Footsteps rang out through the terminal.
A dark, sleek young man stood in the middle of the marble floor, surveying the scene with cold, steely eyes. His face stayed meticulously composed, unaware or unfeeling to the atrocity at his feet.
He folded his hands behind his back. The outside sunlight struggled to cut through the densely-condensed windows to cast its weak winter light on his mathematically-perfect chestnut hair.
If the passer-by had been close enough to the dark stranger, he would’ve noticed the glint of a government badge on the long black trench.
He would’ve also noticed the stranger’s chest failed to rise and fall.
He muttered, seemingly to himself, “990 has entered premises. Preparing to search.”
A response hummed in his ear: Permission to initiate search and snare. Target: remaining living persons.
It might’ve dawned on the passer-by: how can someone assist in this atrocity?
The response would’ve been hidden in the stranger’s sign-off: “Android 990 initiating search and snare.”