The floors
Burglar discovers world shaking truth must make decision
Choice's stealth suit absorbed the building city's glow as he clung to the outside of the monolithic tower. Suspended between the choking haze of the lower floors and the crystalline heights above. His augmented glove's claws found microscopic purchase in the seamless Perma glass and Dora steel, each movement calculated and deliberate. The suit's AI flickered data across the inside of his visor: temperature 15°C, wind speed 12 km/h, visibility optimal. Far below, the endless pollution churned like a living thing, a reminder of the world he'd long since left behind.
He froze as a faint hum grew louder, the distinct clicking of metallic legs drawing near. One of the security drones—a mechanical six-legged spider, its sleek frame bristling with maintenance tools and lethal armaments—skittered across the tower’s surface, its sensors scanning for anything out of place. The AI tracked its trajectory, marking it with a pulsing red outline in his vision.
Choice held his breath, trusting the stealth tech woven into his suit to blend him seamlessly into the tower's reflective façade. The drone paused just meters from him, its narrow lenses emitting faint beams of light as it searched for any anomalies. He remained motionless, every muscle, relaxed, as the drone continued its patrol. The upper floors didn’t just rely on drones for upkeep; they were the first line of security, and a single misstep would mean a hail of weapon fire raining down on him.
The hum faded as the drone scuttled out of range, the AI confirming its departure with a soft chime. He exhaled, his hands starting their climb once more. The target was still 300 meters above, and every inch of the climb was a delicate dance between precision and survival.
Reaching his destination. The glass dissolved silently under his cutting tools. Choice slipped into the penthouse's living room. With feline grace, vertical pupils adjusting instantly to the darkness. Ostentation surrounded him—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, gold-leafed covered walls. Original Ran Goghs and purcassos hung like cheap decorations. The AI mapped the room, marking entry points, security systems, and escape routes. Choice ignored the wealth on display. Amateurs got distracted by Shine. Professionals focused on the job.
The first sounds caught his attention halfway down a corridor. A woman's voice, breathless and straining with pleasure: "No, son, not there... Keep it in my ass. Because last time you got your old mom pregnant. I had to lie to your father. Luckily he believed me and one good thing from this honey. Now you get to be a dad. Without the responsibility and he thinks the child is his. " Choice's ears perked up from his skull. He activated his suit's recording function. Not out of interest, but habit. Blackmail material had value. The AI tagged the biosignatures through the wall: two individuals, minimal threat. He moved on, logging the location. Hearing the rhythmic slapping of bodies coming together and the vigorous male and feminine grunts and growls of pleasure fading into the background. Rich felines playing their rich games. Nothing he hadn't seen before.
The next doorway revealed. A corpulent leopard sprawled in a leather chair. Crystal Haze, the banned narcotic, dusted his whiskers and the table beside him. On his wall screen, security footage played—real killings from the lower floors, the kind of entertainment that got you executed anywhere below the 800th level. The leopard's glazed eyes fixed on the deaths with perverted fascination. Choice recorded this too. The AI noted his elevated heart rate; he suppressed it. Emotion was for amateurs. With minimum effort. Knowing the leopard man was too high to notice him. He ghosted past him and continued his journey.
Walking down the carpeted hallway, he noticed an open doorway, he crept up to it and peeked around the corner. In the study, the arms dealer's voice carried clearly through the opened door: "Listen, your credits are good, but I need the full payment before I ship it past the Liononus blockade. Even the K-9 Coalition banned this weapon after what it did to New Atlanta." A pause, followed by a throaty chuckle. "I don't care if Earth's treaties forbid it. You'll have your planet-killer once my accounts verify. The profit margins on restricted weaponry are too sweet to worry about... morality. It is for lessers, not us ." Another pause. "Yes, yes, I'm sure your 'civil unrest' will be dealt with quite permanently." Choice recorded the conversation out of professional habit, his whiskers twitching at the casual discussion of planetary devastation. The weapons trade was just another game of profits and power. No different from his own line of work. He moved on, footsteps silent. The data cube wasn't going to steal itself.
The kitchen's ambient lighting spilled across the polished marble island where a fox mother and daughter sat drinking tea, their well-groomed fur and tailored servant uniforms marking them as upper-floor staff despite their lower-floor origins. "Did I do alright tonight, Mom?" the nine-year-old fox girl asked? Smoothing down her uniform with manicured claws, a hint of eager approval in her voice. "You did beautifully, dear. But next time when she rolls over onto her stomach and raises her tail. Don't be afraid to lick her there. I taught you how to do that when you practice on me, don't hesitate. That's important. Help her feel good." the mother replied, sipping from a porcelain cup worth more than a citizen's wages below. "After our break, we'll head back to satisfy the mistress again." Her tone was matter-of-fact, content. The practiced ease of someone who'd chosen luxury's price over poverty's guarantee. The AI tagged their identities: registered servants, frequent night visitors to the mistress's quarters. Choice passed by silently, noting their relaxed postures and well-fed frames. Everyone on the floors made their deals for survival and moving up with in the System; some just negotiated better terms than others. He moved on—the data cube was waiting, and he had his own contract to fulfill.
The quiet of the room radiated possibilities, enhanced only by the faint whoosh of the recycled air through the building's. Circulation system. Choice stepped carefully, his boots soundless against the polished floor. The goal was here. This was it. A grand office, adorned with opulence only the absurdly wealthy could justify. His eyes scanned the walls until they settled on a large, ornate painting. Of an attractive lioness lounging on a golden sofa. Pleasuring herself. Typical. He crossed the room, fingers brushing the gilded frame before he moved it aside with practiced ease.
The safe beneath was sleek and state-of-the-art, but it might as well have been a toy. Choice knelt, his tools already in hand, and within moments the mechanisms surrendered to his expertise. The door swung open with a faint click, revealing a single object nestled inside: a data cube. Small, simple, and unassuming, it rested in its cradle as if mocking the security designed to protect it.
He plucked it from its resting place and turned it over in his gloved hand. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about its contents—he was a professional, not a curious bystander. But tonight, something gnawed at him. Maybe it was the weight of the cube, the subtle shift in his instincts, or just the stillness of the air. Whatever it was, it pushed him to speak.
"Analyze this,” he murmured, holding the cube up.
The AI responded immediately, its voice smooth and steady. "Processing,” it said as lines of data cascaded across his visor. Moments later, the results flooded in.
"Contents confirmed: a complete cure for the Floor Plague, synthesized and ready for distribution. Estimated efficacy: 99.7%.”
Choice froze. The plague had decimated the lower levels for as long as anyone could remember, sweeping through the poor like an invisible scythe. The rich above the 500th floor were untouched by its grasp. Now, here it was—a cure, buried behind steel and wealth, hoarded by those who’d never need it.
His fingers tightened around the cube. "Who am I stealing this from?” he asked, his voice low and sharp.
The AI took a moment, parsing through encrypted records. "Owner identified: Victoria Aureline, resident of Floor 921. The request originated from Marcus Venn, Floor 950. Both are ranked among the top 0.01% of economic wealth holders.”
A cynical laugh escaped him, short and harsh. Of course. The cure wasn’t a solution for the suffering masses; it was leverage in some power play between the elite. They’d let generations rot in the shadow of this disease, all for the sake of control and profit.
Choice stared at the cube for a long moment, its faint glow casting shadows on his mask. He didn’t need to open the mission log to know what the payday would be. It would buy him comfort, upgrades, and security. Yet the thought of leaving the cure to rot in another vault churned in his gut.
Still, he slipped the cube into his suit’s compartment. His decision would wait. For now, he had what he came for, and the rest was up to whatever gods still bothered watching the floors.
Making his way out from the level. Choice calculated. The cube in his hand represented specific values: his contracted payment, its world value, and the leverage it provided. The death toll if released carelessly. The continuing deaths if it remained hidden. Numbers and consequences are clear and quantifiable. Flowed through his mind. Below, the lower floors festered in their perpetual disease and squalor. Above, the elite dreamed their gilded dreams, hoarding their cure.
Choice began his descent, the cube secure in his inner pocket. His suit blended with the building's face, making him one more shadow in a world of shadows. On the floors, survival meant keeping your options open and your motives hidden. He'd stolen more than data tonight. He'd stolen possibility. Power. Whether he sold it to the highest bidder or released it to the masses was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, he was simply a professional, doing his job.