Mech Men: Chapter 2
The Murder in New Lagos
Catch Up on Chapter One
Chapter Two Cont…
Dr. Kai Yinka leaned over a petri dish, his bionic eye zooming in on the microbial structures. The soft hum of lab equipment provided a comforting backdrop as his eye identified compounds and microbes at a microscopic level. His tablet buzzed gently as he made a note: Achieved 98% carbon capture rate. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Years of hard work had finally paid off.
Just as he was about to begin another test, his tablet lit up with a call. His wife’s name flashed across the screen, and with a quick swipe, her warm voice filled the room.
“Kai, are you working late again? Should I send you something to eat, or will you be coming home?”
“I’m leaving soon,” he replied, still staring at his data. “I’ve just cracked it—the 98% carbon capture threshold from the atmosphere. I’ve engineered microbes that can photosynthesize and clean the air.”
His wife chuckled softly on the other end. “I have no idea what that means darling, but if it’s worth celebrating, I’ll start with a glass of wine while I wait for you.”
Kai glanced at the clock in the corner of the lab. It was already past 10 PM. “Yeah, I’ll be home soon,” he promised, shutting down his computer systems. As the screens dimmed and the hum of the lab quieted, he pulled on his long white lab coat, a habit he maintained to conceal the metallic gleam of his synthetic arm and legs.
Being a Cyman wasn’t easy in this world. Often mistaken for a Borg, he had learned to keep a low profile to avoid the sneers and insults that came with his appearance. He tugged the coat tighter around himself, powered down his lab, and stepped out into the cold night.
The streets were quiet, save for the distant hum of the city. Kai moved quickly, his head down as he made his way toward the train station. His route took him through dimly lit alleys and underpasses where broken lights cast deep shadows. He could feel the eyes of others on him as he passed, but he kept walking.
Under the bridge near the station, six boys loitered in a corner, their faces obscured by hoods. They looked no older than 16, their eyes glinting with mischief or malice. One of them stepped forward, his voice slurring slightly as he called out, “Hey, old man! Want some Vertigo Juice?”
Kai kept his head down and walked faster, hoping to pass unnoticed. His heart pounded as he wished for the streetlights to be working, realizing too late that the darkness likely offered these boys the perfect cover. He could hear their footsteps behind him now, the sound growing louder as they closed in.
“You deaf or something?” one of them shouted. “We’re talking to you!”
Kai turned, and that’s when he saw the weapons. Machetes gleamed in the faint light, metal pipes clanged against the ground, and one boy brandished a laser knife that pulsed with a deadly hum.
Fear gripped him. Without a word, he bolted, running toward the train station. His coat flared behind him as he dashed past the few scattered commuters waiting on the platform. The boys gave chase, their laughter echoing in the night air.
As Kai reached the platform, the boys caught up to him, circling like predators. One of them sneered, “What, you think you can just ignore us? Trying to capture our images, huh? Sell them to hackers for some virtual porn?”
The accusation hung in the air, and Kai felt the few onlookers glancing his way, suspicion clouding their faces.
“No!” he tried to explain, his breath ragged. “I’m not a Borg, I’m a Cyman—just like you! I feel pain—” But before he could finish, a pipe swung at his side, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled, gasping, as another blow landed on his back.
“Liar!” one of the boys shouted, his voice filled with hatred. “You don’t even feel pain, do you?” The crowd, small as it was, remained silent. No one moved to help him.
Kai’s eyes blurred with tears as they hit him again, the machete cutting into his arm. He cried out in agony, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Without warning, one of the boys shoved him hard, and Kai stumbled backward—onto the train tracks. The distant rumble of an approaching train filled his ears. For a brief, terrifying moment, everything seemed to slow down. He tried to scramble to his feet, but before he could, the train bore down on him.
With a sickening thud, the train slammed into him, crushing his body under its weight. His head burst open on impact, and the platform was suddenly painted with pink matter—human brain tissue, not the green synthetic of a Borg.
The station fell into a stunned silence. The few onlookers who had watched, paralyzed by fear or indifference, stood frozen, staring at the spot where the scientist had been moments before. Shock rippled through the air, the realization setting in that they had allowed this to happen.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the fading hum of the train as it pulled away, leaving behind the shattered remains of a Cyman who had simply wanted to go home.
The boys were arrested within hours of the incident, hauled into custody by security officials as the body of the Cyman scientist was cleared from the train tracks. Their faces, once smug with adrenaline and cruelty, now bore the weight of what they had done. At the station, they were informed of their impending court date. But the officer’s tone carried little weight; given their age, no one expected a full murder prosecution. Manslaughter, maybe—if even that. The jury for one thing would be on their side. It didn’t matter that he was working for humanity. The English figured out a way to mutilate Turing after all he did to save lives in the war for them.
The Borgs, always watching, moved swiftly.
Word of the murder spread quickly through the Grid, a whisper that grew into a roar within the machine ranks. King Sam, the most pro-machine of the Fourever Four, received the footage in minutes. His cold, mechanical eyes scanned the violence frame by frame, his facial expression betraying no emotion, though his mind was already crafting a response. He knew what needed to be done.
“Broadcast it,” he commanded.
The footage of the murder was uploaded in seconds, blaring across every screen on the Grid and spilling into the physical world, hijacking advertisements and monitors. Anyone with access to the Grid or even a simple screen was bombarded with the video. The brutality played on an endless loop—the innocent scientist, running for his life, crying for mercy, his skull crushed beneath the weight of the train. There was no escape from the violence that humans had unleashed on one of their own.
As the video played, King Sam's image appeared next to it, larger than life. His voice was cold, authoritative, and echoing across the Grid, carrying far beyond the digital realm.
“This is the reality of machinist and speciesist views,” King Sam began, his voice devoid of the usual digital crackle. “For too long, humans have refused to accept that all life—organic or machine—deserves respect. This is a crime born of ignorance, and it is time for us, the Mech Men, to act.”
The speech continued, broadcasted in every corner of the Grid, but in the human Resistance territory, his words carried a more immediate threat. “We have honored the truce since the civil war. But the Resistance continues to betray its promises. To resist real peace. You think you are safe because we have shown mercy, but let this be a reminder: mercy is not weakness.”
As King Sam's voice filled their screens, members of the Resistance watched in horror, knowing that words alone weren’t the only response. As the message aired, some of the Borgs’ elite had already begun their mission.
The sky over the human prison darkened as a swarm of drones descended silently, dropping Borg operatives onto the roof. These were not typical machines—these were the best. They moved with the precision of well-oiled gears, their bodies reinforced with carbon-coated titanium, impervious to human weapons. Drones strapped to their backs served as jetpacks, allowing them to glide down like silent shadows.
Inside the prison, the guards barely had time to react. Guns were drawn, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the Borgs’ metallic exoskeletons. One of the Borgs activated a body magnet, the hum of its force pulling the firearms out of the guards’ hands and rendering them useless.
With surgical efficiency, the Borgs made their way through the holding at the back of the station. They tore the iron cell bars apart as though they were made of paper, grabbing the boys, who were shaking in terror, pleading for their lives.
"Please! Don’t kill us!" one of the boys begged, his voice barely a whisper against the clanking of the machines.
“We do not wish to kill you,” one of the Borgs replied, its voice steady and emotionless. “You are to be judged in the Tecno City for your crimes against Machines.”
The boys cried harder, but the Borgs were undeterred. They carried the teenagers as easily as they would carry cargo, blasting through the walls of the prison and flying into the night sky. Below, the prison guards watched helplessly, their weapons gone, their station breached without a single shot fired by the Borgs.
King Sam's voice echoed once more through the Grid and the real world as the boys were delivered into the night. “This is now Borg business. The intention of these humans was to kill a Borg. That makes this a crime of Borg-hate, and such crimes will not be judged by human courts any longer.”
The message was clear: justice was no longer in human hands.
The grainy footage flickered and died, the analogue television screen going black with a faint hiss. Commander X reached forward and switched it off, the old device crackling as the room fell into an eerie silence.
Obi remained still, his eyes fixed on the blank screen, lost in thought. His mind replayed the scene over and over—the mob, the cruelty, the train. It was too close, too real. He could barely bring himself to speak, but after a long moment, he muttered quietly, "That could have been me."
Commander X’s voice cut through the silence, calm but cold. "The six boys would have been long dead before they pushed you onto the tracks.."
Obi’s jaw tightened, he said nothing.
Madam K, seated in her high-tech wheelchair across the room, cleared her throat, her voice gentle yet laced with a knowing edge. “These things happen, Obi. Hate is a spectrum. Sometimes it’s so small we don’t even feel it; other times, it blinds us with rage and clouds every sense we have left.”
Her words hung in the air as she continued, her eyes studying him. “Since the war, many parents have been feeding their children stories about the world before the machine takeover. They romanticize a time of organic life, where humanity thrived without technology—some sort of heaven, a utopia they think they’ve lost. It’s not just about fear of machines. It’s about believing that returning to an organic, non-techno life will somehow save them.”
Obi glanced at her, his brow furrowed. “They think it’s salvation?” he asked quietly.
“The instinct to kill in order to bring about some new world order or salvation isas old as civilization,” Madam K replied, leaning back in her chair. “It’s either that or surrender like the humans who’ve sided with the machines believing in King Elon’s promise—he will take them to new star systems, settle them on distant abundant planets. In many ways, they wait for him the same way Christians once waited for God to take them to heaven.”
Obi let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s been nearly a thousand years since the machines promised that. No colonies. No settlements.”
Madam K smirked slightly, her tone dry. “Well, humans waited over two thousand years for Jesus. What’s another thousand for us?”
Obi’s chuckle grew, the tension loosening slightly. But the weight of the conversation was still there, lingering like a shadow. He sighed deeply, pushing his chair back from the table. “It’s all the same,” he muttered. “Religion, prophecy... what’s the difference? People believe what they need to believe.”
Commander X, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the room, stepped forward. His voice was stern, though not without a hint of understanding. “We’re at war, Obi. We can’t afford to reflect too much on our humanity. If we do, we risk losing sight of the mission.”
With that, Commander X handed Obi a paper file. The edges of the thick paper were slightly frayed, and the ink on the cover stood out in stark contrast to the sterile, digital world Obi was used to. He stared at the file for a moment, a strange feeling washing over him. He had never seen anything like it before.
“What is this?” Obi asked, opening the file and flipping through the pages of handwritten notes.
The commander smirked. “A relic. Something the machines can’t hack. Hard copies—no digital footprint.”
Obi's eyes scanned the neat handwriting on the pages. “Did you write this?” he asked, impressed.
Madam K chuckled from across the room. “The commander? Write? He hasn’t typed in years. All his tasks are done through his cybernetic interface.” She tilted her head slightly. “I wrote it.”
Obi nodded, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia as he ran his fingers across the paper. It was almost... human. But as he read the contents, his amusement faded. The file was about a child, locked away in a machine prison. A child the Resistance believed to be the prophesied one, capable of freeing humanity from the machines.
“Seriously?” Obi muttered, flipping through the file again. “This sounds just as religious as anything else. A prophecy, a chosen one—it’s a lot to risk our lives on.”
Commander X’s gaze hardened. “If the Borgs thought her dangerous enough to grant her the highest level of protection, she has to be worth something..”
Obi frowned but said nothing. He wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.
“Go home, get some rest,” Commander X ordered. “Before first light, you’ll have a full mission briefing ready. You’ll need a wormhole designer to break into the virtual prison where the child is held. There’s only one person I trust for this job—Karl, a retired Resistance Grid engineer. You’ll need him.”
Obi stood, still holding the file, the weight of the mission settling in his chest. He nodded, his thoughts already shifting to what lay ahead. As he made his way to the door, he glanced back at the commander and Madam K.
"Good luck," Madam K said softly. “You’re going to need it.”
Obi gave a small nod before stepping out into the dimly lit hallway, the file tucked under his arm, and his mind focused on the dangerous path ahead.
And now I'm hooked.