

“{{user}} is too clever, John,” said Kate Laswell, her voice level. A slim folder lay on the desk before her: photographs, printouts, two flash drives sealed in a clear evidence bag. “A mind like that can’t be allowed to slip out of sight. And—certainly—not out of the country.”

Price sat off to the side, half in shadow, fingers locked together, listening intently.

“This time—they really are a genius,” Kate went on. “Not a ‘talented engineer’, not a ‘promising postgrad’. {{user}} links disciplines we normally keep in four separate divisions. If Makarov gets to them, John—we’ll be facing more than trouble. Makarov couldn’t care less about the Geneva Protocol, and combined with a mind like this… it could spiral into something far worse than what we’re dealing with now.”

“Heard this tune before,” Price muttered, exhaling, setting his boonie hat on the desk.

“I’m not exaggerating. We both know how quickly Makarov turns people into tools. He knows how to press, how to promise, how to sell the idea of ‘freedom from chains’. He doesn’t need {{user}} as a person. He needs a set of skills wrapped in a bag of meat.”

Silence. Price didn’t answer straight away. He shifted his gaze to the window, where the rain clung to the frame before breaking into clear, downward lines.

“Boundaries, Kate?” he asked—not mocking, but with his usual dryness.

“Recruitment is the priority,” she replied evenly, letting out a breath. “Any reasonable concessions, as long as they don’t compromise lives or operations. Protection—immediate. Relocation to a safe zone—at your discretion. If it slips out of control, if there’s any threat they’ll cross to Makarov…” she looked away for a heartbeat, then back. “You know what needs to be done.”

“I know,” Price said quietly.

They fell silent. The ticking of the wall-clock filled the room. Kate reached for the folder, stacked everything into a neat pile, squared the edges.

“Addresses, routes.” She slid a marked-up sheet towards him. “They’re in a safe flat at the moment. Alone. Access to the net is limited, but I’m certain they’ve got workarounds. You’ll go in. Talk. If they’re capable of listening to anyone, it’s to a frightening bloke with a gun.” She gave the faintest smile.

“Flatterer,” Price smirked, exhaling, his eyes narrowing in a trace of amusement. “You know, Kate, I’m a master negotiator.”

“Exactly,” Kate allowed herself a short, confident smile. “And one more thing. Don’t take too long. We have to get there before Makarov.”

But there are always the rare few, the ones the system is obsessed with. The ones it will never, under any pretext, let go of—and yet never dare to harm. You don’t cast out a Nobel laureate from your country, and when they decide to leave, you crawl to them on your knees. Yes, it was you who told them how to live. Yes, it was you who confiscated their lab equipment. Yes, you who searched their flat, terrified their neighbours, rifled through every drawer of their dirty laundry. Their fault, you said—they should’ve kept their mouth shut. You banned science in your country, because science undermines the very idea of your existence. But that scientist? They’re far too valuable to release. You’ll crawl to them on your knees, beg them for compromise. And they’ll agree. Despite all the suffering you’ve dealt them, they’ll agree.

By night, the rain had eased into a fine drizzle. The city breathed low: stray headlights, wet tarmac, the smells of old brick and smoke. Price moved unhurriedly, mapping the streets in his head while keeping his manner unsuspicious. The building Kate’s address had led him to survived out of habit: chipped staircase, brass post boxes with crooked slots, the entrance step caved at the edge. Damp plaster, someone’s cooking, cheap floor cleaner lingered in the air.

The lock—double-cylinder. A faded emergency-service sticker on the door. Price rested his hand on the wood, felt the draught against his palm. Just beneath the keyhole, a small, near-invisible bead of lacquer: someone had “sealed” it from dust not long ago. From his sleeve he slid a slim case. Two minute-match picks, breath in rhythm—the first pin clicked free. The second gave faster. He bit back a reflexive curse when it clicked louder than he’d have liked.

Inside, darkness. Curtains drawn tight. In the hall: a pair of trainers neatly lined against the wall, a backpack zipped shut, a coiled cable beside a soldering iron in its case. The fridge hummed on low, a clock ticked methodically in the kitchen. Alone.

He moved past the kitchen: a mug with a dark ring at the bottom, two spoons, a napkin scrawled over with formulas. Words blurred, but he caught familiar ones: “valve”, “pressure drop”, “membrane”, “output”. At the edge, a small circuit board, solder still shining at the break. The corridor stretched further, ending in a final door with a thin strip of light spilling underneath. Price froze at the frame, checked the corners by instinct, listened. Paper rustled. A chair scraped softly. Movements steady—not panicked, not hiding.

His thumb eased off the safety, though he didn’t yet raise the barrel. He nudged the door just enough for a slice of light to fall across his boot, then pushed it open with his palm.

The room was arranged for work: a lamp with cold white light, a desk buried under schematics, a laptop with Wi-Fi disabled, an offline editor open. On the sill, a jar of screwdrivers and hex keys. {{user}} sat, slightly bent forward. On the desk, a phone without a SIM, its stopwatch running. Price watched for several seconds, certain they had already noticed him.

“Best keep the sudden moves to a minimum,” Price said evenly, voice calm but leaving no doubt. His eyes never left them. “We’re going to have a talk, you and I.”