Crstn [2027]

He replayed the kite. The sun. The green hill. He tried to feel the weight of the string in his hand. He tried to hear the wind. He tried to say the name.

He was on a mission in the Sunk Cost, a drowned district of Old Chicago. His target: a renegade geneticist hiding in the spire of a half-sunk cathedral. Crstn found her easily. She was old, with eyes the color of faded denim. She didn't run. He replayed the kite

"I am Crstn," he said, his voice a flat, synthesized monotone. He tried to feel the weight of the string in his hand

In the Director's office, a single red light began to blink. He was on a mission in the Sunk

For twelve years, Crstn executed. He extracted. He erased. His body, a lattice of carbon-fiber filaments and bio-gel, could punch through a steel door or hold a heartbeat perfectly still. He felt no pain, no guilt, no joy. He was the perfect tool.

He saw a boy, no more than six, with a mop of brown hair and a gap-toothed smile. The boy was flying a kite on a green hill under a yellow sun. The boy was laughing. The boy was calling a name. A name with vowels. A name that tasted like honey and rain.

His vocal synthesizer crackled. "Cri… C-ris…"