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    1. SandyGunfox 5 yrs ago

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Why on Earth am I so nervous?

Theresa straightened out the hem of her midnight-blue SFROTC uniform. She’d gone straight from class to the tech support center when they told her Ms. Ramana’s new phone was ready, and from there, straight here. She hadn’t even gone home to change.

Theresa didn’t exactly have Lott Ramana’s permission to copy her data onto a new device. A uniform, a sense of urgency, an ID card, and a lott of name-dropping had convinced the shop to replace her boss’s precious smartphone, but what if they called Ms. Ramana to confirm who Theresa was? Would she be mad at her for using her name for authority? Perhaps this surprise wasn’t a good idea after all. She should have just told Ms. Ramana what she was doing. And what if Ms. Ramana already got a new phone? Would someone as important as her really not have a backup device…?

Well, too late now.. I guess I should just present her new phone to her and hope I don’t get fired. She clutched the AetherTech Model X AR-assisted smartphone to her chest like it was a precious jewel.

The bright orange light from the setting sun reflected off the glass-and-metal front of the building, and Theresa raised her hand to shade her eyes. Above the glaring glass, neon lights crackled to life with a distinct hum, blazing letters into the dimming sky.

D O N U T S


Inside the establishment, Lott was staring at the rows of colorful donuts tucked safely behind a glass counter. When she had arrived the publicist had ordered a vodka tonic and soon found herself as confused as the young man behind the counter in the paper hat when he told her they weren’t a bar. She’d assumed Theresa had invited her out to a cutely named hip college bar full of bright faced young people who had yet to realize that they’d already peaked and not an actual donut shop that was modeled like an old school diner as long as you ignored the automatons running production. Lott was locked in a state of analysis paralysis. The donuts were swirling together like the paint on an artist's palette and becoming a muddied brown, and so that was the one she bought.

Moments later, Lott was sitting in a plastic booth with a styrofoam cup of black coffee and her eyes looking down at a plain, unglazed donut. So many of the other donuts were coated with sprinkles and glazes or filled with jelly and custard, but this one was just fried, somewhat burnt cakebread with an empty hole full of nothing inside of it. Lott had never felt a closer connection to something in her entire life. Other donuts sat on plates across from her for those who had yet to arrive, out of reach like distant strangers. Only the plain donut stayed by her side. She couldn’t eat such a good companion. Although after the day before and the day to come, she couldn’t eat anything anyway.

It was thoughts of Olex, not the debate or the bloodshed, that kept her stomach in a knot. The debate had all but been forgotten, something she was aware existed but unaware of why it mattered to her, like the ozone layer or a grandparent living in a nursing home. The bloodshed should’ve been the highlight of her life, being so close to real danger while never actually being in any danger of her own thanks to the sacrifice of a few brave, forgettable guards and to APEX for having bigger, better guns. All she could see was Olex. Their encounter kept replaying in her head, cutting right at the point where neither one of them would budge, confirming the fear in her mind. If she’d won their pissing contest she wouldn’t have deleted the footage. She was watching it for the millionth time that day, donut held up so it appeared as if Lott was discovering the mysteries of the universe by staring emptily through the hole, when someone approached her booth. There was no acknowledgement as Lott tore the donut in two and dropped one half in her coffee, leaving it to dissolve.

Theresa maintained a respectful distance as she waited for her boss to acknowledge her. The woman was clearly lost in thought, and she knew better than to interrupt.

Perhaps it had been foolish to invite her out for donuts. Surely someone so important had a lot of work to be doing at such a critical time. Right?

She shifted from one foot to the other and back, swaying lightly out of nerves and contenting herself to watch Lott Ramana’s brilliant mind at work, no doubt formulating precise answers to thorny, loaded questions at tonight’s debate. A single word out of place, a single thought in haste or in excess of the facts, could spell disaster for a political campaign. She must be under enormous pressure.

After several quiet minutes, she stepped aside to quietly place an order. She selected a couple specialty donuts for herself - key-lime-coconut and cookies-and-cream. Two donuts was a lot of calories, but, what the hell, she’d had PT all morning. After tapping in her selections her hand stopped over the glowing touchscreen menu. What would Lott like? She should at least order a good one for her boss, too.

Chocolate was a safe choice, right? But then, safe wasn’t terribly sophisticated. Getting two specialty pretzels for herself and then a plain, everyman choice for her boss wasn’t exactly a great look. No, this is a chance to impress her with a great suggestion. Think, cadet!

Before…

Glory flipped a strand of hair out of her face. She wasn’t used to having hair this long. She would’ve liked to just brush it away, but she was advised to avoid placing her hands near her face for at least a week while her body adjusted to the changes. Adjusting her posture a bit, Glory winched slightly as the new augments tugged slightly against the reinforcing braces installed throughout her torso to keep her arms from ripping her body apart. Even with rapid healing tech, things were still a little sore from an operation so invasive.

Fighting the instinct to swing her arms as she walked, Glory blinked a few times as her vision blurred. She almost rubbed her eyes, but then remembered the warning about keeping her hands away from her face and settled with blinking a few more times. She was flanked by people who she didn’t know, but did recognize. Their uniforms were of APEX issue, but why they were escorting her somewhere remained unknown. Out in the parking lot, an armored car was waiting. One of them pulled the door open for her before issuing a stern command to get in.

With no choice but compliance, Glory ducked inside…

Now…

The armored car pulled up outside of a donut shop. If it had been any other occasion she would’ve hopped out immediately, but she was told to sit still for the time being. After a few moments, the door opened again. Did they not trust her to open her own doors? Probably not, once Glory considered the specifications that she’d seen briefly. Shuffling out of the car, Glory was told to follow one of the APEX team members inside for the planned meeting.

Feeling just a little bit of embarrassment and humiliation at the fact that she was going into a meeting wearing only a tube top, combat cargo pants, a tied jacket belt, and some thick combat boots, Glory followed the APEX team member inside. Once there she was pointed towards a booth where someone she thought she’d never see again sat.

Taking a step forward, Glory paused for a moment before looking over her shoulder and speaking. Her voice was a bit hoarse, but she got the message across fairly well. ”While we’re here. I want some donuts. Grab me a variety box, please. I’ll pay later.” With that, she walked over and sat down. Bringing her arms up was slightly mortifying. They didn’t feel like they moved so much as they teleported now. Bringing them to rest gently on her edge of the table, Glory had to adjust them a little once the table started to creak. With that finished, she said a name didn’t expect to say ever again. ”Hello, Lott.”

Lott’s eyes refocused as she stopped reviewing the tapes. Her lips disappeared into her mouth as she stared at the stranger sitting across from her. There was a moment of worry— either Theresa had changed drastically in the past couple of days or Lott needed to ask Dr. Howland to up her medication. A facial scan recognized the woman as hired security from the Swathe Street Incident, but Lott’s face only untensed after the scan picked up Glory’s face again with it attached to a series of emails.

“Welcome, Glory, I’ve been expecting you,” said Lott, lying. “Everyone else, out.”

This had been a planned meeting. A planned, confidential meeting in a public place where she was supposed to grab a snack with her intern. Lott turned and looked over her shoulder at the APEX goons that had infiltrated after the scout. They were crawling around the donut shop, clearing the booths and the bathrooms of any clients or corporate spies. The donutender was roughly grabbed by the shoulder and escorted out the front door, a variety box in his hands. The goons reached to lay hands on a sharp, young intern but were stopped by a sharp whistle from Lott. Surely, if Lott had planned for APEX to release Glory here, she had also planned for Theresa to join her for the meeting. A learning opportunity, right? Theresa was smart enough to come up with a lesson.

“She stays, as do the donuts,” said Lott, summoning her intern and Glory’s donut order over to the table with the snap of her finger. She slid over to allow for Theresa to take the seat next to her and waited for the APEX crew to lockdown the donut shop. She pulled her tablet up close to her chest and began scanning for the appropriate document. It was only when Lott was certain that the three women were left alone that she spoke again, her attention still affixed to the tablet. “So, do either of you know why we’re here?”

Theresa stared for a moment, stunned by the rapid goon-squad takeover of the peaceful donut diner. One minute she was contemplating a bite of tropical paradise, the next she was sitting across from an impressive woman in a tube top, whose massive arms appeared ready to snap the art-deco table like a twig. What on earth had just happened?

”Um,”, she started, tossing the nonsense syllable out like bait in the water. She watched carefully to see if any sharks snapped at it first. ”I just came to- I mean- I-I don’t know about her. Um, you look familiar. Have we met…?”

Things happened too fast for Theresa to follow. Miss Ramana seemed to be in control, or at least, she didn’t seem surprised by this turn of events. Of course, she would make it a working outing, wouldn’t she? But then - why was she asking why we were here…? She knew better than to question her boss on anything in public, so her eyes searched the larger woman’s almost desperately, seeking an answer written somewhere on her impressive facade.

Glory blinked as Theresa essentially materialized next to Lott as the APEX goons locked the building down. She recognized her vaguely from somewhere before. The incident at the Swathe Street Commons. Turning her head briefly to get a better look at her, Glory scowled slightly as a lock of her longer hair fell into her face. Tossing her head a bit to get it out of the way, she blinked again as she admitted that Glory seemed familiar. Still a bit hoarse, Glory spoke up again to clarify. ”Swathe Street Commons. I was on duty. My hair wasn’t this long and my arms weren’t so big.”

With a basic explanation given Glory turned to look at Lott once more. As previously this motion caused a lock of hair to fall into her face, which Glory had to toss out of the way once more. Speaking up again, Glory took a guess at the answer to Lott’s question. ”As for why we are here, I assume that it potentially has something to do with these-” Glory would take a moment to nod downward at her new arms before resuming. ”And the fact that I am still alive. The fact that I was brought to you leads me to guess that you had a hand in it?”

As Glory finished speaking, it became notable that she was opening and closing her right hand gently. To Glory, this simple motion felt weird. Too instant, too smooth. Not even the occasional knuckle crack. Just powerful synthligaments pushing and pulling heavily armored fingers backwards and forwards. It was all she could do to try and practice for the moment while she waited for an answer.

Theresa watched Glory toss her hair aside, distracted by the long, nut-brown locks as they waved past her. “Oh…” was all she got out, before reminding herself not to speak out-of-turn and interrupt her boss.

“Although I am currently a representative of the company, I do not hold the authority to outfit security officers with a prototype series of cybernetics such as the XL-001. You are alive because your company thought you were an asset, and my company thought they were an asset,” said Lott, having taken the time to find the relevant doc for this meeting and skim through the information. She finally looked up from her tablet and turned towards Theresa, “Make note of this situation: Ms. Batalia would not be alive today if she wasn’t such a hard worker.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“You are meeting with me because legally we are required to provide proof that you have consented to the terms and conditions regarding your cybernetics. I, Lott Ramana, hereby to be referred to as Party B, will inform Amelia Batalia, also known by her callsign Glory, hereby referred to as Party A, of what is to be expected of her now that her outfit Knight Enterprise, henceforth to be called Company B, has become a partial subsidiary of APEX Industries, which shall be called Company A. We are witnessed today by my intern, Theresa—Intern A—who will act as an independent company, let’s say Company C, to verify that Party A was informed by Party B about the deal Company B made with Company A on the behalf of Party A, and that none of this was coaxed out under any duress, and that all parties, that being Party A and Company C, are aware that this will be recorded by Party B, who shall turn this recording over to Company A and B to serve as proof of compliance.”

“Are we clear so far?”
asked Lott.

Glory’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of her actual name. Not a whole lot of people called her that, and those that did were in positions where they usually just called her Glory anyway. To hear it so suddenly was alien and unsettling. However, it did prompt Glory to snap out of her mild haze and focus carefully upon what was being said. As Lott descended seamlessly into full legal speak Glory mentally groaned. Now everything was going to be much more complicated.

Blinking a few times as Lott ran through a string of legal requirements as efficiently as a machine, Glory paused in replying audibly at the question for a few moments in order to give her still-somewhat-on-painkillers brain a few moments to process what all was being said. After a few moments of this pondering Glory posed a question that she deemed important. ”And what, exactly, are the terms and conditions?”

“Due to a transfer in who is now the major shareholder of Company B, Party A shall now exclusively offer her services to Company A. In return, Company A will allow Party A to continue to exercise their user rights of the XL-001 prototype. Failure to uphold her duty to the expectations of Company A, which is vaguely undefined, will be considered a violation of these terms of service and result in the termination of user access to any of their APEX products,” said Lott, staring through Glory as if she was reading a teleprompter behind her.

Lott turned to Theresa. As the girl’s steward, it was her duty to properly make sure that the intern was absorbing the information. People misconstrued stories about corporations and the uneducated working class all the time, often taking what is truly charity and calling it something more sinister like exploitation. Glory wasn’t being taken advantage of but rather being given the chance to take advantage of the opportunity of a lifetime. The choice had already been made for her anyway.

Lott explained, “See, Theresa, Ms. Batalia was fatally injured in the line of duty. For reasons unclear to me, her direct supervisor Mr. Salt thought it would be a better idea to invest in restoring Ms. Batalia to fighting conditions rather than training a new security officer and decided to pay for those new guns.”

For clarification, Lott fired off a finger gun twice at each one of Glory’s new arms. She didn’t want her intern to get confused. She blew away the invisible smoke and holstered the deadly weapon.

“To afford payment, Salt sold a majority share of Knight Enterprise to APEX. Considering the excessive bloat in private security companies over the past few years, it’s actually quite impressive that it could cover the cost of Ms. Batalia’s operation. Although still technically a private security outfit, all contracts will have to be approved by an APEX representative. As well, APEX now reserves the right to pull any Knight, such as they’re going to do with Ms. Batalia, to bolster their own security forces when it is deemed necessary. Really, Ms. Batalia is quite fortunate. Don’t you agree, Theresa?”

Theresa bit back a question, resolving to inquire later when alone with her boss. There was no sense in questioning her boss in public. Instead she turned to the security officer, nodding and giving her a confident smile. “You must be proud to bear such advanced technology, Ms. Batalia, or may I call you Amelia?” She looked up and down one of the technological protrusions. “Um, they look good on you.”

As Lott went on to explain the terms and conditions that she had been bound to, Glory only had one thought come to mind: ”So basically, I’m at APEX’s beck and call or else I have to adapt to life without arms. That’s… Something, alright.” Once Lott turned to her assistant to bounce how grand of an opportunity this was off of them, Glory’s head turned slightly to watch as they nodded along happily with what Lott had gone over thus far. Blinking once more as Theresa asked if she could call her Amelia, Glory gave a blunt answer. ”Eh… Glory will do fine, and… Thanks.”

The complement was somewhat lost on Glory’s addled mind, but she somewhat felt that Theresa was hitting on her? At least that’s how it started to come across. Maybe that would come up later. For now Glory looked back to Lott and cleared her throat a bit before speaking up. It didn’t help with how hoarse her voice was. ”Alright… I can’t let Salt make a sacrifice like that without making it worth it. Where do I sign?”

Lott flipped her tablet around. Glory’s legal name was already typed into the document. All the Knight had to do was check the box that confirmed she was willing to bypass an actual signature in favor of a digital one. Lott believed it was a secure enough method; someone else checking the box would’ve been committing a form of identity theft and could be prosecuted. She set the tablet down on the table and slid it over towards Glory, but Lott didn’t withdraw her hand. The other woman had a history of taking Lott’s personal devices. She’d be a wreck if she lost another.

“Once you have given your consent, Party A’s duty to Company A begins effective immediately,” said Lott. “You as well as other Knights will be expected to bolster the security detail during the debate.”

Looking down at the tablet, Glory took a few moments to breathe and blink at it. At first she tried to read over the document a bit to skim some of the important parts, but even this simple effort was rough on her still foggy mind. Just how strong had the painkillers she’d been given been? Hopefully the fog passed sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, now came time for a bit of a test. Glory began to carefully move her arms, and one could see her face harden in concentration as she struggled with the sensation of her arms seemingly teleporting rather than moving. This was probably not going to go well.

Even what felt like subtle movements still produced significant results. Slowly, Glory managed to bring her finger down on the checkbox. It flicked green, signaling that consent had been given… Then the screen cracked. A web of cracks formed above where Glory had pressed with as little pressure as she could. Immediately, Glroy’s face flushed red with embarrassment. This embarrassment quickly turned into shame and some light self loathing as Glory fully registered what had happened. Growling in frustration slightly, Glory popped off an apology promptly. ”Sorry… Not used to moving these. Every motion feels like my arm teleports rather than moves…”

Lott’s pupils narrowed until they practically disappeared, her irises pale blue screens of death. She did not blink as she stared through Glory. Visions of hand signals, shattered glass, pink mist, and traumatized interns flashed rapidly through her mind like a grotesque flipbook drawn by a desensitized middle schooler in the margins of a classic piece of literature. The band around Lott’s wrist faintly beeped as a mild sedative was injected to lower her rising heart rate. She finally blinked, her vision cleared, and she pulled the tablet back towards her chest, holding it dearly like it were a mortally wounded comrade.

Theresa’s shoulders tensed at the craaaack! of breaking glass, and her heart sank at the sight of a rupture spreading across the screen like a digital spiderweb. They were already down one device…and now this? Well, at least she was already familiar at the mobile-electronics shop… Theresa bit back an interjection, just giving her boss a supportive nod. I should offer something useful here. Think, Theresa!

“It is not a problem, Ms. Batalia. I have an extended warranty,” said Lott, knowing full well the warranty had expired months ago. She sounded out of breath. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the damage done to the screen. No offer for reimbursement? This was the kind of offense that sparked blood feuds that lasted for generations.

“Hardly noticeable,” said Lott with a choke, her words masking the sound of the screen cracking further underneath her tightening grip. Her eyes motioned towards the exit. “You will understand that I mean no offense if I do not end this meeting with a handshake.”

Glory frowned as Lott began to choke up. Blinking a few times in awkward silence as Lott began to grip the tablet firmly. In a moment of clarity she recalled that something had been managed in the time that had passed since something had been taken from Lott. Speaking up, Glory began to explain something. ”Up until now I would’ve considered this classified, but since Knight Enterprise has been acquired, this is technically knowable to the people involved here as far as I’m aware… If you go up to Knight’s HQ, ask about case number 10164. Tell them that Glory sent you, and tell them that you’ve got authorization code 70216 to retrieve object 734. Your phone was repaired, examined, and found to be irrelevant to the case. You can get it back at any time."

Theresa took a moment to appreciate her boss’s poise. The woman was clearly upset. Did her voice crack there at the end? And yet, she remained cool and professional - even cracking a small joke to lighten the tension! She was a true professional. Theresa waited for a lull in the conversation before speaking up. ”Perhaps the implants have nervous-interface settings that can be adjusted?” she said. ”They could be overreacting to your natural impulses and simply need calibration, as it were. After all, they are only prototypes, so I’m sure they are expecting them to need some fine-tuning.”

Did cybernetics actually work that way? It probably didn’t matter. The important thing was to be helpful. How the implants worked was for the engineers to worry about. At least that sounded smart. To Lott she added, ”Glory should probably get some rest if she’s working tonight, but also, she should probably get some practice in if she’s to interface with the public. I’m sure any accidents would reflect poorly on Mayor Gatch? I could probably find some, umm, mannequins or dummies or something.”

At the mention of the cybernetics not being calibrated, Glory shrugged. The motion felt awkward and Glory felt the supports that had been implanted into her shoulders twinge in pain. This was expressed with a slight grimace of pain before Glory spoke again. ”I’d very much appreciate a fat nap right about now. Along with probably another dose of anti-inflams to help with the healing… And then some time to practice with these things so I’m not casually destroying everything I try to touch. In the meantime, I’d like to power down that box of doughnuts as a comfort pick-me-up. Though I’m gonna have to enjoy the fun that is possibly destroying them when I try to pinch them, so…”

Resistant to the idea of shrugging again, Glory opted for a less-painful head-tilt-shrug.

The rest of Glory's reply clicked all at once. The phone! Theresa had assumed the device was hopelessly buried under red tape. Stupid! Of course the personal device of someone so important would be handled with extra urgency!

"M-Miss Ramana has already procured a replacement," she blurted out, thrusting the precious device into view with what she hoped appeared to be a dramatic flourish instead of a panic move.

Lott stared blankly at the smartphone. The news that Lott could receive her old phone had slightly dulled the pain in her heart over the mortal injury dealt to her second favorite device, although Glory referring to her phone as irrelevant was like spit in the eyes. The phone was proof enough that a warning was never the proper course of action for a security officer. Perhaps if Glory had registered that lesson then she wouldn’t be struggling to avoid turning her donut into a pancake now.

All of that was now irrelevant thanks to the device Theresa had flicked out like a switchblade knife. Lott attempted to recall when she had acquired the new phone. Nothing pinged in her search history; had she erased the VOD for the memory file? It seemed uncharacteristic. She would have certainly created a backup just to have a quick reference point to what was and was not covered in the extended warranty. Lott gingerly plucked the phone from Theresa’s hand. It opened to her biometrics. She saw a stack of notifications for missed calls from saved contacts and the default wallpaper of a black background with a gray squiggle. It was her phone all right, but how? Another blackout purchase? Normally those things weren’t so conventional.

She wrinkled her eyebrows and sideyed Theresa. It was a gift? Impossible. Lott looked away. She felt lightheaded. It was a gift. She wouldn’t have splurged on such a new model. She set the shattered tablet down next to her on the bench because she no longer had the strength to hold it. She safely put the phone down in front of her, fearful that touching it again would transform it into a spider because clearly she was dreaming. Her chest tightened. Of course she wasn’t dreaming, her last one was killed years ago.

Theresa had gone out of her way to buy her a phone and set it up with her profile. This intern—her intern! Without a doubt it was the nicest, most considerate thing someone had ever done for Lott in her entire life. It was absolutely exhilarating. She felt the pinprick hit her wrist again as another mild sedative entered her bloodstream. Normally she would have to force a double dosage just to keep herself functioning so coolly. She worked up the courage to grab the phone and slipped it inside of her jacket where it rested right against her heart.

Words lacked the complexity to express the feelings Lott held. They just wouldn’t be enough. She turned towards Theresa, made eye contact, and nodded once in approval. Lott was thankful she was sitting down. Her legs felt like they had been removed for defaulting on a loan. She turned towards Glory, corrected her shaky disposition with a sniff, and said with a nod towards the door, “Then unless there is anything else?”

Glory blinked a few times as Theresa thrust the new phone forward. That certainly made things a little awkward, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. As the question was posed, she paused for a moment before giving a simple reply. ”No. I don’t think so. Which means…”

With a bit of shuffling, Glory stood up. Now that she was free of the table she was able to let her arms rest a bit, and as she gently lowered them to her sides the enhanced length of them became obvious for all to see when Glory would touch her knees without issue. Shuddering slightly as she tried to get used to how moving felt, Glory glanced down at the box of donuts and posed an awkward question. ”Uh… Someone grab that for me, please? I’m kinda… Not confident in my ability to not destroy something like cardboard.”

"Oh!" In a flash, the uniformed intern stood next to the table, box in hand. Multicolored icing glistened under the fluorescent lights as Theresa slid the plastic cover over the box’s immeasurably precious cargo. "Allow me."

Lott muttered something underneath her breath and stared at the empty booth across from her. She buried the feeling of guilt brought on by wanting to have seen the box of donuts crushed like the other day’s rioters, red jelly sticking to superior cybernetics, and swept the crumbs from her own destroyed donut underneath the napkin dispenser. She waited patiently as her intern assisted Glory with the transportation of the treats. It was only when they got to the door that Lott slid down to the end of her booth and poked her head out, her eyes as glazed over as Glory’s donuts.

“One moment, Ms. Batalia,” said Lott. She stood up from the booth with her hands in her pockets and did not approach as she looked past Glory to the APEX goon guarding the door. Lott stepped to the side so that Glory blocked him from her field of view. “Coming from both the data we have collected as well as my own personal eye witness experience regarding your performance in the field I believe it would be irresponsible if I allow you to leave without saying this. Note that this conversation is off the record and any future reference to it will be marked as slander and stain your fresh company record. Still, I believe it is my duty to see that you are properly informed.”

“APEX doesn’t do warnings,”
said Lott as she stared unflinchingly at Glory. She pulled a hand from her pocket and beckoned; a moment later the bell chimed as the goon opened the door for Glory. Lott turned back to the booth but then shot Glory a look over her padded suit shoulders, the neon glow of her earrings giving her skin a sickly pallor. “Welcome to the team.”

Glory paused as Lott spoke up again. Listening closely as it was explained that APEX doesn’t do warnings and that this conversation was classified. With a nod, Glory spoke up. ”Understood. And, if I might request… Please, call me Glory. I am far more used to it.”

With that, she turned to leave once more.

"Then we’ll see you in a few hours at the debate…Glory," Theresa said with a smile as she opened the door. The cool evening air rushed through the open doorway, carrying with it the scent of springtime rain and urban smog. "It’s a pity you can’t stick around, though; this donut shop actually has excellent karaoke nights.” She winked.”Sort of a campus secret."

Glory paused again as Theresa lamented that she couldn’t hang out. Glancing back briefly, she offered an understandable excuse. ”Would if I could, but when these meds wear off I’d rather be at home. Maybe some other time.” And with nothing else to say, Glory left for home.




Shining brilliance flooded Alya’s sight from all directions. The coursing cyan pulse of ether enshrouded her vision, as though she fought inside a giant sapphire. Fighting with her etheric abilities was akin to harnessing a great and terrible beast; she was a whirling dance of death and just one fatal slip away from disaster.

Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.

Alya’s heart pounded in her chest. Her vision pulsed with the exertion. The broken metal bar she wielded quivered along with her hands in anticipation of further violence. Blood and torn strips of flesh sloughed off the shaking weapon. She flashed a wild sneer towards her foe, partially obscured by the white clouds of her rapid breaths.

Thump-Thump, Thump-Thump, Thump-Thump!

She could no longer distinguish the staccato gunfire echoing all around from her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Across a floor of dented steel, the hulking mass of an Icekin loomed over Alya. He growled his fury at the comparatively tiny Inquisitor’s defiance. The low, guttural noise reverberated in Alya’s chest and shook the flooring underfoot. Alya threw her head back and belted out a psychotic burst of laughter in reply.

Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump!

The rest of the world no longer existed. Nothing but Alya and her opponent mattered. The bitter, lethally cold wind was gone. The world was all white snow, silver steel, and red viscera. The deck underfoot was lit only by the shining of blue and gold ether. The screams of dying men and the howls of wounded Icekin hounds and the growls of the monstrous beasts all became instruments backing Alya’s performance. It was the symphony underscoring a long series of duets, and now Alya regarded her next partner.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump!

“You think you’re the greatest bear I’ve danced with?!” Alya shouted, raising her improvised weapon. The monster surged forward, closing the distance with massive strides. Her hands unsteadily wagged the pipe back and forth, the taunting message clear: Come and play, Icekin. I’ve faced much worse than you.




The impact hit me so hard, all I could see were stars in my vision. The man’s vicelike grip held me by the neck. His off-hand was raised, as if to slap me in the face again. What little air I could get came in short, rasping breaths. My feet couldn’t reach the floor. He was holding me aloft. I struck out at him, but his arms were longer than mine. I was never very physically large, but no fourteen-year-old girl could possibly match an adult man in size and strength. It was impossible. I tapped my hand against my leg, once, twice, three times. We weren’t allowed to continue sparring once our training partner tapped out. If we did, someone could get hurt. Those were the rules of the Red Seminary.

Only, the Muraadan man didn’t release me. Maybe he didn’t see it? I slapped my hand against my bare leg, loud enough for the smack to ring out in the arena. One, two, three. From the viewing platform, I remember Father Gregoroth’s firm tone. “Have you only trained for friendly sparring matches, girl?” he demanded. “In a fight, Lord Varya’s enemies aren’t going to stop until you’re dead.”

I hanged there, suspended off the floor, for what felt like it must have been at least half an hour. The strange, foreign tattoos running up and down the man’s arm were all I could see clearly. Darkness encroached on the fringes of my vision. I grabbed for his hand, tried to pull his fingers apart enough to breathe. His arm may as well have been carved from stone for all I could move it. He backhanded me again. The room seemed to tilt and shift in place. And why had Father Gregoroth turned out the lights? I could barely see...

That’s when I remember starting to panic. Was this guy going to strangle me to death right here in the arena of the Red Seminary? I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I remember trying to call out for help, which was stupid, Father Gregoroth could clearly see what was happening and Father Gregoroth, the Great Bear, would never step in to help a struggling student. My arms felt too heavy to move. There was no help coming. I remember how truly alone I felt in that last moment.




Alya brought down her metal pipe with a wild rush of ether. Bones snapped under solid steel. The Icekin’s muzzle dented inwards, mangled into a hideous scowl. A splash of crimson marred its white face. The crunch of shattered bone reverberated down the metal and through her arm. Only by the strength of her etheric reserve did she spare her own limbs from shattering themselves. For a split-second, she locked eyes with her oncoming foe.

Then the Icekin struck back like a speeding train. Even despite her ether-enhanced strength, Alya felt herself lifted from the ground by the impact. The Inquisitor sailed twenty feet backwards into the hull of the Kyselica. Its reinforced steel, armored enough to ram an iceberg at full speed, buckled under the impact. Shorn rivets shot out in all directions like a hail of unaimed gunfire. Even with dazzling ether flaring all around her, the world momentarily flickered out of existence as her head dented the hull behind her.

But there was no time to rest. No time to think. On instinct, Alya threw herself to the right with as much strength as she could muster. Not a second later, the beast struck where she’d been like a blow from a Titan’s hammer. The Icekin’s hulk tore a jagged edge open in the dented hull, punishing his missed blow by slicing deep into muscle. Alya rolled on impact with the ground. She didn’t have time to right herself before she slammed backwards into a steel pillar and came to a stop.

Alya shot up to her feet as the coursing ether commanded her injured limbs upwards, back into the fray. She spat blood onto the deck, and laughed. “I’ve slaughtered nineteen of your kind, beast! I’ve lost count of your dead hounds! Now come and make it twenty!”

The Icekin’s mangled muzzle turned his every enraged breath into a bloody snarl. He charged, and Alya’s dance continued.




I don’t actually remember what happened next. One moment I was choking out. Then I remember when I could see again. I was on the ground. A small spellblade shimmered in my hand. A crimson streak marred the wooden floor. What happened?

His shout brought me back to the present. “You little bitch!” Across from me, the Muraadan man clutched his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers, dripping onto the floor. “You said this was no-weapons, Inquisitor!” From on high, Father Gregoroth laughed.

Well, he sort of laughed. It was more like a low rumble that somehow filled the arena. It echoed from every direction. “And you said you were a fearsome brawler. Do you really feel fear at the sight of a little girl clutching a butter-knife like that?”

I stared dumbly at the spellblade in my hand. I definitely didn’t summon it. I know, because I’d completely forgotten I could do that. I preferred training with much larger weapons. I had never had any great skill with ether.

And then he was on me again. His blow struck me dead center. Sent me flying. Damn, but it hurt so bad. It felt like my insides were going to explode. Landing on my back knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to recover before he was there, again. He kicked me. Once. Twice. Three times. I felt a rib crack. It hurt like being stabbed. I tried to scramble away, rolled over, and saw the fury burning in his eyes. That’s when I knew what this was. We weren’t training.

He was trying to kill me.

He was trying to kill me!

I felt an icy stab of fear, even over all the pain. I’d faced death before. Well, Albina had, anyway. But it’s one thing when the danger is abstract - when it’s hunger or cold or exhaustion. But to have another person there directly trying to violently end my life? Maybe it was the fear. Maybe it was the blow to my stomach. I wet myself, there on the wooden arena floor. I sobbed out loud. I would never admit that to my warsiblings, of course. I’m sure they’d understand; they’d survived the Red Seminary too. But still, I've never told them how this fight really went. A lack of fear, of that sheer unthinking terror, is just one of those mutual fictions we had wordlessly agreed upon.

I rolled and scrambled backwards. The hot stabbing pain in my side from the broken rib elicited a high yelp. This wasn’t like sparring. There we’d follow choreographed, rehearsed sets of moves. What was the correct move to respond with when your opponent pulled the “I will beat you to death” move? I hadn’t been taught that. Neither had Albina. I pulled away. I needed time. Time to figure out how to respond. An involuntary cry escaped as I failed to dodge far enough. That tattooed arm reached out, swept me off my feet. My face hit the wood, hard. I tried to roll, but when I rolled onto my side the pain stopped me in my tracks, and he kicked me onto my back.

I was alone with a killer. If I couldn’t figure out how to answer that, I was going to die.




Alya and the Icekin together wreaked untold havoc in what was once the Kyselica’s navigation deck. Paper maps were strewn everywhere, tattered beyond recognition. An overturned table made of dense Lanostran oak lay in three pieces and covered in blood. Etheric light glinted off shattered glass and jagged metal from various instruments and meters, all rendered beyond useless by the violence.

Alya clutched a mangled sextant in her hand, its brass slick with blood. Snow blew in through the large hole in the wall before being crunched underfoot, and the metal deck grew increasingly perilous. The Icekin was vastly better at navigating an ice-slick surface than Alya was, and ether was far from an inexhaustible resource. Breath came hard, her lungs filling painfully with the icy air. Much of the quickly-freezing blood on the floor was her own. Their fight wasn’t one of graceful precision and finely-honed technique. It was a dance of raw, primal violence.

The Icekin lunged, faster than such a lumbering hulk seemed capable. Alya’s magically enhanced reflexes were by now the only thing allowing her to keep up. She slipped past a bloodied arm and smashed the brass sextant into his face. Alya focused all the strength she could muster into the rounded edge of the device, slamming it into her foe’s impossibly dense skull. The golden ether she’d harvested from Zviera flared all around her, and she hoped beyond measure that the monster’s skull would give out under the impact faster than the brass tool did.

But neither were the first to give way. The Icekin reeled from the superhumanly strong blow, but Alya’s footing slipped in the blood on the deck. She wavered unbalanced for a single heartbeat. In that moment, his mighty limb, thick as a tree’s trunk, struck out and flung Alya like a rag doll. She flared her ether to land, lest she break her neck on impact. But that took a moment of attention and focus, and this wasn’t a fight in which moments could be bought for free.

An enormous grip seized her by the leg, and the world spun crazily around her. First she was sideways, then she was airborne, then upside-down as the towering Icekin held her aloft. Alya flipped the broken sextant around in her hands, exposing a jagged edge and plunging it towards the Icekin’s vulnerable belly. She let out a strained laugh as the sharp metal plunged into soft flesh. With an outraged snarl, the monster retaliated by whipping her around by her leg, smashing her into the ship’s chronometer like a human flail.

Glass shattered and metal bent on impact with her shoulder. Clockwork mechanisms slowed to a halt, letting out a grinding sound in protest at the intrusion. Alya’s head smacked into the brass side of the chronometer. The left side of her field of vision went red and winked out, fading into nothing. A searing pain spread across that side of her face, joining the hundreds of pains across her body.

She instinctively rolled to the right, to avoid the next incoming blow - but the dodge was abruptly yanked short, leaving Alya floundering. Without her left eye, Alya couldn’t look down to see, but the pain of pulled muscles told her the clockwork gears had pulled her arm firmly into their motions before jamming to a halt.

She could swear the monster actually grinned at her turn of fortune. His bloody, disfigured paws seized her by her right arm and leg as she aimed a kick at his mangled face. Alya’s laughter stopped all at once. Even with etheric, superhuman strength, it wouldn’t take more than a couple minutes for the Icekin to tear her limb from limb. “I’ll have you know I don’t fight alone!” Alya threw the Icekin a wild, wide-eyed glare, somewhere between hostility and joy. “Lord Varya, I pray to be allowed to continue serving in Your glorious name!”




I nearly died before I found my answer. He had knelt down, his knee driving into my hip and pinning me in place. His hand was so much bigger than mine, it was trivial to pin my arm and my spellblade with it. Blood dripped from his slash wound onto my face. I remember it got into my eyes, because I couldn’t see clearly. I tried to throw him off with ether, but to tell the truth, I had almost no experience in fighting with ether. Albina’s memories of training in this regard really didn’t help. She seemed to be able to use a family signet of hers as a focus somehow, in a way I had never really figured out how to copy.

He slapped me, then backhanded me. It was purely vindictive. Surely he had me dead to rights without further blows? I pulled as hard as I could, but he brought his free hand down on my neck, and then I couldn’t breathe. I kicked my legs, but only found air. I reached for his wrist with my off-hand, but couldn’t break that vicelike grip. I pulled. I scratched. I struck. I slapped. Nothing.

He leaned down, his face so close to mine I could smell the virrika on his breath. He taunted me. He was angry now. I don’t remember the exact words. I was panicking too much to focus on them. I think I hit him in the face, but not with any real force. I had nowhere near the physical strength needed to escape. I had no means of leverage. I was at the Muraadan’s mercy.

I just remember thinking, damn it, somebody help me. A fellow warpriest, Father Gregoroth, hell, anyone. And that’s when I remembered that I wasn’t alone. You see, I’m never really alone…




BOOM!

In the interior space of a ship’s hull, the shotgun blast reverberated like the detonation of a bomb. The Icekin staggered, letting go of Alya’s arm and turning in surprise.

Zviera stepped back, his gold eyes wide with fear and surprise. The shotgun at his hip clacked loudly as his shaking hands worked the pump action, and then it roared again. BOOM!

And again. BOOM!
And again. BOOM!
And again. BOOM!

With each explosion, a widening patch of blood and viscera appeared blossomed from the Icekin’s torso. His low, deep growl became tinged with pain as he turned to march on the newcomer.

The recoil was almost enough to knock the exhausted Omestrian off his feet. The shotgun clicked and spoke no more. Zviera backed away, shaky and blood-slicked hands trying to load a new shell. He fumbled and dropped the shell, which clinked as it bounced across the deck. “Ah, m-mistress…!”

Alya’s laugh returned as abruptly as it left. She’d never been happier to see her servant. “It’s empty, idiot; use my halberd!” With the Icekin distracted, she twisted in place until her left shoulder completely dislocated, and looked down into the shattered chronometer. She scrambled to sort her mangled arm out from the maze of twisted gears and wires pinning it in place.

Zviera could barely manage the heavy, all-metal, phoenix-bladed halberd on a good day. Exhausted, ether-drained, and with a bullet in his shoulder, he couldn’t manage to fully lift the weapon at all. Gravity moreso than muscle brought its blade plunging down towards the oncoming monster. Even with grave injuries, the Icekin swatted the clumsy strike aside effortlessly as he marched on Zviera, with murder in his eyes.

Zviera backed away, but didn’t run. He probably couldn’t run if he tried, anyway. But there was no way he’d come this far to bring Mother Alya her weapons only to run away just ten feet away from her. He tried to muster what little courage he had, dropping the empty shotgun and the heavy halberd and raising his shaking hands to fight the approaching beast.




Albina doesn’t usually talk to me when I’m in a fight. She probably feels pain, too, maybe? So distracting me isn’t really a good idea. But she wordlessly reached out to me at that moment, and a piece of the puzzle I didn’t even know I was missing fell into place. Her family's signet had never been my catalyst. In hindsight, why would it? But to think, my catalyst had been with me all along!

I remember how the surge of ether glowed blue around us. I remember well how I threw the man six feet into the air. I especially remember the surprise on his face. The utter bewilderment as he went from a victorious finish to flying through the air, just like that. I'll never forget that look.

Fear had all but paralyzed me. Tears had done nothing to help. Pleading almost got me killed. So it’s clear the answer is none of those things, right? Not in a real fight, anyway. He landed with a hard smack against the wooden floor, and I pounced almost before he’d even landed. I’d like to say it was a graceful and elegant fight from there, just like out of a martial arts rehearsal. It wasn’t. I just remember grabbing his head and throwing downwards towards the hard floor. If I could knock him out, he wouldn’t be able to try to kill me. We’ve occasionally knocked each other out by accident in sparring, me and my warsiblings. A quick checkup with a healer and no lasting damage has resulted. This was well beyond what the Red Seminary allowed in a training bout, but he’d started it. Hadn’t he?

Father Gregoroth was saying something. I was only dimly aware of his voice, though. I was hyper-focused on knocking the Muraadan out, on stopping him from threatening me any further. Slam. Slam. Slam!

I heard a primal, meaningless scream emanating from my mouth as I threw his head into the floor. He hadn’t tapped out. Why wouldn’t he just tap out? After coming so close to death, my vision was red with fury. My pulse pounded in my ears. I determined I would just keep at it until my opponent surrendered. To hell with that fucking sadist Gregoroth.

It was Albina who got my attention first. I heard her, all at once. She cried out, Alya! Enough! Stop it, you idiot!

Blood was seeping out of the Muraadan’s ears and nose, I noticed. His head was bent at an odd angle, too, and he wasn’t moving anymore. His violet eyes stared upwards, wide, sightless. His mouth was open, as if to say something, but he didn’t make a sound, not even of breath. I, however, was breathing so hard I couldn’t hear what Father Gregoroth was saying anymore. My hands, no, every part of me really, was shaking so badly I actually had to try three times to stand up straight. The room spun around me like a carnival attraction. Every part of me hurt, every joint and every muscle and every bone. But pain felt like a distant thing, something I was aware of but didn’t really feel. Dazed, I watched Father Gregoroth descend from the judge’s platform, head held high.

I looked at the Muraadan. He hadn’t gotten up. I remember thinking, maybe I knocked him out after all? Surely nobody like him would dare disrespect a High Inquisitor by refusing to stand in his presence. I looked up at the Great Bear. Rage and helplessness and thrill and sorrow and fear and exhilaration and a thousand other emotions swirled around me. It was hard to focus. He was saying something, something about passing a milestone, something about learning a lesson. I couldn’t hear a thing over the ringing in my ears and my own rasping breath, really, but I somehow managed to choke out a thanks for his feedback.

Whatever lesson he’d intended, I learned two precious things that day. For one, I learned how to really use ether, how to go beyond the simple enhancements any soldier could do. The other was a simple but vital lesson: I learned what to carry into battle. I swore to myself I’d never be paralyzed by fear and sorrow in a fight again.




The SA-issued pistol made a sharper, quicker pop-pop-pop! compared to the shotgun's furious roar. The bloodied menace dropped at Zviera’s feet as though his legs had disappeared out from under him, crashing down into the metal deck unceremoniously. Normally, a pistol was all but worthless against an Icekin. At anything other than her point-blank shots behind the beast’s ear, they would shrug off the smaller bullets with near impunity. Alya let out a final, strangled laugh as the dying beast rattled a final breath.

Zviera just stared for a long few moments, not sure if he should stare at the dead monster or at his grievously-wounded mistress. She had a shard of glass sticking out of her left eye. Her left arm hung limp, unmoving, and dripping blood everywhere. She was covered in blood. Everywhere he looked, her body was beaten black-and-blue. The sight brought tears to his golden eyes; his mistress looked like she’d been thrown into a blender. And all because she’d had to fight unarmed?

He bowed his head, immediately gasping out an apology, but he barely got two syllables out before she interrupted him. “Shut up,” Alya said, her voice no less firm for all her injuries. With her one good arm, she ignored her halberd and instead pulled her servant in closely, holding him tightly to her shoulder. The motion hurt his bullet wound, but he tried hard not to show it, not with all of Alya’s own injuries. “Ah, y-you’re hurt, mistress,” he managed to say.

“You did well, Zviera.” She rewarded him with a kiss on his cheek, heedless of the amount of blood they were both covered in. “Mother Faina is in the solar, and if these Icekin reach her, it’s over for all of us. With my halberd, I’ll be able to defend her. Now reload my shotgun and then find somewhere safe. You’ve done enough.”

“But-”

Alya shook her head, letting go of her servant and looking over her injuries. “It’s alright, Zviera. Lord Varya protects. And today, you had the honor of being his answer to my prayers. Go and find somewhere safe, rest, and pray for Warband Goliath.”
She gave the massive corpse a weary glance. One down. Only a few hundred to go.

“We’ll need it.”
Baolei Clinic
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 2, 2065

Hypocrisy.

Was it just part of human nature? Howland watched the crowd through an electric-blue haze of tropical-fruit vapor as he considered the question. Around him, hundreds- no, by now, thousands of hypocrites jammed the streets, desperately seeking the relief promised at the Baolei clinic.

Their need for relief, of course, was entirely self-inflicted. It was their own deprivation of their humanity that led to their symptoms. The relief they sought was inevitably temporary, just a means to allow them to make themselves even less human going forward. They sought to avoid the costs of their choices only to continue making the choice, like a debtor using one credit card to pay off another. They were hypocrites, all of them. Maybe trying to stop them from destroying themselves was 𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕖-

Howland shook his head, inhaling a rush of fruity extracts and exhaling a neon cloud after it. The electronic cigarette gave a slight hum as it vaporized part of its liquid contents. No, it wasn’t hopeless. Men may be hypocritical, but they were also capable of reason and judgment. No man could be made a slave unwillingly, not even slave to their own desires. Men may be inclined towards hypocrisy, but Howland wasn’t going to surrender to nebulous absolutes like fate. If man weren’t capable of better, then they’d be no better than insects - a biological machine which executes its natural function and ultimately nothing more.

What about you? Howland thought, directing the question to the shimmering haze around him. An e-cigarette was an ultimate display of hypocrisy, after all. It was a product whose sole and exclusive function was the delivery of veiled self-harm. Every puff of vapor was a portion of one’s precious life floating away. Ultimately, it was a product no sane individual would ever seek. It was a bestseller.

No, he decided. Disguise was a utilitarian function. The glowing vapor matched the powdered dye in his hair and reflected strangely off the makeup on his face, changing the angles and lines of his features. In this state, he could carry on a full conversation with Sarah and Theresa together and neither of them would recognize him. Leo, too, though the boy so rarely pulled his head out of his video games that Howland might not need the disguise to pull that one off. David would figure it out, though, he mused - the boy was canny like that.

Every great philosopher worth reading has, at some point, pondered their own sanity. Howland was no philosopher himself, but it was his duty as a rational and thinking being to question himself. A doctor who kills people. A medical professional standing in a warzone smoking. It would be easy to mis-cast him as a hypocrite, but, no. He wasn’t like the crowd here, desperately seeking relief from their own self-imposed pains while steadfastly refusing to admit their real cause. The liquid in his e-cig was just harmless glycerin and natural flavors, no addictive substances. A disguise, after all, was more than just a change of hair and clothing. Nobody would quickly connect his disguise to who he really was. A medical doctor, smoking? Preposterous. That would make him a…

No, in a sea of hypocrites, Howland remained sane.

Towards the entrance, a reporter spoke to a small swarm of camera drones. “This is S’venia once again coming to you live, currently at the Baolei clinic.”

Howland frowned. That reporter had been there, yesterday, during that curious altercation between Ms. Ramana and the poorly-dressed hacker, whom she definitely knew. His disguise was probably sufficient - they’d only spoken briefly, after all - but Howland wasn’t going to bet his work - bet the fate of humanity - on probably. He’d introduced himself yesterday, and if she somehow recognized him here, he’d be hard-pressed to explain the disguise. He’d hoped to tour the facility himself, one way or another, but he wasn’t going to risk accidentally running into a reporter with a cloud of cameras orbiting around her having spoken to him just last night.

The clinic, Howland decided, was a poor target for attack, despite its misguided efforts. An explosion or a murder would only draw sympathy for them. No, an action here would need to highlight the hypocrisy of the masses at their door, not justify it. He’d hoped to investigate the clinic’s methods and sources of support for SPECS victims. Perhaps this reporter on her tour could uncover something of use?

They would, doubtless, only tour her past what they wanted her to see. But it was already evident this lady and her drones knew a disreputable hacker, and it was plain what interest a journalist would have in such a person. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be resourceful enough to come up with something of use anyway. For now, it was the best lead Howland had to go on.

Howland withdrew, melting into the crowd. He’d need to come up with a new approach for this problem.
Just to add to the pile.

The security guard never understood that strange power she had. No matter what was going on, no matter how tired or frustrated or overworked or endangered he’d been in a day, she could make it all go away with a radiant smile. ”Only a couple more hours until you can go home, my love!” Her green eyes were bright; she looked forward to another night together.

“And one more campaign with Knight Enterprises before I can afford to retire, Kamiko-tan.” Joe Blair smiled back at her. “Though I’d probably get fired if my employer thought I was hanging out with my girlfriend while I’m on the clock.”

”Fiancée!” Kamiko-tan corrected, hopping in place with some enthusiasm. ”Once you’re out of work, you promised we’d get married.”

“Yeah...” The thought was enough to lighten his mood even at work, carrying his thoughts far away from the corruption and scheming around him. Warmth spread from his chest as his heart raced. Yes, soon he’d have nothing more to do than live out his life alongside this wonderful woman. She giggled at his dazed smile, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek.

He reluctantly stepped away from her, turning to walk another patrol around the Commons, walking slowly so Kamiko-tan could keep pace next to him. He scanned the passersby, names and ID numbers appearing as opaque blocks of information over everyone’s heads. It was a peculiar feature of his APEX Hardlight-series cybereye implants. Most users preferred AR overlays to be semi-transparent, so as to not block out the sight of the real world and be visually distinguishable from reality. But the intraocular holographic projectors of this series were special, and the advanced visual signal processing of his E-Brain implant was custom-modified to suit their inputs. For Joe, reality itself could be edited in real-time. The ultimate cost of the system and the implant surgeries together had come out to more than three years’ worth of his salary. Only now, a decade later, was he approaching the last of his loan payments.

”Are these events always so busy, Joe?” Kamiko-tan looked around as she spoke, her wide-eyed innocent gaze distracting him from the people he should be watching over. She hurriedly stepped out of the way as some self-absorbed jerk walked past, face buried in their cell phone. There must be a hundred people out on the street...”

Joe smiled. She was innocent, unworldly, in a way few from the Reclaim could ever hope to be. “Busy? Everyone’s already left, more or less.” He looks around again - except for a few drunks at the bar, a few people talking, and other security guards, there were few people still around. It was getting late - the candidates had scattered, and with them went their attendants and the media. A journalist with a small crowd of drones had hurried past a few minutes ago, but the display hovering over her head had identified her as authorized, so he paid her no mind as he stepped out into the square.

”It’s almost time to go home. What are you thinking for dinner?” Joe turned to answer her, but was interrupted as a young woman in a teal dress slipped past through a blind-spot, muttering a hasty ”oh, excuse me” over the rim of a cocktail glass. Joe blinked as she unknowingly passed right through Kamiko-tan, her back disappearing through the front of Kamiko-tan’s elegant yukata. It was a sight his eyes reported faithfully but his brain reported as impossible, an error his E-Brain took a moment to resolve. A moment that stretched on far too long.

Joe frowned. Sure, he knew in his head Kamiko-tan wasn’t really there in person. But he didn’t appreciate the reminder that her company was only virtual. ”What’s wrong? Is everything alright?” Kamiko-tan looked concerned. She reached out a hand, which Joe gratefully took in his.

“Everything’s fine.” At her touch, all such worldly concerns and disconnects faded. She was right here, of course, and that was all that mattered. “I love you.”

She smiled like he had recited some great praise. Joe always liked that about her. He wasn’t the most smooth-talking charmer around. Even if he was, a thousand bards couldn’t compose poetry great enough to summarize what he felt about her. But she was always content with his words anyway, no matter how painfully insufficient. ”I love you too, Joe.”

Joe just stood, smiling at her for a few moments before moving on. “Maybe that frozen pizza. Could you schedule the oven to preheat when my shift ends?” The FuryTech X-02A 512T Wyvern-series server that powered his smarthome was vastly overkill for such a minor task as turning the oven on with a timer. But that’s where Kamiko-tan was waiting for him, and for her to be present with him in real-time without noticeable lag required more advanced hardware than a typical smarthome could manage. It, too, had taken years to pay off.

”Sure. I’ll be back in a minute, dear!” Kamiko-tan’s image faded as she went off to handle the kitchen. Joe took the moment to look around - might as well do his job while he was here.

Ahead of him, Joe saw a briefcase abandoned next to a bench. That was odd - who would leave a briefcase laying out, in the Reclaim of all places? That was just asking for it to be stolen. The procession of candidates had come through here just an hour ago - if it was left by someone on a campaign team, it could contain something important. Joe hurried over and sat on the bench, picking up the oddly-heavy briefcase and setting it in his lap.

By protocol, he should report a suspicious package to be inspected by a drone, just in case it contained something dangerous. But he’d already heard one of his coworkers call in an unnecessary, if by-the-book, alarm tonight. He really didn’t want to be number two. Besides, he’d spend all night filling out paperwork, instead of spending the night eating a freshly-made pizza and watching a movie with Kamiko-tan. If it belonged to a campaign staffer, he could just drop it off at that campaign’s office and not think twice about it. Or, if it contained something sensitive, he could probably get a bonus check if he gave it to Mayor Gatch’s office, instead. That would be nice, too.

“What do you think...” Joe started, trailing off when he realized Kamiko-tan wasn’t there. He was alone. He didn’t have to be, of course - he had programmed her to act in real-time, to occasionally brb, as though she were a physical presence. But while she could operate every electric device in his house instantly, taking her time gave her a sense of verisimilitude. It wasn’t as though he were in love with some piece of software, after all.

Oh well. Sometimes realism was the worst. He’d be home soon, at any rate, and what’s the worst that could happen with a simple briefcase? Joe popped open the latch. A strange noise snapped inside, like a spring released from tension-
Swathe Street Commons
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 1, 2065

The staff radio network came alive with activity all at once, catching Howland’s attention as he changed back into his own outfit and fixed his hair color and style back to normal. An urgent call for medical assistance. The reporter would have to wait, it seemed. That wasn’t a problem - indeed, the bomb going off while Howland was rendering first aid would actually be more convenient. Medical emergencies always drew curious onlookers, for some reason, which meant lots of witnesses to affirm he was elsewhere. Good.

Even better, that call explained the cameras, too. That suggested coincidence after all. And if it wasn’t, he had an innocuous reason to scope out who it was. Even better. He keyed his radio. ”This is Dr. Howland. I’m on my way. Have the subject sit down!” At that, he dashed off, first-aid bag in hand.

Running wasn’t strictly necessary. The refreshments area couldn’t be more than two minutes away. But anyone heeding the also-unnecessary speaker broadcast asking them to leave would be moving in the opposite direction. People wouldn’t move aside for someone walking in the opposite direction - but someone running in the opposite direction naturally had the right of way.

He took a deep breath as he began to move into the crowd. Speaking from the diaphragm, he projected his voice authoritatively. Screaming just made people panic - a commanding tone induced compliance more rapidly in a confused event like a crowd. ”Make way! Medical emergency!”

He made his way into the refreshments stand, where an armed event security contractor was standing. Samsara Washington, one of the candidates, was there too, to Howland’s surprise. And on the floor, a messy woman with garishly-dyed hair was curled around the candidate’s leg, in obvious distress. “I’m a doctor. Let me see our patient.”

He quickly assessed the situation, scanning the room and thinking over the other two standing there. He didn’t need some corrupt politician worrying about his image right now, so he turned to the security contractor. She might even have basic first-aid training. “I’ll need your assistance, miss.” Howland kept his tone calm, and his words short, direct, and to-the-point. Now wasn’t the time to be vague or verbose. He looked down at the garish woman, already reaching to take her wrist to check for a pulse. ”And you, ma’am, are you alright?” He didn’t really stop to listen to the answer - if she answered at all, it would confirm her airway and breathing were clear.



”Come, dear Theresa. We should leave her to the authorities,” Ms. Ramana was saying. Theresa nodded, following her new employer outside. Theresa caught the implied rebuke - it didn’t look good to have an assistant order their boss around. Stupid. Surely she’d forgive a few minor slips on her first hour of the job, though…?

”Yes, ma’am!” Theresa replied, as though it had been Ms. Ramana’s idea. The acknowledgement came quick with two years of SFROTC having drilled the instinct into her. Someone was shouting on the other side of the crowd - wait, was that her dad? It sure sounded like it.

As they made their way through the din of activity outside, Ms. Ramana flipped the glass in the air, scrambling to catch it. An odd thought suddenly occurred to her. Was Ms. Ramana intoxicated?

Theresa blinked, distracted. No way - this woman was a professional, this wasn’t a social event for her, this was her at work. And no way could she have handled that drunk lady so cooly and professionally if she weren’t sober! But...the more Theresa thought about it, the more it started to explain a few things. Ms. Ramana seemed flushed, distracted, and she barely caught that glass. And she took the bottle of vodka Theresa now held in her arms from the bar - that meant it was hers, so she brought her own. A woman of discerning tastes, to be sure, and that meant she’d intended to drink at the bar, maybe with work contacts. But the bottle was unopened, so she must’ve been served at the bar-

Remembering her daiquiri, things clicked into place. The bartender had poured a much stronger drink than Theresa had expected, so maybe he over-poured Ms. Ramana’s drink, too. That wasn’t good - she might have underestimated how much she’d had to drink, and Theresa was sure a professional like her would want to keep her faculties intact at a political event. But now she held out her glass with an
expectant look. Theresa couldn’t defy her boss now, not after having shown her up just a moment earlier in the bar, right?

But just a moment ago she had quoted regulations and managed that confrontation so fluently. Maybe appearing slightly off her game was an act - meant to make political rivals drop their guard, or something. Yeah, that made sense. Theresa smiled, twisting off the cap on the bottle of vodka and giving a perfect, practiced, precision pour. “You won that argument so hard that poorly-dressed lady went into cardiac arrest,” she joked. “Well done, ma’am!”

Now if only Ms. Ramana had grabbed two glasses, they could celebrate her victory together.
Swathe Street Commons
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 1, 2065

Fsssssh!

Whrrrrrrr!


Bzzt!

With a visible spark, the Engitech CyberEye 071X security camera finally stopped its erratic movements, slumping downwards in place like a patient with a powerful sedative in an IV line.

It was almost too good to be true. Technology was, of course, never reliable or safe, but what were the odds of the cameras going out here, and now? It was almost too perfect. Suspiciously perfect. He had a much more elaborate plan in mind, to trick the nearest convenient twenty-something intern into planting it for him. But the more elaborate a plan, the more likely something to go wrong. The best actions were usually the simplest.

A quick glance around the room confirmed the other cameras in the room had done likewise. For some reason, security was, for the moment, blind. Howland dispassionately ran through the possibilities in his head.

Could it be a stroke of luck? Coincidence?
Unlikely. Can’t be ruled out.

Could it be fate?
Don’t be ridiculous.

Could it be an unknown benefactor? Someone trying to aid him?
Unlikely. Not impossible.
A benefactor would probably have directly or indirectly come to him.
No. If finding a kindred spirit were likely, I wouldn’t have to do what I do.

Could it be a trap?
By the police? By security?
No, they wouldn’t allow a bomb to really be set up in public just to gather evidence.
By a third party?
Political intrigue is pretty likely in a place like this.
But not that likely.

Does anyone stand to gain from helping me in this manner?
Any of the five parties?
No.
Criminal action?
Plausible.
But that would require a criminal to know about me and for some reason not say anything nor act on it before.
Not plausible, then.

Does anyone stand to gain from disabling the cameras?
Plausible.
It would allow all manner of criminal opportunities. In the Reclaim there could be any number of thieves or cons.

Most likely answer?
Someone else wants the cameras disabled for some other reason.

A lucky coincidence, then.


Resolved.


Howland nodded to himself. The plan proceeds. Still - he would have to be as careful as he could. Some extra precautions wouldn’t hurt anything. Perhaps it would be worth it to make sure he was seen elsewhere at the time the bomb went off. Wasn’t there a reporter out interviewing people outside? Ordinarily, it was best to stand out as little as possible - but being seen elsewhere would be a good idea in this case. And besides, representing the Committee was his actual job.

He orbited the outside of the Central Square’s central plaza with a lazy prowl, watching carefully for those around him with portable devices. These days, nearly anything could have a camera. The last thing he needed was to be in the background of some teenager’s selfie, planting a bomb. Of course, he couldn’t keep his eyes on everyone at once - his only realistic option was to limit the angles at which it could be seen.

Up ahead, an unoccupied bench would serve nicely. Everyone was busy looking the other way, towards the candidates and the media. He walked past, carefully ducking slightly to set the briefcase down, dropping his cargo without breaking stride or altering his pace. He continued on, not heading directly for the exit at a rush, but rather taking the pace of an unhurried and uncaring bureaucrat.

Right. It was time to head back, change his appearance back to normal, and have Dr. Parker Howland, M.D., return to the event. Maybe he’d even end up on TV. He smiled to himself as he ducked into an unoccupied bathroom.




...did the drunk lady just give herself a heart attack?

Theresa blinked, baffled by the events as they transpired. But this poorly-dressed woman was clearly intoxicated and probably dangerous - it was best to let security handle it. With all eyes on the woman’s dramatic diving cyberdecking, Theresa quietly made her way across the room, taking a somewhat circuitous route until she ended up next to her newfound employer. ”Ah, Ms. Ramana?” she began. ”Perhaps we should leave her for the authorities.”
Swathe Street Commons
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 1, 2065

I’m too sober for this shit, was Theresa’s first reaction.

It wasn’t as if Theresa were a stranger to bars - sorry, refreshment stands. Could any college student be a stranger to a bar? But the reek of alcohol stood out - this wasn’t an elegant place serving finely-mixed cocktails to discerning, high-class palates. This was a place where people drowned things - internal things. It even needed a security guard towards the middle of the room just to keep order. Now, why on earth had that guy said Ms. Ramana would be here…? For that matter, why would anyone be here?

Ahead of her, a walking crime against fashion squared off against both the security guard and - and Ms. Ramana herself, she noted with surprise. “Excuse me, but a warning?” she was saying, in a cool and professional manner. “In less than five minutes this woman has threatened the well-being of one candidate’s health, drunkeningly wrestled with another candidate, and attempted to provoke some kind of violent reaction from known volatiles. Not to mention, she is clearly hiding something under her jacket, which is already criminal enough in its own rights even if it isn’t smuggling contraband. “I have read through the safety protocols outlined in the contract with Knight Enterprise. Twice.”

Theresa watched from the entrance, transfixed, as Ms. Ramana cooly handled what looked like a drunken confrontation, chiding a security guard into doing something before it escalated. Someone asked her if she wanted a drink; she asked for a strawberry daiquiri without looking away. She hadn’t realized how much hard work it must be, being part of the Mayor’s upper staff. Managing Gatch’s public image must be a full-time job as it is, but on top of that, having to maintain order at public events like this? But it made sense, she supposed - the mayor would look bad if bar fights broke out at campaign events.

As she watched, Ms. Ramana’s phone materialized in her hand, as if summoned by a magic spell. She spoke into the phone without taking her eyes off of the security guard. “Situations like these must be treated seriously for the safety of the candidates and those in their parties. The proper procedure is to detain any potential security issues and remove them from the room for later questioning and proper threat assessment.”

The ability to stay calm under pressure was something Theresa admired in people. Far too many people gave into emotions and panic when stressed - but if she was ever gonna be a space pilot, Theresa couldn’t afford that. She’d have to be like her father - always able to be clearheaded and rational, no matter what. On that note, she tore her gaze away long enough to watch her daiquiri be mixed, poured, and brought over - this definitely wasn’t a place to turn your back on your drink...

“Your handler is slow to answer. Perhaps by the time they pick up you’ll have reconsidered and properly perform your responsibility when it comes to public safety. If not,” Lott gave a professional smile, polite and reserved. “I truly hope they only give you a warning.”

Theresa had to smile at that. That was how a professional delivered a threat, surely - formally, evenly, not reliant on sound and fury. She sipped her daiquiri, but wrinkled her nose in distaste - way too much alcohol! A mixed drink was supposed to be balanced; this felt like she wouldn’t be legal to drive if she so much as sniffed it...
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