"I am Crstn," he said, his voice a flat, synthesized monotone.

He wasn't Crstn anymore.

Christian.

In the Director's office, a single red light began to blink.

"Report, Crstn," the Director said.

For twelve years, Crstn executed. He extracted. He erased. His body, a lattice of carbon-fiber filaments and bio-gel, could punch through a steel door or hold a heartbeat perfectly still. He felt no pain, no guilt, no joy. He was the perfect tool.