Have one eye open

2| NEW YORK

Coco Vargas (NYC)

It was my first time in a big crowd, and New York City was a completely foreign experience to me. Most of my life had been spent in the facility, where the humans I encountered were... different. Sure, we had classes with other girls, but they usually consisted of small groups—ten to sixteen at most. As I improved—got better—they began to focus exclusively on my training. I got my own teacher, my own program. Human interaction quickly became something I seldom experienced.

Sometimes, I helped train other girls. But, as their favorite, I often declined. Socializing wasn't my thing, and I had no desire to grow attached to anyone. Most of my time was spent interrogating and torturing, or completing light missions they allowed me to handle. For them, I was a unicorn—unique, untamed, something extraordinary. And they couldn't get enough of it.

When I say "different," what I mean is "lacking emotion." Walking through Times Square now felt like I was stuck in a sardine can of color, sound, and life. The sheer variety of people crammed together overwhelmed me. It was almost humorous how easy it would be to pickpocket here—so many wallets ripe for the taking. Ironically, the facility liked to hammer home the lie that, should we ever escape, we'd have no way to survive. No money, no resources, nothing but a doomed struggle. Their "lesson" was nothing more than a sick scare tactic.

Joke's on them. They didn't scare me.

You're probably wondering, Hey, Coco, how the hell did you get from Russia to New York City?

Well, thank you for asking. I'm actually quite proud of myself for that one.
Once I realized I was in Russia—not much of a surprise—I got to work on recon. And it wasn't long before I found my way out.

A plane.

Yes, I stole a plane. Kind of. The tricky part was ensuring they wouldn't shoot me down mid-air, which would've been a disaster. But I managed to hack into an airline system from a random internet café and book a flight under some forged credentials. It's laughable how smooth the whole process ended up being.

But the real feat? Stealing a private jet. I happened to stumble upon a Russian oligarch's plane. It had a pre-arranged flight plan, though not for where I needed to go. No problem—I modified it. Then I boarded, killed the crew and the oligarch, and flew the damn thing myself.

And before you ask—yes, I can fly. Not expertly, mind you, but my facility training included rudimentary flight lessons. For once, their "education" came in handy. Sure, there were a few hairy moments, like when I nearly failed a landing check, but I got there in one piece.

Now, I'm here in New York City, with no clear idea of what to do next. My original plan of barging into my family's mansion and demanding a meeting was quickly scrapped. They're not people to take lightly. I'd need a better approach.

In the meantime, I needed cash. Living off the radar meant avoiding hacks or other trackable transactions, so I'd resort to the classic solution: theft.

How many times has someone stolen a plane, killed the crew, and escaped undetected?

Not many, I wager. So it's only a matter of time before they find me.

The only possessions I have are a backpack stolen in Russia, some weapons (a mix of guns and knives), and the file with all the intel. My black clothes and boots, though practical, make me stand out—but not enough to attract prolonged stares. Keeping my head low, I navigate the streets and scan for easy targets.

Now, it's time to hunt.

I spot a man in his late forties, looking tired and likely hungover. His tailored suit and leather shoes scream upper-class. The wallet in his inner jacket pocket? Easy pickings.

I bump into him, mutter an apology, and slip the wallet from his jacket. He keeps walking, completely unaware.

Success.

Inside the wallet, I find over two thousand in cash. I pocket the money, memorize his name and social security number, and toss the rest into a nearby bin.

One wallet isn't enough. I'll need more.

An hour later, I've gotten carried away. The thrill of stealing has distracted me, but I now have fifteen thousand in cash. More than enough to buy a laptop and secure a motel room.

I find an electronics store—an Apple store, to be exact. I'm familiar with their laptops from the facility.

"Hello, miss. What can I help you with today?" A bored-looking employee greets me with a fake smile.

"Yes," I reply, my tone curt. "I'd like a laptop good for coding. Something with a 16-core CPU, up to a 40-core GPU, large RAM, and a powerful processor—M3, ideally. Also, maximum storage space."

The employee's shock is almost amusing. "So... a MacBook Air 15-inch, then?" she asks.

I nod. "Yes."

With the laptop purchased and tucked into my bag, I consider renting a car. The logistics of acquiring fake identification make me think twice, so I dismiss the idea.

Instead, I hail a cab. It's awkward figuring out how it works, but I eventually find one. The driver, an older man, doesn't say much.

"Can you take me to a cheap motel on the outskirts?" I ask.

He nods and starts driving.

About halfway through the ride, I start setting up the laptop. The process is smooth, and I install my spyware and other necessary programs. Just as I finish, the driver clears his throat to get my attention.

"Martin sends his regards, Coco," he says casually.

I freeze, giving him only a nod before stepping out. He drives away without another word, leaving me standing in front of a run-down motel.

Inside, the place is better than expected. Worn, but clean. A single bed, a small nightstand, and a tiny bathroom. It's more than enough.

I empty my bag, organizing the contents before sitting on the bed with the laptop. Exhaustion creeps in, but my brain is still running on high alert.

Martin's message unnerves me. We've worked together before—begrudgingly. A strange, cryptic man with mysterious connections, Martin once reached out after I saved his life at the facility. Our arrangement is simple: I complete small favors for him, and he keeps me informed about my captors' activities.

But Martin's warnings are never this blunt.

I pull up his private message:

LOOK OUT COCO. THEY ARE COMING.

Shit.

===============================================

I like this