October 25, 2021
~5 min
The factory building in the outskirts was rented by 47. The monthly rent was cheap, because no one wanted to stay in a place like this -- an aging industrial zone where the air smelled of rust and diesel, with the nearest bus stop two kilometers away.
But this was exactly the kind of place 47 needed. No neighbors, no surveillance, no one paying attention to what happened inside.
She turned the building into a temporary test site. At the center stood a heating rig she had welded herself, with containers of every size scattered around it. Fluid-titanium samples had grown from a few tubes to several liters -- she found a not-quite-legal supply channel and spent half a year of savings.
Today's experiment was different from the dozens before it. 47 added a cooling circulation layer to the base of the heater, drove temperature down to -40C with liquid nitrogen, then pulsed power and spiked it to 2,000C. A full transition from frozen to molten in one second.
In theory, that would force fluid titanium molecular chains to reconfigure under extreme thermal contrast and form a more stable lattice.
In theory.
17:20.
When 47 hit the power switch, every light in the building flared blindingly bright, then died at once. The heater emitted a low hum.
17:23. The hum rose into a scream.
47 stepped back twice. The heater casing began to swell, blue light seeping from weld seams. No -- not seeping. Pouring out. The fluid-titanium chain reaction had gone out of control, and the sealed chamber had no outlet for the energy.
17:26. Explosion.
The shock wave threw 47 to the ground. Shrapnel and blue liquid sprayed at the same time. Half the roof collapsed, and a steel beam slammed down less than a meter from her.
Fire. Not normal fire -- fluid titanium burned blue-white, several times hotter than ordinary flames. The left side of 47's face was turned toward the blast point; the heat wave burned her skin in fractions of a second.
Pain snapped her awake. She pushed herself up with her right hand; her left eye could barely open. Smoke everywhere, broken metal everywhere, debris everywhere.
But she did not check her wounds first. She looked to the heater -- or what remained of it.
In the middle of the twisted metal sat a small clump of blue liquid. It had not spread, had not evaporated -- it remained quietly condensed, its surface faintly luminous.
47 carefully transferred the blue clump from the wreckage into a backup container. Her hands shook -- not from fear, but from adrenaline crashing.
The evening news would definitely run this story. 47 could already hear the headline wording --
“Reportedly, at 17:26 today, an explosion occurred in a factory building in the suburbs. The explosion caused a structural collapse. Fortunately, there were no casualties. Part of a blue substance was discovered on site and identified as fluid titanium...”
Fortunately, no casualties. She smiled once, pulled at the burn on the left side of her face, and winced.
47 pulled her hood low to cover half her face, tucked the fluid-titanium container inside her coat, and walked out of the collapsed building. It was already dark outside. Autumn wind blew cold through the empty industrial district.
She walked toward home, steps steady.
The fluid titanium in her arms gave off a faint warmth. In the gray dusk, that tiny blue glow was the only color.