95 Years Ago

  "What's this guy's name again?" one of the analysts muttered as he glanced at his partner.

  The other analyst didn't look up from his tablet. "Nothing. No name. No age. No nationality. No origin. Absolutely nothing."

  Both analysts stared at the patient, who remained lifeless in the containment unit, when the jet hit a sudden wave of turbulence. One of the analysts groaned and stood up, visibly annoyed. He walked toward the cockpit and swiped his keycard to open the door.

  "Yo, what's with the turbulence?" he asked as he stepped inside.

  The co-pilot barely looked up from his controls. "It's nothing. Just some strong winds. We're about to enter the contamination zone. Finish up the report before we land, preferably now."

  The analyst grinned, "Yes, Dad..." His voice dripped with sarcasm as the co-pilot rolled his eyes.

  The analyst glanced out the window. All he could see was water. He turned his attention to the flight map displayed on the screen in front of him. They were flying over the Atlantic Ocean, headed toward the United States. One of the labels read Contamination Zone B10, highlighted in red, standing out among other zones marked in different colors and codes.

  "Alright, let's knock this report out. The sooner it's done, the sooner I can take a nap," said the analyst who had just entered the cockpit, his tone lighthearted.

  "Already tired?" the other analyst asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "No," he replied, grinning. "I call it 'fast traveling.' It's a way to skip the whole boring flight."

  The second analyst chuckled, shaking his head as he began to tick off the items on his clipboard. "Alright, let's get this over with."

  "Hunger?"

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  "Normal."

  "Thirst?"

  "Normal."

  "Breathing?"

  "Heavy, but not alarming."

  "Dreams?"

  "A nightmare, but nothing we need to worry about."

  "The Neuro parasite?" The analyst's voice held a note of concern as he checked the screen.

  "Agitated. Should it be like that?" the first analyst asked, glancing at his partner.

  "Not at all. But let's just hope we get there in time." The second analyst set the clipboard aside and leaned back. "We're done. Skip the dream protocol. Let's relax now."

  As the first analyst turned to leave, his eyes lingered on the containment unit. The cage was constructed from reinforced metal alloy, housing a liquid-filled container with tubes extending down to the patient's throat and other... areas, handling the patient's biological waste. It was a grim setup, but necessary.

  The second analyst eventually followed, his footsteps echoing in the empty aisle. The jet, enormous in size, was built specifically for this cargo: a solitary, mysterious container.

  In the cockpit, the pilots exchanged low voices.

  "I can't believe this," muttered the co-pilot. "How stupid is it to leave us to rot here while he's up there, looking down at us, screwing his sex robots?"

  The pilot glanced up, confused. "Who the hell are you talking about?"

  "The P—" The co-pilot was cut off mid-sentence as the plane was rocked by an intense surge of turbulence. The radar blinked red, showing something fast approaching from behind.

  Both analysts rushed back to the cockpit, alarmed. They looked through the cockpit's camera feeds. In the distance, a massive red mushroom cloud began to form, casting an eerie glow that turned the sky crimson.

  "Both of you, sit down now!" the pilot barked, his voice strained. "We're making an emergency water landing!"

  Before either analyst could respond, the plane was rocked by another shockwave, knocking both pilots unconscious. The plane began to break apart mid-air, pieces of metal tearing free from the fuselage. One of the analysts, panicked, scrambled to strap in as the other managed to do the same. The plane plummeted rapidly, its wings torn off, and the cabin flooded with pressure.

  "HOLD ON!" one analyst shouted as the jet dropped from 10,000 feet to barely 1,000 in seconds. They crashed into the water with a deafening impact. One analyst died instantly from the force of the crash, while the other barely survived, dazed and disoriented but somehow still alive. His mind raced, focusing on one urgent directive in case of emergencies: get to the containment unit.

  The surviving analyst unbuckled his seatbelt and swam toward the cage, which had been shattered on impact. The Neuro parasite, instinctively reacting to the chaos, struggled in its container, but it couldn't break free from the reinforced alloy.

  The analyst fought against the water, struggling to reach the gate. He was almost drowning himself, but managed to unlock the cage just as the patient seized his body. With the key in hand, the patient forced the gate open and pulled himself out of the wreckage.

  He swam through the submerged plane, pushing the lifeless body of the analyst aside. It took several minutes to reach the surface, his strength unwavering despite the impact. The wrecked jet floated in the water, its engines still roaring, creating an ominous hum. Explosions rang out sporadically as the plane began to sink into the ocean, and a thick red cloud hung in the sky above them.

  The patient reached the surface, breathing heavily. The sound of jet engines echoed through the chaos. He swam toward some floating debris, gasping for air and coughing violently. The plane was slowly sinking, and he clung to a wing for support.

  As he lay there, dazed and in shock, he looked around the vast, empty ocean. Soon, the entire plane would be swallowed whole. But his attention was drawn to something on the side of the sinking plane—sticking out against the white paint was black text.

  Institution of Anarchy Restrainment Operations.