2: Chapter 2: Buying Androids and Deploying Them in the Las Vegas

[System Store refreshed.]

[Currently available items: All items are based on the host's current script "Extraterrestrial Visitor" worldview and are all related to alien technology.]

Zhang Yi opened the store and scrolled down quickly.

The list of items was dazzling, ranging from the lowest-level alien material samples to the highest-level interstellar navigation technology; of course, the prices were worlds apart.

High-level items cost hundreds of thousands or even millions of emotional points, which he couldn't afford at all.

He filtered for what he could afford: under 2000 emotional points.

The interface immediately simplified.

After excluding most of the expensive items, Zhang Yi's attention was firmly caught by one item.

[Nano Bionic Construction Unit, Price: 500 emotional points/unit]

[Description: Can be used to construct a completely simulated android individual according to the host's mental settings.]

[This android is biologically indistinguishable from a normal human, possessing independent physiological systems, nervous systems, and behavioral logic.]

[The host can freely set its appearance, body type, gender, age, and basic behavioral patterns; once construction is complete, the android will operate strictly according to the behavioral logic set by the host.]

Zhang Yi's eyes lit up.

This was it.

Without hesitation, he bought all four Nano Bionic Construction Units.

2000 emotional points, instantly zeroed out.

Four unactivated bionic construction slots popped up on the interface, waiting for his settings.

Zhang Yi took a deep breath and began the operation.

First slot.

He closed his eyes and traced the image in his mind: Grey Alien.

Classic grey skin, big head, two large, pupil-less black oval eyeballs, small body, slender limbs, about 1.2 meters tall.

This was the most classic alien image that had been circulating for nearly a century.

He didn't need innovation; what he wanted was this classic look with the highest dissemination rate.

Setting complete.

Confirm.

Second and third slots.

Two men in black.

Wearing unmarked black suits, white shirts, black ties, tall, expressionless, moving quickly and silently.

They were the classic image that made people think of field agents from secret government departments at a glance.

The facial features didn't need to be too recognizable; the more blurred, the more terrifying.

Setting complete.

Confirm.

Fourth slot.

A middle-aged woman.

White, about forty years old, wearing a dark grey administrative suit, rimless glasses, and a capable short hairstyle common among female officials in the Federal Government.

Her aura was not about beauty, but majesty.

The kind of quiet majesty possessed by someone with real power in a vast bureaucratic system.

Setting complete.

Confirm.

[Ding!]

[Four Nano Bionic Construction Units have been successfully produced.]

[Script "Extraterrestrial Visitor" is about to begin.]

[Please select the stage for deploying the props.]

The holographic map in front of Zhang Yi expanded.

The territory of the Lighthouse Country floated in his field of vision, from the East Coast to the West Coast, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico.

There were over a dozen locations marked with red dots by the system, all of which were "stages" suitable for deploying script props.

Zhang Yi looked at them one by one.

New Mexico, Roswell, too deliberate.

Washington D.C., too risky.

New York, too noisy.

His finger slowly slid across the map and finally stopped at a red dot in the western inland.

Nevada.

Las Vegas.

The Gambling City.

The City of Sin.

A neon kingdom in the desert.

A place where madness and absurdity were staged every day.

In this place, anything could happen, and any sighting could be drowned out by the noise and alcohol of the Gambling City.

This was it.

Zhang Yi's fingertip tapped lightly on the red dot.

Confirm deployment.

...

Las Vegas, City Hall, third-floor corridor.

When Howard Miller, Chief of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, backed out of the mayor's office, the expression on his face was as if he had just swallowed a live fly.

He was fifty-four years old this year and had worked in the Las Vegas police system for thirty years, rising from a patrol officer to chief; he had seen all kinds of storms.

But the things the mayor said behind closed doors still made his blood pressure soar.

… "What is wrong with people in your police department? A speeding ticket, does that young officer of yours not recognize license plates or people?"

He didn't recognize them.

Howard answered for his unlucky subordinate in his heart.

The young man who had just graduated from the police academy less than six months ago really didn't recognize them.

He didn't know who was sitting in that silver-grey Porsche Cayenne, didn't know whose son was behind that license plate.

He just followed the damn traffic laws, stopped a car doing sixty-two miles per hour in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone, and issued a ticket according to regulations.

And then the chief became the mayor's punching bag.

Howard sighed, straightened the corner of his uniform that he had subconsciously crumpled while being lectured, and walked toward the elevator.

His leather shoes stepped on the grey marble floor tiles of the City Hall corridor, making a dull and weary sound.

"Chief Howard."

A young, smiling voice came from the side of the corridor.

Howard stopped and turned his head.

A young man with blonde hair, wearing a dark blue casual suit, was leaning against a pillar in the corridor, holding an Americano bought from the City Hall cafe, giving him a casual smile.

The young man had regular features, skin of a healthy wheat color that could only be tanned by playing golf, and a Patek Philippe watch on his wrist; the whole person exuded an innate sense of superiority from the inside out.

Link Warren.

The only son of State Senator Edward Warren.

The blood pressure that Howard had just managed to suppress rose again.

"Mr. Warren."

Howard nodded at him, his tone polite and restrained.

"Just finished getting lectured?"

Link walked over with a smile, his pace leisurely, like he was strolling in his own backyard.

"I just happened to pass by and saw you coming out of the mayor's office; your face doesn't look too good."

"What, some trouble at work?"

Howard looked at his face, which was clearly asking about something he already knew, and felt like a stone was blocked in his heart.

But his face still maintained the professional quality of an old policeman, the necessary polite smile.

"Nothing major," he said.

"Really?"

Link took a sip of coffee, then, as if he had suddenly remembered something, tapped his forehead lightly.

"Oh, right, Chief Howard, there's one thing I still haven't had a chance to thank you for in person."

His tone paused slightly, and his smile deepened.

"It's about that speeding ticket of mine last week."

"You know, my dad is a real nag; if he knew I was speeding, he'd lecture me for half a month."

"Thanks to you, Chief, for helping me get that ticket cleared."

The smile at the corner of Howard's mouth stiffened slightly.

That ticket.

The one he had spent two whole days on, flipping through every regulation, making up three sets of reasons for cancellation, before successfully wiping it from the system.

The "help" Link was talking about was the kind of "help" that used his father's identity as a State Senator, through the mayor, through the municipal budget committee, through a series of pressure transmissions that only existed in the dark undercurrents of power, layering them on, and finally gripping Howard's throat like an invisible giant hand.

If he didn't cancel it, he would lose his job.

Thirty years of police career, from street patrol to today, all zeroed out because of one legal speeding ticket.

"It's my duty, Mr. Warren," Howard said.

His voice was steady, and his expression had no flaws, just as an old bureaucrat who had floated in the system for half a lifetime should appear: tamed, sensible, and docile.

Link looked at him, the curve of his mouth carrying a kind of knowing understanding.

He knew this old policeman hated him.

So what?

In this state, in Nevada, there were many people who hated the Warren Family.

From the city government to the state legislature, from Las Vegas to Carson City, who among those who said "Senator Warren is a respectable politician" to his face wasn't gritting their teeth behind his back?

But in the end, it was all the same.

Those who should flatter still flattered.

Those who should bow their heads still bowed.

Those who should be sensible still were.

Link threw the empty coffee paper cup into the trash can in the corridor, waved casually at Howard as a farewell, and then walked toward the elevator with his hands in his pockets.

When the City Hall staff on both sides of the corridor saw him pass by, some lowered their heads and pretended to look at documents, some turned to the side and pretended to make calls, and some couldn't help but take half a step back.

Some were whispering.

"Isn't that Senator Warren's son?"

"It's him; seems like he went to find the Chief just now; I saw the Chief's expression didn't look right…"

"Need to ask? Who doesn't know about that ticket last week…"

Link heard it.

He couldn't be bothered to care.

The elevator door opened, he walked in, and pressed B2, the underground parking lot.

The metal door slowly closed in front of him, isolating the whispering sounds in the corridor.

In the closed elevator space, only he remained, along with the shadows cast by the lights.

At this moment, his phone vibrated.

He took it out and saw a message from a friend.

"Heard your dad is going to officially announce his run for governor next month?"

"Congrats in advance, bro; do I have to call you the Governor's son from now on?"

Link did not reply.

But on the face reflected in the elevator's mirror wall, the curve of the mouth deepened a little more.

The elevator stopped at the B2 floor.

The moment the door opened, the dim and empty underground parking lot rushed toward him like a huge shadow.

The fluorescent tubes overhead were a bit old, a few flickering on and off, making a faint buzzing sound of electricity.

The air smelled of damp concrete and faint car exhaust.

Link walked toward his Porsche Cayenne.

That silver-grey SUV was parked alone in a corner spot against three walls.

This spot was the best in the City Hall underground parking lot, closest to the elevator, with independent partitions, and the spot was wide enough to park another motorcycle.

On the wall above the spot hung a blue metal sign with white letters: "Reserved".

In the Las Vegas City Hall parking lot, being able to own a spot marked "Reserved" was in itself a symbol of power.

Link opened the car door and sat in the driver's seat without starting the engine.

His father, Edward Warren, was still in a meeting upstairs, and he had to wait.

He adjusted the seat back, took out his phone, and prepared to kill some time in the car.

Just then.

A sound of metal friction came from the depths of the parking lot.

The sound was very light, but in this empty, enclosed space, it was exceptionally clear.

Link frowned slightly.

He listened, thinking it was some strange noise from aging pipes.

But soon he realized something was wrong; the sound was rhythmic.

It was like something crawling in metal pipes, one, two, three, with some kind of movement logic that only living things had.

Then there was a "clang" sound.

The iron grate cover of the ventilation duct was pushed open from the inside.

Link's phone slipped from his hand and fell onto the seat.

He turned his head and looked out through the car window.

Under the dim light, he saw something.

A head.

Only the size of a basketball, entirely presenting a grey-white color that did not belong to any species in this world.

The head was very large, extremely disproportionate to its small body.

Two large black eyes occupied nearly half of the face area, no whites, no pupils, only two clusters of pure, deep, pitch-black that seemed to be able to absorb light.

The thing slid out of the ventilation duct.

Its movements were as light as a cat, making almost no sound when its limbs landed.

It was about 1.2 meters tall, wearing some kind of unknown grey tight-fitting suit, its slender limbs supporting it on the ground, the whole posture both human-like and beast-like.

Then, it sensed something.

It turned its head.

It saw Link.

Link saw it.

One human and one alien creature, under the dim lights of the B2 underground parking lot of Las Vegas City Hall, stared at each other in silence for two seconds through the front windshield of the Porsche Cayenne.