The targets name was 'Haizel Lynchester', and he scanned down on the PDA's digital screen to view the mugshots that the company's undercover agents had gotten of her. Several of her in 'human' form,  and also several shots of her in her transformed version.  Heck scanned back up passed the several provocative pictures of her perfectly formed naked body, to a closeup of her head and stared at the image of girl's eyes. There was just something about them, something that he couldn't stop staring at. 'Haizel...' He quietly whispered to himself.<br/><br/>After several long minutes of staring at the hologram interpretation of the targetâ€™s eyes, he shook his head and pulled himself back into reality. He scanned back up to the top of the fileâ€™s information section and saw that the Location section was blank; a blinking question mark teased him. This was a conundrum, usually NCPHRC (North Central Positronics Holy Roman Church) has very thorough Intel on the targets they wanted neutralized, and this file contained more than one of the blinking question mark icons.<br/><br/>No â€˜known associatesâ€™, no â€˜Pack Nameâ€™, not even a symbol of any kind, in order to identify them whilst in human form. The fact that the Corporate Priests had never sent an agent after a â€˜lone wolfâ€™ in all his memory was enough to make the mind wonder. Usually they were more concerned with larger, highly organized packs, terrorist cells set on sending the world back to the Stone Age. Here though, here was one lone female and they choose to send a high level agent to bring her down, it just didn't make any damn sense.<br/><br/>Heck tossed the PDA down and on the plush synthetic leather couch and stood, stretching out his morning stiffened tall, lanky frame. His muscular frame was marred by several scars, all reminders of past battles, and the very cases heâ€™d solved in order to reach this lofty career plateau. It had been a tough run, heâ€™d been so focused on climbing the corporate ladder that heâ€™d never taken any real time to slow down and enjoy the success. No real relationships of any substance, or even any real friendships for that matter. Only things and yes he had the best of everything this hyper-modern life had to offer; a high-end retro fitted Hovercar, the best synthetic fiber furniture, 13â€™ holographic television, and even a synthetic maid for housekeeping and manual tension relief settingsâ€¦ But none of these material possessions meant a thing to him. He would just as soon, watch it all burn up in a riot if it meant he could find his true purpose or even just something to make him feel again.<br/><br/>Heck walked to the window of his sky-high penthouse and flipped the switch which opened the steel slat-shutters and let in the real world outside. It was nice up above the cloud of pollution, the sun was setting and purples and pinks flowed in basking his lean body in its setting brilliance. But all one had to do was drop their eyes to realize what was below the fog, down at street level was the real world; it glowed a dingy orange, and it was the color of hell. It also happened to be where the vast majority of the populace lived and worked, trying to eke out an existence in the super poor conditions.<br/><br/>It was then that a digital alarm went off and shook him from brooding over the economic woes of the uber-destitute plight of humanity; it was time to go to work. Heck walked the distance to his swank closet and the high-tech sensors recognized his preprogramed schedule, it opened automatically to his work uniform. He stood with his arms spread and the robotic arms that emerged took care of the rest. First was the cybernetically enhanced, exo-skeletal body armor, it was a necessity in this line of work, as most cases involved internally enhanced suspects.  As a member of the NCPHRC you werenâ€™tâ€™ allowed to alter yourself in any way, so the company had devised the loophole of the externally driven apparatus in order to keep their agents physical capabilities on par with the insurgences they hunted. It worked well but unlike their nannite infused prey, the suit could be damaged and disabled in a close-combat fight.<br/><br/>Next was his street clothes, he was a decorated Detective after all and he didnâ€™t have to wear the nazi-esque uniform that younger officers did. The clothes were replicas of actual fashions worn during the 30â€™s,  fashion sense had started to lean in the â€˜fedora & trench coatâ€™ sensibilities that the great depression reflected, most likely because of the current societyâ€™s mirror state of those economically repressed times.<br/>Finally the automated closet arms get to his weapon harness and utility belt. His twin 45 caliber railgun-pistols tucked under each arm, loaded with depleted uranium, silver-oxide shells. The stream lined utility belt carried every high tech implement an agent might need for taking down enhanced criminals. When the dressing machine had finished, it held out a pair of vintage â€˜Raybanâ€™ sunglasses, they were period correct and heâ€™d paid two yearsâ€™ salary just to buy them.<br/><br/>Heck set out to the transport tube, he punched the button marked street level, and the computer asked â€œAre you sure?â€. It was a safety precaution, for the rich drunks, it was so they didn't end up down with the â€˜heathensâ€™ accidently, he pushed â€˜yesâ€™ without hesitation.  Heck didn't fear the streets, he thrived there.<br/><br/>The tube shot down at amazing speeds, but it still took several minutes to reach the bottom, sky-high sky-scrappers weren't just a figure of speech any more, you literally lived among the clouds, if you could afford it of course. Heck watched out the viewing port as the beautiful sunset rose away and the thick clouds of pollution swept by the window.  The old city soon came into view; the foundation level buildings were ragged, uncared for and generally looked abandoned.  It was almost always dark and rainy here, in the stink of the place was palatable.  Droves of homeless and destitute mingled around barrels of burning organic matter, there clothes were ragged and their faces dirty.<br/><br/>Heck stepped out into the muck, most likely a pile of human excrement, he shook it from his self-cleaning boots just as four toothless men scramble for him. â€œGot any spare creditsâ€™ mister?â€ They chimed almost in unison.<br/><br/>Heck said nothing, he only flashed his cross shaped NCPHRC badge and the filth covered miscreants scuttled back into the shadow from which they came. The wall next to his transport tube opened and revealed the portable garageâ€™s inside. It was vintage 2012 Dodge Challenger, affixed with a hover conversion kit, another vintage toy that his successful career afforded him, but it severed dual purpose as it was also his pursuit cruiser. It was faster and handled far better than most modern hover cars and its excessive motor allowed him to chase down any fleeing suspect. He got in and roared the engine to life, the wheels folded under and it took flight, hovering gently in the bright white garage.<br/><br/>Heck punched the coordinates of the brothel district into his GPS onboard computer. He had no real information on his target, so he had to start his investigation somewhere and that was as good as place as any.  Lycanthropes were considered a sexual fetish, and went for a high price in the sex industry; many of them used prostitution to supplement their incomes while involved in their terroristic activities.<br/><br/>Heck punched the accelerator and the car bolted off into the skyway, screaming down through the slower pieced-together hover-Junkers that clogged the air-roads.  â€œ'Haizel Lynchester"  he repeated her name again as the image of her gorgeous eyes burned into his mind.