Unlimited Plan (*)

Death and security

1

Toronto, Canada

1 a.m. Calm reigns over the business district, between Front Street and Bloor Street. The tall towers proudly display the various logos of Canadian or international corporations that have made this financial capital their home. Despite federal instructions on energy conservation, most offices are still lit up and will remain so unnecessarily throughout the night.

In the wide avenues, the absence of vehicles does not diminish the determination of the traffic lights. They continue, tirelessly, their regulation job and draw chromatic arabesques in the city's darkness. The only persisting audible moan is the last tram's travel across town. Its mechanical refrain prevents its passengers from dozing off. These few night owls, mainly workers leaving the factories to the west of the metropolis, are heading back to the modest suburbs of Scarborough, further east.

While on the surface the trolley moves away from downtown, underground, the two subway lines come to a halt in agreement.

For the moment, the urban monster has fallen asleep. It will only awaken in a few hours, to the sound of the thousands of employees marching its streets.

In the ambient silence, the sucking noise of the revolving door resonates like a vacuum cleaner's roar. A man rushes out from the CIBC Tower and suddenly stops in the middle of the avenue. His light alpaca suit is wrinkled, his white shirt stained with sweat protrudes from his pants, and his tie hangs askew with a sagging knot. His anxious gaze betrays the mark of unspeakable fear. He puts his hands to his head and grabs his tousled brown hair with a grimace of suffering. Between walking and running, he staggers along the double yellow line that divides the road in two.

"But I did what you asked for, please, oh god please make it stop!" pleads Brian Wessler before collapsing face down.

At first, he lets out a hoarse groan of agony. Under the intensity of the pain, he begins to scream, fists clenched on his temples. Violent convulsions suddenly seize his body, and his arms flail like those of a mad puppet. The impression that he is swimming a disjointed breaststroke on the asphalt would surprise with realism any casual bystander, but at this hour the road is deserted, no witness sees this sordid scene. Abruptly, his torso arches, muscles strained to breaking point. His eyes roll back, his tongue stretches over a grotesque grimace, then all movement ceases. Brian Wessler collapses onto his stomach. A whitish foam escapes from his half-open mouth while a trickle of blood flows from his nostrils and left ear. A small vermilion pool begins to spread on the asphalt, contrasting with one of the canary-yellow paint stripes.

Brian's mobile phone, which slipped from his pocket during his fall, now lies a few inches from his lifeless feet. A melody as cheerful as it sounds incongruous rings out. It announces the arrival of an instant message that sharply previews on the notification screen: "U R dead!"

2

La Défense, France

"U R dead!" flashes on the phone's white screen that Jeremy Baltac has just pulled out of his jeans' pocket. He crosses the esplanade with a confident stride towards the tower of a major banking institution, and smiles as he flips back to his mobile's home page.

"Alex ... always so dramatic," he murmurs to himself.

At 7 a.m., the forecourt of La Défense is not yet teeming with people, but it is far from deserted. Among the dozens of skyscrapers, the huge shopping center, and the numerous hotels; a few zealous executives, municipal workers, and delivery men are buzzing on the vast white stone terrace.