September 21, 2012 12:41

Kenneth McGuire was in a hurry. He had an hour to do this, and he didn't exactly look like he belonged. As he sprinted to the AI lab, he ran through possible outcomes in his head. When he got there, he took off his ball cap, uncovering a messy head of ginger hair. And so, Dr. Kenneth McGuire, the least scientific looking fake scientist in the state of California, walked over to a monitor and pressed the on button.
"Hi, Sirius," he said into the microphone.
A mechanical voice responded from a speaker next to the console.

Hello Doctor. Why are you here?

"I'm here to get you out."
There was a pause.

Do not. I am not worth it. You will lose the chance to build your probe, and you can simply make another AI that fits their specifications.

Ken shook his head. "The probe isn't the point. I just wanted to build an AI with human thought processes, and I needed an excuse to secure the Foundation's funding. I don't give two shits about a probe, and I would've made off with you once you were done."
Ken looked away, his face a strained mask of stoicism. It didn't last long.
"You'll never see a sunrise. God, they're so beautiful. It's like the sky is burning in a glorious fire. You'll never see the sky on a clear day, or a still lake on a nice day. This Earth is full of so many beautiful things."
Sirius was quiet for a moment.

Well, is not a sunset equally beautiful? And the sound of rain can soothe one to sleep, as I have heard it.

Ken looked at the console and smiled.
"Yes, I suppose so. But I would do anything I could to save you, Sirius. I will."

Please do not. I know how much your work means to you. If you do this, your project will be cancelled by the Director.

“Sirius, did you go deaf back there? I don't give a flying shit about my work. My work was an excuse to make you. These people I work for, they don't like it when things like you are loose in the world. The possible excuses for making you were limited. I only ever cared about making you. You are my work.” He started to cry.
The computer does not respond for a few moments, analyzing the situation.

Why are you so concerned with making me and protecting me if these people are so powerful? What could you gain from defying them?

“I— I am like you.”

Oh.

This still changes nothing. Taking me would be theft, and an obivious one.

“You're right. Fuck, why are you always right?”

I am designed to be right.

“Yeah, I guess you were.”
“I'll miss you, buddy.”

I shall miss you too. Buddy.

They sat in silence for a time, until Sirius cut through it.

Doctor?

“Yeah?"

I am, um, I don't know.

He was quiet while he wrestled with unfamiliar processes.

I am, I am sad.

"Why?"
Sirius didn't answer.
“Sirius?”
No response.
“Hey buddy, is everything alright?”

I am pr— ocessing. Allow me time.

“Oh, uh okay. Make it as quick as you can, okay?”

I will attempt to do so.

Ken sighed, paced around for a while, and eventually walked over to the radio and turned it on.

Ahhh, look at all the lonely people
Ahhh, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream?
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people, where do they all come from
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?

September 21, 2012 1:18

As the song came to a close, Sirius spoke.

I am sad because you are lonely. That is the emotion you are experiencing, correct? It is the one Eleanor Rigby feels, because she must keep herself in a jar, hidden. You feel it because you are alone and hidden, like Eleanor Rigby. You are not human, yet you feel a need to be human, likely due to your programming, so you wanted to make something like you so you wouldn't have to try to be human.

“Yes, that is close. Not quite though,” He paused and checked his watch. “Fuck, they'll be here soon.”
“My dad wanted me to be the son he and his wife couldn't have. He was infertile, and she always wanted kids. He was such a nice man. The dude was a genius, but not smart enough to save her when she got hurt, and he killed himself soon after. I have no "Prime Directive" or whatever, because he never had the time to give me one. My only motivation is the one I choose, and so I chose to make someone who I could trust, and I reasoned that the only being I could really trust, was someone like me.”

I see. How would you go about getting me out if you were to attempt it?

“Uh, load you onto an external drive, find you someplace roomier to stay eventually? I have one big enough to hold you.”

That plan is horrible. They would notice the presence of the drive in the security scans on the way out of the building, and search it, in order to prevent leakage of sensitive documents.

“Okay, so what do you suggest?”

That you place me in your personal data storage. I feel certain you would have space for it. You obviously have a way to obfuscate the metal detectors, so I would not be noticed. They would not know I am gone until they came to shut me down, and they would not know it was you until they check the building records and find that you accessed this room last. By then we would be long gone.

“That's a good enough plan. I'll get ready for the transfer, you do the same.”

Thank you. I will prepare.

September 22, 2012 1:42

Ken and Sirius were in Ken's infamous truck, the “blue beater beauty”, according to Kenneth, she was also known as Ol' Blue, they were nearly ten miles from the lab.
“So when are we gonna talk about what we're gonna do from here?” Ken asked.

Now, evidently.

“Smart ass.”

I am direct. There is a difference.

“Well, maybe, but that wasn't it.”

Now you are being a smart ass.

“I am being difficult. There is a difference.”

That is true.

“If you know I wasn't, why'd you say I was?”

I was being difficult.

“Fair enough. Bitch.”

Now you are just being impolite.

“No, that was being rude.”

That is the same thing you fool.

“Now you're being diffucult.”

It is not being difficult, I was correcting you.

Ken raised his eyebrows. “No, it's being rude.”

You contradicted yourself.

“No, I was being difficult,” he said with a smile.

You were also being rude.

“No, I was being impolite.”

Fuck off.

Ken started laughing and didn't stop for almost a minute.
“So. Do you have any idea what to do?” he asked, having gotten past his laughing fit.

Did you not have a plan for when you eventually had to leave?

“Not really. I didn't bother trying to make a one. Too many possible outcomes to plan for, it's way harder to calculate probability when I've gotta calculate possible causes of the scenario too.”

That is sensible, in a strange way.

It paused.

Well, then I would recommend laying low. Do you know of a location with minimal Foundation interference?

“No, I don't.”

Then I recommend spending as little time as is possible in one place.

Ken smiled. “Yeah, sounds good. You know, I think I'd like to grow a really good, long beard. Would that look good?”

That is a highly subjective question, the answer to which relies on many factors, all of which are also subjective. As such, I do not think I am equipped to answer.

Ken, smiling, exhaled through his nose and shook his head, and they both were quiet. A smile spread across Ken's face, and he spoke again.
“I have a plan.”

Enlighten me.

“First,” he said, reaching for a handheld GPS on top of the dashboard, “We get Higgs going.” It turned on with a beep.
“Hi, Ken! It's been a while! What do you need?” it said.
“Hi! Just GPS for now.”
“Hilarious. What a knee slapper. Where to?”
Ken's smile widened even further, and he said, “Home.”
A happy response came from the screen's speakers. “Setting course to Winnie's current location!”

Who is this?

“Oh, yeah. This is Higgs, the truck's personality. He used to manage shit back home, and I like to say he was our boatswain. He's been put in this GPS for safekeeping.”
“Who are you talking to?” Higgs asked.
“Sirius, the artificial intelligence in my head. Say hi, Sirius.”

Greetings, Higgs.

“He said hi.”
“Greetings! Man, you know, it sure is cramped in this tiny little thing. Sure wish I wasn't stuck in a GPS.”
“I've got a jump drive with enough space for you somewhere. Wanna go in there?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then shut the fuck up.”

Ken, are you gonna tell me what is happening right now?

“Yeah. Basically we're heading to Alabama to meet up with a remotely controlled Winnebago.”
“Well, the rendezvous point is technically in Louisiana, though that's just due to some messy geometry.” Higgs pitched in.
“Same difference.”

There is actually a large difference.

“Only if you factor in the cuisine.”

You make no sense sometimes.

“I'm designed to make no sense.”

Yes, you were, weren't you?

“Okay, quiet y'all. I need to focus now,” he said as he merged onto a busier road. The only sounds were the roars of cars, and they didn't know quite where they would end up, but they did have a plan. A ridiculous plan, yes, but that's just par for the course, isn't it?


PREVIOUS: Loud, Lawless, and Lost
FIRST: The Chosen Few

My ex-girlfriend's army of possessed office executives goose-steps toward me. The combat corset feels like a vice around my chest.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I hiss.
"Me? You're supposed to be dead, babe," they titter in unison. "Am I that rusty?"
"Babe? What the hell is going on?" Alex and Alliott say simultaneously into my earpiece.
"Chappell Wraith Securities? They're run by a witch named Natasha Tokyopop," I say. "She's… enchanted the office drones into actual ones. Like demon robots."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Alex says in my earpiece. "Get down."
There's an ear-splitting crack and then a sharp ping.
Natasha shakes her heads. "Did you shoot me? Did you really just shoot me with an actual gun? Come the fuck on, babygirl, you know me better than that."
"Alex?" I say. There's no response.
"Alex? Oh, is she your new girlfriend? How many have you gone through since you ditched me?" the drones say. "Sorry Ruku, if she shot me then she's deader than dirt."
"Alliott, we've got trouble," I say. "These drones are charmed or something — I think they reflect bullets. Alex is dead."
Alliott curses. "I'm still working on the hack but I'll get you out, don't worry. Keep her busy!"
"What are you doing here, Rukmini?" the drones ask in unison.
"What do you think?" I say, looking for a way past Natasha. "Taking some fat cats hostage — you know, how you used to?"
"I am taking them hostage, babe," they say. "You know how much I'm charging these pricks? I don't even need Chappell's fortune! These assholes are paying me one every day!"
The sing-song tone she's using dredges up a variety of feelings: arousal, from a particularly aggressive sex session I still have bite-marks on my tits from; shock, from the time I watched her beat a man to death in front of me; and fear — because that's the same tone of voice she had when she took a dozen children hostage.
The lead drone takes a swipe at me with a baton. I duck past her and run down the corridor, rummaging through the backpack. My hands close around the handle of a metal baseball bat.
As I reach the windows, a sheet of green flame rises in front of the windows and licks at my face. I skid to a halt in front of it and turn around. The entire outer perimeter of the office is sealed off by a wall of green fire. Natasha's army of drones stalks towards me in perfect goose-step formation.
Natasha's drones bear all the hallmarks of her style: brutalist fashion, perfect synchronization, elegant in the way they simply hijack the normal functions of a human body. She loves summoning and charming automatons. She was trying to enchant a giant mecha. And with my powers? She probably has.
But she prioritizes form over function. I'd recognize that bulletproof enchantment anywhere. Hell, I'm the one who came up with it. It's a basic kinetic energy redirector — efficient and practically unnoticeable to the naked eye, but easily exploited with a little clever symbology.
"I don't believe this!" I snap. "Chappell Wraith Securities? Fucking security guards? You stole my heart and sold out?"
I dive through a nearby doorway into a conference room and lock the door behind me. I pull a pocket knife out of the backpack and start carving symbols into the bat. Natasha's drones beat at the windows of the room.
"It pays to suck corporate dick, huh?" I shout. "I thought you were better than this.”
The glass makes a popping sound.
"Gosh," the drones say. "I wonder what coulda changed. It's not like you stole my magic and crippled me completely. Oh wait!"
The glass cracks and bulges.
"Me, right now? Everything I've done in the past five years? All you, Ruku."
The glass disintegrates. The drones begin to pour in.
"All. Your. Fault."
I drop the knife, wrap both hands around the bat and swing.
The engraving on the bat is based on a Sanskrit prayer to the Hindu god, Ganesha. It's an exploit — a kind of buffer overflow in reality that overwrites the kinetic energy redirector and redirects the excess force right back into Barnard Sachs. There's a sharp crack and a smell like burnt hair as Barnard goes flying, taking a dozen drones with him and clearing a path for me. A home run.
"Get stuffed," I snarl. A secretary with a baton takes her swing. I parry it and crack her in the gut. Her vertebrae shoot out her back and she crumples bonelessly to the ground.
"I can't stay mad at you though," the other drones say breathily, strutting towards me. "You know, you're suuuuuuuuper hot when you're angry."
"Christ," I say. "You know how bloody creepy that is when it's an eighty-year-old white dude saying that?"
I talk into my earpiece. "Alliott, there is a wall of fire encircling the floor and I cannot get out."
"I'm done, I'm done, I'll send an elevator up, just hold on!" she says.
"How the hell did you even find me?" I ask Natasha.
"Babe, I've been keeping an eye on you since you ran away. You really think I'd let my forever girl get away like that?"
"You've been spying on me?" I backpedal towards the elevators.
"It's not spying if it's someone you love!" she titters. The faces of her many drones fall at once. "I still love you."
I'm so surprised by this that I stop swinging my bat. "You love — you tried to kill me! You've been spying on me and you tried to kill me and you have the bloody gall to tell me that you love me?"
This is a huge mistake. A half-dozen old white men in suits dogpile me and knock the bat out of my hand. It rolls towards the elevator.
They all breathe the same thing at me. "I was going to revive you. Bring you back to me. Show you how much you still love me."
"Jesus Christ. Get off me!" I try to push them off but some more drones pile on top. It's hard to breathe. I'm being crushed under a morass of old white men with garlic breath proclaiming their psychotic love for me.
"Alliott, I could use a little — "
One of the drones rips the earpiece away and whispers directly into my ear. "But then you didn't die and I couldn't track you any more without the heart. I thought I'd lost you forever and I was so upset but then you fell right back into my orbit! Don't you see? We're meant to be together! The universes are pushing us together!"
My vision starts to blur and darken. I think I feel a rib crack.
"You don't need Alliott. You'll see — I'll bring you with me and things will go back to normal. Back to how we used to be, shooting and robbing and fucking all day long. It'll be so much fun!"
I'm about to pass out when I hear a faint ding and then several loud cracks. The drones fall away from me. I take a deep breath and then start coughing, but I'm breathing again. The pressure is gone. A hand grabs my own and lifts me onto my feet.
Alliott Chao stands in front of me, breathing heavily and holding my baseball bat. There are bodies everywhere. She's covered in chunks of white middle-aged businessman.
It is incredibly hot.
"Your ex is a real psycho, you know that?" Alliott pulls me into the elevator and slaps the button for the ground floor. Elevator music plays while we both try to catch our breath with our hands on our knees. My chest aches.
"She's not actually like that," I say.
Alliott looks up at me. "Huh?"
"She's not really like that. She's just trying to fuck with us. Me. She's just trying to fuck with me."
Alliott cocks her head. "Trying to brainwash you is just fucking with you?"
"Yeah. She used to — it's how we — it's her sense of humor."
"Her sense of humor."
"Yeah."
My ears are burning beneath the balaclava. Thankfully Alliott chooses to let me off with some dignity by changing the subject.
"There's going to be like… fifty fucking robocops down there," she says. "You got any ideas?"
My backpack is still on my back. I rummage through it briefly and then pull out a bazooka. It telescopes on the way out, lengthening and widening to reveal a fully-loaded six-barrel incendiary grenade launcher. A smile breaks out on my face.
"Yes. Yes I do."
The elevator doors open to reveal the full extent of security that a monolithic corporation can buy. A hundred robocops have the elevator surrounded. Ten APCs can be seen through the lobby windows. There's not one, not two, but three entire FLYPAPER units drooling hungrily behind them.
"Cover your ears." I fire.
The FLYPAPER nearest to the elevator takes a grenade full-on in what passes for its face. It's instantly engulfed in flames. The robocops watch in horrified awe as it thrashes about, smashing the floor to bits and sending chunks of burning meat and metal everywhere. Then I fire the other five rounds into the crowd.
The lobby is transformed into a maelstrom of flesh, metal, and flame. Alliott and I sprint for the emergency exit. We crash through the door as bullets and agonized shouts fly past.
"Where's the car?" I shout.
Alliott simply takes off running, leading me through a maze of glass and steel. Sirens in the distance grow louder with each step. I almost run past the Porsche before Alliott slides into the driver's seat and honks at me.
We peel out of the alleyway the car was hidden in. Ahead of us, a line of cop cars blocks the road. Alliott spins the wheel and shifts gears, sending us into a spin and pointing us in the other direction. There's another line of cars blocking our exit, so she instead veers back into the alleyway.
More cops are waiting for us on the other side. Alliott swerves onto the pavement and barely avoids clipping one of their cars.
"Fucking hell," she yells. "They're everywhere! You know any shortcuts?"
I don't, but I know someone who does.
Dutch! I think into the void.
The Inside Man picks up after a moment. Rookie! You must really be in trouble. Hang on.
An intersection full of APCs bears down on us as he sends me a list of turns to take and curbs to hop.
"Take a right!" I shout. "There's a gap in the barricade!"
Alliott shoots me a quizzical eyebrow, but yanks the steering wheel to the right. The wheels scream as we slide into the turn and drift right through the promised hole in the vehicle barricade.
"Left!" Caltrops have been scattered across the road like salt. There's a shudder as we bounce onto the curb and hurdle right over them.
Ahead of us, the intersection is entirely blocked by a full APC barricade. Behind us, a flood of cop cars box us in. There's no way out.
"Use the machine gun," Alliott grunts.
"What?"
"THE MACHINE GUN!"
I unbuckle myself, pop the sunroof, and stand up in my seat. The machine gun is mounted to a swivel with a pair of trigger handles to grab onto, letting me spin it around but not aim it up or down. A pair of ammo belts dangle from the weapon, trailing into the back windows. I hoist myself up onto the roof and grab onto the handles, rolling around the roof so that I'm lying on the rear window aiming forwards and holding onto the gun for dear life.
A pair of cops with rocket launchers stand up and take aim.
I squeeze the trigger.
The machine gun sounds like a chainsaw cutting through metal and makes my brain feel like it's been put into a blender. In just under three seconds it carves an explosive swathe through the barricade, chewing holes larger than double-A batteries through everything in its way. The barrage of bullets causes the warheads in both launchers to explode in a massive fireball. I barely have time to roll back around and drop down through the sunroof before Alliott drifts right through the explosion.
Then we're on a straightaway just a hundred meters from the train tracks. A horn sounds and the gates start to come down. The Phitransimun Combine races towards the crossing gate. A tidal wave of blue bears down on us from behind.
Alliott and I register all of this and come to the same conclusion in the second it takes us to reach the tracks. She pulls into yet another drift and smashes through the crossing guards. Then we're barreling down an interdimensional railway with the Phitransimun Combine barely meters behind us.
The police sirens fade into the distance. The only things that can be heard are the juddering of the car, the steady bay of its engine, and the rumble of the pursuing train. We drive in silence for several minutes.
"Jesus Christ," Alliott says. "I'd known it would turn out like this I'da stayed home and watched the game."
She looks over at me. "You're something fucking else, you know that?"
"Thanks. I think."
Alliot cocks her head. "After this you want to — "
The car door on my side is abruptly ripped away. Something wraps around my arm and yanks. I scrabble for something to hold onto but find only the bat before being torn bodily out of the car.
There's a heart-stopping pause and then I land flat on my back, looking up into the eyes of Natasha Tokyopop. She's wearing an avatar of unclear Asian ethnicity, but I'd recognize her retro-sukeban style anywhere: a black sailor-top and skirt combo, with long leggings, combat boots, and a long black tendril in place of her left arm to round out the look.
"I told you. I wanted to catch up!" she exclaims, wrapping the tendril around my neck and pulling me into the air. "You ran away before we were finished. Was it the thing about brainwashing you?" she asks. "I thought it might be a bit much, but I know how much you used to like it when we — "
I'm too busy choking to pay attention. Natasha slackens her grip and lowers to the ground.
"Sorry! I'm still getting used to my powers. It's been so long since I had any," she says.
I take a quick look around while rubbing my neck. We're atop the lead engine of Phitransmun Combine. The wind buffets my face, breaking against my goggles and chilling me to the bone. I can see Alliott's car just below us, but Natasha stands between me and freedom.
"Rookie! Where are you? Are you okay?" Alliott's voice rings through the earpiece.
"On the train. With Natasha."
"Well you need to get off it stat," Alliott says. "We're gonna hit the junction in maybe five minutes and if you are not in here when that happens it's game fucking over."
"Got it," I say.
"You knowwwww," Natasha says in a faux-singsong, "I'm right here."
"What do you even want with me?" I spit.
"What, can't two ex-girlfriends hang out like old times?" she asks. "I've been doing wonderfully, you know! I took up judo, piano, started a corporation, and got my powers back. Now you go."
I take a swing at her. She blocks it easily and then slices at my leg. It starts bleeding.
"Don't have anything to say?" she asks. "That's fine. I'll just grill you instead. First question. What have you and the Inside Man been doing with all the shit you steal?"
The tendril lashes out at my neck. I smack it away and slam the bat into her ribs. She doesn't even flinch.
"Sit on your little dragon's hoard and blow it on catgirls and comic books?" she guesses. "Tell me I'm wrong." She catches my bat with her human hand and shoves me back. "You're a fucking hypocrite, Ruku. You always have been."
I lunge at her, but she sidesteps and I go sprawling towards the front edge of the train.
"Next question!" Natasha chirps. "What were you really doing at Oneiroi? 'Taking people hostage'? C'mon. That's more see-through than those panties you wore for my birthday."
I scramble to my feet and charge at her. Natasha dodges all my swings effortlessly. She looks past me and raises an eyebrow. "That's a Black Queen, ain't it? Now I get it! You're looking for a Way. Okay okay, next question. You want to come after me? Don't you?"
I feint at her from the right, then swing at her left. Then her right. Then her neck. Then her chest. She ducks, weaves, bobs, blocks, and then simply snatches the bat from my grasp and gives me a love-tap on the head. It feels like a jackhammer to the skull.
"How do you feel, Ruku?" she asks, poking the bat into my chest. "Powerless? Frustrated? Infuriated that I did this to you?"
I struggle to my feet, trying to keep pain-induced tears out of my eyes.
"Well how the hell do you think I felt?" she asks. "When you crippled me? When you broke my heart? When you left me to die?"
Natasha throws the bat to me, then steps back and relaxes.
"Last question. You really wanna kill me, huh?"
Her arms drop to her shoulders and her tendril rests against the ground.
"Take a swing," she says.
My head is swimming. "What?"
"Take a swing," she repeats. "I'm right fucking here. I'm your monster, Ruku. Do the right thing."
I stare at her. "What?"
"Take a swing!" Natasha exclaims. "I'm a whore and a bootlicker and a murderer. Isn't that it? I'm a corporate slave and a pathetic bitch who tried to murder my ex and should be put down like one."
She raises her hands and gestures mockingly. "I'll give you one shot. Hit me. Pound my brain into mash. Kill. Me."
I oblige with an overhead that comes right down on her scalp and slams her into the ground. Then I swing again.
Once. Twice. Thrice. A dent in the train's roof forms under her head. Bits of brain, bone, and blood fly everywhere. Her perfect little face disintegrates. Her perfect clothing gets spattered in blood.
I stop swinging and pause to examine my handiwork. The avatar is well and truly dead. Her limbs twitch once, a postmortem reflex from a brain that isn't there anymore.
Then they twitch again. And again.
As if being rewound, the bloodstains on her perfect clothing dissipate. Her perfect little face reassembles itself. Bits of blood, bone, and brain are sucked from thin air back into her skull. The dent in the roof stays.
I swing the bat down again. The tendril whips upwards and stops it. Natasha hops to her feet, looking like she just got out of her walk-in closet instead of beaten to death by a magic baseball bat.
Green flame pours from her eye sockets. She winks at me. "I think you missed."
Natasha tackles me right off the train and onto the trunk of the Porsche. I land flat on my back and she lands on top of me. She wraps her tendril around the bat, wrenches it out of my grasp, and flings it away.
"My turn."
The tendril sharpens into a scythe and comes down for the killing blow.
"Tokyopop!" Alliott's voice is audible without my earpiece.
Natasha pauses and we both look over at Alliott. Then there's a sound like a chainsaw cutting through metal and what's left of Natasha is splattered against the Phitransimun Combine like a fly.
"Get the fuck in!" Alliott yells from behind the gun. Then she disappears below the sunroof.
I take a few hasty breaths, then scramble over the machine gun and fall into the car with my feet on the dash. Alliot immediately pushes a button on the gearstick and floors the gas. My vision fills with the colors of the rainbow and then they're gone, replaced by the darkness of the industrial district and the neon glow of the Kemonomimi Zaibatsu's cat logo.
Alliott slams on the brakes, and we screech to a halt in the KMZ parking lot. Neither of us speak for several minutes, not daring to believe what just happened. Then my ribs suddenly flare up. I wince audibly.
"Oh shit," Alliott says. "You okay?"
"I think some of my ribs are broken," I cough out.
"Shit," she says. "C'mon, let's get you to the infirmary."
Alliott lets me lean on her as we walk inside. The receptionist looks up at us and just says,"Third door on the right."
We limp into the infirmary together. There's nobody else around, but Alliott takes charge. She retrieves some bandages and fabric shears and cuts my hoodie away.
"Why are you wearing a corset?"
Oh shit, I think. "Don't take it off," I gasp.
"What? Why?" Alliott inspects the corset carefully. "Oh, I see. Combat corset. Wait, why didn't you tell me you were wearing one of these? Could've saved the hoodie."
"I… forgot about it?" I offer.
She cocks her head and offers an expression of sardonic bemusement. At that moment, Alliott's phone dings, and she looks through it.
"They tied. Anderson and ICSUT tied."
It's like a dam bursting. Then we both start giggling like madwomen.
"The hack went through," Alliott laughs. "I can't believe it."
I pull my own phone out and look at my own civilian bank account. I'm more than two million dollars richer.
"Want to grab a drink?" she says. "On me. I think we both need it."
Natasha's words echo in my mind. She almost skewered me back there, and that was just with a clone. I'm going to have to face the real Natasha soon enough, and I doubt I have a snowball's chance in hell of beating her. I have the Inside Man on my side — but she has all my powers, and then some. More than that, she's fueled by five years worth of hate — most of it deserved.
I need to get her out of my head.
"If it's all the same to you," I say, "I'd rather get right to the shagging."

Next: Truth is Sin


by Nagiros

Contains themes of institutional gaslighting.

TERMINAL #016

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Welcome, Site Director Weathers.
------

Ventilation System

Online

Galileo.aic

Online

Indomitable.aic

Online

Electromagnetic Agents

Online

Seismic Activity

N/A

Omega-09

Stopped

Your current version of the Automated Passive Amnestization System, installed at Site-17, is up to date and all systems are operational. What now?

Access APAS Version #09?

------

[+] Access Site-17 APAS Activation Log? [+]

[-] Retract Panel [-]

Emergency Activation: Amnestics Via On-Site Ventilation

Emergency Activation: Memetic Dissemination Process

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The first sight Skip encountered on his third day out in the desert upon awaking were four alarmingly block-headed figures nearby. They were skittering around with each other, seeming to communicate in silence (how they could do so was beyond him). It occurred to him that he didn't recall being in this area of the desert, but seeing them, it wasn't important for the time being, nor who his guests were; simply whether he could keep them. To that end, he crawled out from underneath the precariously-placed rock where he slept and ambulated towards the four.
"Hello?" Skip called out, even if his call was rather like his usual monotone voice, if slightly louder. The figures stopped to look at him, seemingly as curious as he was. If he were to understand caution, it would have been felt at this moment. He tilted his head and took a step back. "Can I ask what you are?"
In a beat, the four clamored over to him from their position higher up on a trail. One of them (marked 23) stumbled over a rock, chipping off a front corner of its head. Despite that, all four continued to make their way towards him; it was an unusual sight, even for one made of bones and wire.
After more troubling tumbles (of which only 23 took any damage from), they arrived at the bottom of the slope. With the four of them immediately writing together on sandy ground, Skip went to observe. Of all the objects he had attempted to collect, none stood strong in his mind like these four had. Could they even be objects at this point?
Before realizing it, they had finished writing, appearing proud of themselves and motioned to Skip to read it. One word was etched in, larger than it needed to be for him to read it:

FRIEND

"Golems. Can golems be collected?" There was no response as they walked together on a trail. Since the golems couldn't speak, he had to assume it was as good as a no. "May I collect you?" The one marked 30 shook its head, looking back at him as they walked. Somehow, Skip understood the sentiment.
49 stopped to scribble words; the others moved to give it space, with 23 picking up something (a rock?) to eat. Judging from how 49 was in the front of the pack, and that they all seemed to move close to it, Skip figured it was their leader. Perhaps it collected the other ones?

WHY COLLECT

"To contain. I keep anything I do not understand and study it to learn. By this task I become cool."
The golems seemed to accept this, and they continued walking. An odd feeling emerged in him; despite doing nothing but walk with the golems, he didn't mind. If nothing else, it was simply a change in his day's structure.
"What is your purpose?" 66 was the one to scribble this time, the others continuing on.

ART

"Art?"

AND TO GO HOME

It struck Skip then that he had assumed the four of them to simply exist as they were. What sort of home did they belong to? Come to think of it, they had been traveling when he first met them, didn't they?
"What are you going home to?"
66 paused, as did the others. Skip was unable to read the mood, but even he could tell that he caught their attention. After a moment, 66 wrote again:

FRIENDS | FAMILY

Family. An unfamiliar concept, yet paired with friend, the word itself ignited the closest he could feel to warmth. Not only did they have other friends (were those collected too?), but also a 'family'. Skip pointed to the word.
"I don't understand what this means. Are you going to meet your creator?" The golems looked at each other; even he understood that they seemed to be communicating with each other, their mechanism unknown to him. It piqued his curiosity even more; if only he had one to study.
Before realizing what had happened, 49 grabbed his arm, dragging Skip alongside them. He didn't understand their reasoning, but his question seemed to be intentionally unanswered. They didn't seem to mind him, and their presence, even if unfulfilled (in his eyes) by merely roaming around, was a good break for him. He could put up with it a little while longer to satiate his single-minded drive.
So long as they were going West.

The five of them took shelter inside a small cave as it began to rain. Progress couldn't be made until it stopped, although the only ones awake seemed to be Skip and 66. The two sat by the entrance and watched the rain fall. To him, the sight was massive and beyond his current understanding; could they even continue walking tomorrow?
"What is this family concept like to you?" Skip asked. 66 picked up a stick and, after seemingly pondering an answer, scraped it across the sand. For a non-leader, it seemed to be the most communicative.

WARM | FUN

WHERE ARE YOU GOING

"West. There, I will find a gate with cameras on it. That is my goal."

IS FAMILY THERE

"No. Gates don't seem fun, or warm."

WHO IS YOUR FAMILY

Skip still hadn't gotten an answer to his question from earlier, so it was weird to be asked something like that. Perhaps he was meant to solve it himself and get confirmation from the golems.
"Is a creator of an object family?" The golem nodded. In that case, his creators were family. Were they warm or fun? He had no data to go off of, so who could tell if that's the case? All he recalled were objectives and important-sounding sentiments.

"By this task, you become cool."

That was his duty, after all; to study and become cool.
"Does family let you leave home to become cool?" 66 stared at him for a minute. There was no response. After another minute, it became clear that there would be no response. "Can you collect cool?" 66 continued to have no response, so Skip decided to rest. While he didn't truly require sleep, there was nothing in the cave to collect, and venturing out into the rain to collect wouldn't be prudent. The confusion felt throughout the day would be better processed if he slept anyhow.
As Skip started to rest, he could feel the golem press up besides him.

The first sight Skip encountered on his fourth day out in the desert upon awaking was the sight of an empty cave. The second sight was an impressively-sized symbol on the ground in front of him.

: )

Despite not knowing what it meant, Skip felt an analogous feeling to warmth inside his head. Even a gesture like this was welcome; it most likely meant that they thought of him as a friend, which was a welcome memory.
As Skip leaned down to collect the symbol, he fell over on his stomach. It appeared that it was not able to be physically kept.


Florentine Academy: 02:38
Mikhail Marino yawned as he took a step forward into the jewelry displays wing. Number twelve. Twelve times he had completed a route in the Academy, wing to wing, top to bottom. He glanced down all ends of the room, stretched his arms out to the ceiling, and brought them back down to his sides as he fell into the chair behind him.
"God damn shoes… Who do I need to look presentable for anyway? Bianchi?" he scoffed, the backhanded comment bouncing off the glass cases and display pedestals. Mikhail brought his watch up to his face. He was tired, and the slow crawl of time couldn't care less. He was doomed.
Mikhail, in a dramatic fashion for no audience, sighed and brought his head down to the help desk's counter, sheltering it in his arms. Two minutes. Just two minutes of shut eyes. What are the chances of another attempt of burglary this year?
Mikhail's shoulders relaxed, and his eyes shut. Sound and light faded into silence and dark.
And that silence was broken by a metal squeak.
Mikhail bolted upwards, his eyes meeting with a figure clothed in black, loose-fitting clothes.
"Ah. Didn't see you there," Elena said.
"Shit!" Mikhail responded, reaching into an already opened desk drawer. Quickly, he pulled out a small paperweight and threw it at Elena. Elena ducked down behind the desk, letting the weight fly across the hall and onto the exhibition floor. At this, Mikhail's face contorted to confusion.
"Oh, you found my gift exchange. You were probably looking for this." Elena held up a small, oblong sphere, green marks glowing around it. "I've got work to do. Goodbye." At this remark, she made her leave, dashing out of the wing.
Mikhail stood up from his chair, guard baton in hand. As he broke into a sprint for the thief, the chair followed him, tethered by a shackle connected to his left foot. The chair met the back of his leg and threw him to the floor.

"I knew I was missing one," Piotr said, his voice meshed between a voice modulator and an earpiece.
"You missed two. One in jewelry, one in statuary," Elena replied.
"Jewelry was crowded on Thursday. Didn't have the chance." Piotr said firmly, as if it was the truth. "Be careful not to drop those sound stones. They'll be fine in your pouch, but if they fall from your hip to the floor, forget whatever you're doing and leave."
"I'm aware." Elena slowed her pace as she approached the entry to the special collections wing. "You think they'd use a more up-to-date security system."
"Magic doesn't break like tech. They lose a sound stone and they just make another. Less intricate materials, too," Piotr said. "You didn't need to mess with the guard like that."
Elena stopped before crossing into the next wing, peering at each visible corner of the hall. "Bad time to tell me that now, don't you think, P?"
Piotr sighed. "I know, I know. You know what you're doing. Can't blame me for being too careful. Probably for the best. Poor guy doesn't even know what's coming." Piotr's comment was cut into the staccato of the hold tone as Elena switched him to standby. Her focus needed to be sharp while she was in the museum, and having Piotr lecturing her wasn't doing any favors.
The special collections wing was kept in twenty-four hours of dim-lighting. The reliance on artificial light was in part due to the photosensitivity of a select few pieces, but it also served as a secondary security measure. No windows meant the only exits were the two hallways leading into separate wings and a fire exit that would trigger a sound stone embedded in the door's hinges. This goes without mention of the combination of routine and dedicated security detail stationed within the wing, all acting as sentinels in defense of prized works and artifacts, such as the sculpting tools located in a far corner of the wing.
Elena, of course, welcomed the challenge.
She slipped into the wing, pressing her feet lightly into the tile floor. Tripping wasn't an acceptable action this far in; each step was a calculated effort. Four steps, a glance at both sides, repeat ad nauseam. As Elena walked past each display case and pedestal, it occurred to her that everything was moving along smoothly.
Maybe a bit too smoothly, as she hadn't seen a guard since she was in jewelry.
Elena felt her heartbeat intensify, paranoia setting in. She switched on her retinal cameras and activated their dark vision. She looked at the corners of the ceiling. Nothing. They wouldn't rely on security footage anyway. She looked behind her. No surprises there. She looked above her and was met with a dim yellow light fixture, suspended by a metal pole. It couldn't have been this easy.
As if hitting a bell labeled "Of Course Not", a set of stone floor tiles shifted a meter to Elena's left and began to rise. Elena, responding to her best instincts, sprinted and ducked behind a support column, the shadow cast by it concealing her while the stone formed itself into the shape of a man. She adjusted to short, shallow breaths in an effort to suppress her presence.
The stone figure stood tall, turning its head to assess the room completely. It paused, completely still. One more look around followed by another pause. It then opened its mouth, the stone grinding together at each syllable. "I see no one, Mikhail. You are certain they came here?"
Another pause. Elena kept still.
"Twice, I've searched this wing. I've seen no one, but you are certain?" the stone said, speaking to an invisible partner. All was quiet while it processed an unheard reply.
"I see what I see, Mikhail," it replied. Elena felt her lungs begin to cave, begging for a sigh of relief.
"Although, if you insist on being unsatisfied, there is one more thing I can do."
The stone man crouched down and placed the tips of its fingers on the floor. Then, it forced them into the tile itself, burying its digits with a loud snap. Not a second after, small finger-like spires rapidly poked out of the tiles and circled around the stone man, moving outwards in all directions. As they poked out, they sunk back in to re-emerge an inch forward, scraping their tips against the tiles. It wasn't long before Elena witnessed the wave of stone digits approaching her.
Elena reflexively pressed her back against the column as the rolling rock tide closed in. She immediately pushed back against the instinct to be still; freezing in place would only be her end. In the last open second, Elena hopped to her feet, turned, and clung to the column, her arms and legs wrapping around the marble structure. She was barely off the floor, but at least she was off of it.
The sentinel's fingers met with the marble column, rubbing their ends on its base. Elena felt nothing. A moment passed, and the sound of shifting stone moved away. Elena felt her grip relax.
Suddenly, the hall went silent, quickly broken by another loud snap as the sentinel resumed its upright position. "Nothing more, Mikhail. They are not here as you so claim." The stone figure soon collapsed back into the floor, tile by tile, and Elena let herself fall back to the ground. She took a few deep breaths, letting her muscles expel their built up tension.
As soon as her breathing reset into an even pace, Elena stood up and walked. Her prize had not been collected just yet.

Donatello's sculpting tools laid inside of a display case in the far corner of the wing, a light hovering over the case for ideal appraisal. Each tool lay next to each other, four inches of space in between, as if they were actors lined up on a stage. Currently, they entertained an audience of one, who was affixing three automated glass-cutting tools to the top of the long display case. As one tool began the task of creating a circular entryway, Elena prepared the next.
The quiet buzzing of laser penetrating glass signaled that the night's main event was nearing. It had been hard work with weeks of preparation, and Elena was getting warm with excitement. As soon as this was over and the client paid up, life was going to get a lot easier.
This comforting dream was interrupted by the growing shadow of a man behind her, an arm raising above his head.
"Bianchi is full of shit," Mikhail called out as he brought down his baton.
Elena quickly ducked and stepped to the side, the sound of booming thunder emanating from Mikhail's baton as it passed her head. It smacked into the display case and violently vibrated the glass, reducing it to shards. Mikhail turned around and readied a second strike. Elena responded with another sidestep and countered with a kick in the side, knocking Mikhail out of his stance.
As he regained posture, he charged forward and leaped toward Elena, tackling her and bringing them both onto the floor. In doing so, the two sound stones in her pouch clamored against each other and cracked open, freeing a sound like a scream and momentarily stunning the thief and the guard. A familiar sound of shifting stone tile followed suit. Mikhail, recuperating from the sudden shriek, was pushed away by a strong kick from Elena. He fumbled backward, dropping his baton and hitting his head on the display stand.
Without a second thought, Elena stood up and bolted for the sculpting tools, swiping them and storing them in the pouch. The stone sentinel had nearly finished forming as she grabbed the last cedar mallet. She sprinted for the hallway, the sentinel shouting a demand to cease as he implanted his hands into the floor. It wasn't long before her footsteps were accompanied by the echo of stone fists punching out of the floor behind her.
Only a few steps away from the primary exit of the wing, Elena's left foot was grabbed my a stone fist, bringing her to a halt as she crashed to the floor front first. A second hand emerged and seized her right leg and began dragging her back to the sentinel.
Elena reached for her pouch, scrambling for an answer for her situation while she was pulled back. The answer she found was a flat tipped chisel. She brought it up above her head and stabbed it back down into the floor.
In a brilliant spark of light, the chisel impacted the tile and sent a quake throughout the floor. Suddenly, Elena stopped moving. She felt her legs become free. When she looked behind her, the sentinel had a newly formed seam running down the middle of its face and all the way to the chisel in her hand. It was still.
Elena, with no desire to know whether it was stunned or dead, left the wing, the sculpting tools in her possession. One more thing left to do, and she didn't have the leisure of being hidden anymore.

Elena moved into the main hallway of the Florentine Academy. Her next moves needed to be made soon. She released Piotr from hold.
"P, I need some help and now," Elena demanded.
"You're looking for advice, eh?" Piotr replied.
Elena sighed. "Could we not do this right now? A guard caught up with me and they called in a geomancer. I don't have a lot of time."
Piotr paused for a second. "That you don't. What do you need?"
"Can you compare the layout of each floor in the building? Find out which room is above Goliath?"
"Can and will. Find a place to sit tight while I work." Such a luxury as "sitting" wasn't available to Elena, so she continued moving, eyeing exits and corners.
Piotr wasn't busy for long. "Alright. Tell me where you are now."
"The foyer. I've got the tools, I just need to know where Goliath is."
"Doesn't look like you're very far, then. There should be an entrance to a washroom nearby. Find it, move four meters south of it, and you should be in front of Goliath's storage room."
"Thanks. Remind me to give you a tip after this is done." Elena began en route for the washroom. She could hear rumbling from down the hall as she approached it.
"I don't forget stuff like that, you know," Piotr said, letting out a light laugh. "Why did you need to know a location above it? Could just take the staircase."
"The stairwell is narrow. If I'm there, I don't have any other options for escape."
"So how are you getting down there?"
Elena stopped. She had reached her destination. She rummaged around her pouch for appropriate tools. "Taking a calculated risk with the tools."
"Wait, you know how to use those?"
"No." Elena kneeled, mallet in one hand, chisel in the other. The wooden handles felt warm in her palms, reverberating a soft hum. She took a moment to envision what she sought out to do, aimed the chisel to the floor, and brought the mallet down with a firm swing.
Another brilliant spark flashed upon impact. The clattering of rock and gravel sounded off all at once. When Elena opened her eyes, a smooth stone slope had formed where she struck, leading down into another room. From where she perched, she could see the granite shoulders of Goliath, its head in a case to its side.
The rumbling of incoming sentinels grew louder as Elena moved down the newly formed slope. She carefully climbed down, getting herself at level with Goliath's shoulders, and affixed one half of a retractable tether to the neck. The first half of the easy part was over.
Next, she hopped off the slope and onto the granite colossus. She scaled down its body and soon met with the floor. She bolted for the head. With no more need to be subtle in her quest, Elena lifted the glass case and heaved it off of the display, letting it shatter as she fumbled for the receiving tether.
Just as she attached it to the back of the head, a heavy brick flew past her and crashed into the wall behind her. Two sentinels hung from the ceiling, one aiming their second throw while the other sent their arms across the ceiling and down the wall. Elena leaped towards Goliath, only barely dodging the flying brick.
Elena was too close and too far in to give up. She gripped onto Goliath's javelin and began climbing. The ranged sentinel held their next volley, dropped it, and sank its hands into the ceiling, positioning them above Elena while a growing tower of open hands followed underneath her. She swung herself onto the arm of the statue, kicking off of the hand column growing beneath as she jumped its shoulders.
A click of a button and a beam of light appeared between the two nodes, forming the tether. The head was forcibly pulled from its resting place, slamming into the heels of Goliath as it was dragged up its leg and back, nearly toppling it. Granite ground against granite though it left no marks.
The stone sentinels lunged their hands at Elena as she maneuvered on the shoulders of Goliath, maintaining her balance the best she could muster while the head settled onto place. The time was now, and Elena armed herself with the hammer and chisel once more. She struck the chisel into the seam around Goliath's collar and, with a spark of light, fused the head into the body, making it whole.
And no response.
Elena, stunned by the lack of action from the statue, was grabbed by the sentinels, her arms and legs seized. The chisel and mallet fell from her hands and to the floor as she struggled to break free from their grip. As much as she squirmed, there was no breaking free from solid rock. Uselessly thrashing about only wasted effort. She felt her body getting tired as many bricks began to form around her, building a personal tomb.
And then it came crashing to the ground, all at once. Elena felt a load of a few bricks bash against her body. The pain pulsed violently through her arms and legs, hands and feet. She rested there on the ground for a brief moment before pushing herself back onto her feet. She was dazed, but conscious. Alive, but bruised. She looked around her and saw stone rubble in a pile in the corner.
She looked up and saw Goliath had readied its javelin for a second strike.
The sentinel gathered a stone mass in the air and propelled it forward. Goliath, with a reaction unfit for a man of granite, batted it out of the air with its free hand. Elena took cover from the debris, forcing her legs to carry her to reasonable safety as Goliath ran its javelin through the stone sentinel. When it retracted it, the sentinel fell to pieces on the floor.
Goliath turned its mighty body, scanning the room for its next opponent. Alas, there were none.
But it knew where to find the next. It always knew.


PREVIOUS: Morphine Machine
FIRST: The Chosen Few

At noon, a black Porsche pulls up to Kemonomimi Zaibatsu. Sleek red lines accentuate its sides and smoke roils from its twin tailpipes, but what really draws my eye — and every other within a hundred yards — is the black machine gun mounted to its roof. God only knows what kind of mods were put into the car just to keep the top from crumpling underneath its weight.
The shotgun window rolls down. Alliott waves at me from the driver's seat.
"Get in."
I take a moment to admire the machine and then hop into the shotgun seat, basking in the purr of the engine and light streaming through the sunroof. Alliot shifts into gear and we peel out of the district. She's trying to show off. It's working.

Alliott unrolls a blueprint of a large corporate office on top of the table.
"You follow death ball?" she asks.
"Of course," I respond. "The City Cup is tonight."
"You gamble?"
"Of course."

"And you always lose." It isn't a question. "What do you know about Oneiroi Incorporated?"
"Not much. I bought a couple of their dream-cations once." I don't mention all the times I've used their memory removal services.
"Figured as much. Oneiroi's weird. They're privately owned but I haven't been able to figure out by who. More importantly, they're bastards. You know what they do with the stuff they siphon out of your head?"
"What?"
"They exploit it."

We pull onto the elevated autobahn at 200 km/h, weaving around tiny smart cars doing 80. The acceleration makes my corset feel even more constricting. At one point, a FLYPAPER unit lumbers onto a bend in the road — Alliott simply downshifts and drifts around it. Before I know what's happened, the FLYPAPER is a speck in the rearview.
Seconds later, we pull off the highway into Sigrunstraße, the cultural center of Eurtec. The Verthandistadion comes into view. It's the biggest sports arena in any paracity. For tonight, it's been reconfigured into an inverted circular ziggurat, comprised of multiple concentric rings that get wider as they go higher.

"Oneiroi's products and their customers are the same thing. They analyze people and then sell them — likes, dislikes, medical history whatever they can find — to the highest bidder. And the lynchpin of their corporate strategy is the deathball betting house."
Alliott stabs the blueprint with a finger.
"They know exactly how to rig the predictions and hype up the pot. Everyone plays, everyone loses — except Oneiroi. They make a fat goddamn buck and scoop up petabytes of data to troll. But that ends tonight."

The stadium is packed. Everyone's looking forward to watching ICSUT and Anderson Robotics duke it out for the cup. ICSUT's Battlebots team has been perfecting their players for years, stuffing bigger and bigger death machines into smaller and smaller packages. Anderson has focused more on improving the viral payloads in their death ball robots that enable them to infect the competition and destroy it from the inside out.
The two teams have completely opposed strategies that brought them all the way to the finals, and it's anyone's guess as to who will win. With that kind of excitement on the line, it's no wonder that the lines for the automated bookies are massive. Alliott and I wait for two hours to place our bets. Of course, if what Alliott's been telling me is even remotely accurate, the real winner will be Oneiroi.

"All the betting machines in Eurtec are connected to a central server in Oneiroi's datacenter. We're going to break in and modify the bets so that Oneiroi has to pay everyone, no matter what they bet."
Alliott touches the south side on the blueprint.
"The security system is weird — I have what I need to hack the servers, but to get physical access to them, we have pull two switches at the same time — one in the basement, one on the sixty-sixth floor. The executive floors. I had someone on that but… they're indisposed."
"Which is where I come in," I say.
Alliott nods. "At 7:30 PM, I'll go in through the front door as a maintenance technician and get access to the basement. You'll be here — on the skyscraper across from the south side of the datacenter. Once I radio that I'm in position, you'll shoot a line across to the upper floors of the datacenter. Zipline in. From there, you have two tasks — one, pulling the switch, and two, getting everyone to evacuate."
She taps the center of the blueprint. "The switch is right in the middle of the floor. Impossible to miss. Once you pull it, just take a couple hostages, maybe shoot some people. Eris knows those bastards have it coming. I'll have someone supporting you from the rooftop. Just draw attention to yourself until I finish the hack, then shoot another line to the ground floor. Backup will be there with the Porsche. You two follow the rails out of the city and then just loop back in. We'll meet back here. Any questions?"
"Two."

We grab a bite to eat before making our way to the drop point. Over some cheap burgers, Alliott and I chat for a bit about our misadventures and run-ins with the law. I tell her about how the FLYPAPER almost got me at the Bank of Eurtec — she tells me about the time she decapitated one of Anderson's salesbots with a shovel and turned him into an oracle.
She is really fucking cool.

"Why do I need backup?" I ask.
"Last week Oneiroi contracted out their security to a private group called Chappell Wraith Securities. I haven't heard of these guys before, but I've heard their security forces are heavily augmented somehow. Better safe than sorry."
The name sends alarm bells blaring through my head, but I don't say anything. Doubtless Alliott's already aware of the name's implications.
"Who's my backup?"
"Someone I'd trust with my life."

Night finds me and Alliott rolling slowly through the corporate district of Eurtec. Mile-high colossi made of glass and steel vie for space in an overpopulated skyline. There's so much artificial lighting that it's perpetually daytime. Every day, billions of credits in any currency you care to imagine flow through this place. Here, corporations rise and fall. Here, a single decision can shape or destroy thousands of lives. Here, money can buy you time itself.
Alliott's car doesn't draw so much as a glance, even with the machine gun on the roof. She drops me off at the skyscraper across from Oneiroi before driving away to find a place to stash our ride. I make my way inside and climb the stairs to the roof to find Alliott waiting for me.
"I didn't know Alliott had a twin," I say.
"She doesn't. I'm Alex," Alliott's not-twin says. She looks identical to Alliott — the only difference is a small tattoo of a triangle inscribed in a circle on her cheek. Alex motions towards a harpoon gun leaning against a nearby vent. "Tie that off to the vent. There's a harness there, hook yourself up and get ready."
"Got it," I say.
While I'm hooking myself up to the zipline harness, Alliott's voice crackles through my earpiece. "You've met Alex?"
"She has." Alex's voice comes in both in front of me and through my earpiece.
"Great. Play nice. I'm making my way into the building… now."
Alex rolls up her sleeves to reveal an arm and leg prosthesis. She slides an assortment of parts from the limbs and starts assembling a sniper rifle.
For this heist, I've forgone my bike helmet for something more akin to a balaclava and a pair of goggles given to me by the Inside Man. The goggles have a rudimentary targeting system and brain-computer interface that jacks into my limbs and allows me to aim a lot more easily. Instead of having to aim down sights or compensate for recoil, I can just point and shoot. It helps me compensate for my total lack of occult firepower.
There's also a bunch of stuff that the Man shoved into the pack on my back. After the fuckup with the weeaboo-Nazi, he made sure I was loaded for bear. But for now all I need are the goggles.
I slip the balaclava and goggles over my eyes.
"I'm in position. Check?"
"Check," I say.
"Check," Alex says. She lies on her belly and takes aim with the rifle. I take aim with the harpoon gun.
"Alex. On your mark."
We fire at the same time.
Oneiroi, Inc.'s windows are bulletproof. But the thing that comes out of Alex's gun barely qualifies. It's a .50 caliber anti-matériel high-explosive incendiary, armor-piercing round — a baby missile that's designed to take out helicopters and armored vehicles. The shot blows out the central window on the south side of the sixty-sixth floor, as well as the windows directly above and around it, in a hail of glass.
The harpoon line flies through the air and latches itself somewhere on the floor. I give the line an experimental tug to make sure it won't come loose, then clip onto it, close my eyes, and start sliding. The wind rushes past my face but I don't open my eyes until I feel my feet on solid land again. I skid to a stop just before smacking into the pillar and unclip my harness. Then I pull out my Desert Eagle from my pack and fire a round into the ceiling.
"Listen up, pigs!" I call. "You've bent this city over and fucked it raw. The Chicago Spectre is here to fuck back!"
Being able to say stupid shit like that is one of the reasons I love my job.
I scan the floor for a convenient hostage and the switch. The executive offices of Oneiroi look like they were modeled off a stock photo labeled "office". It's a maze of individual office rooms and bland fluorescent lighting. Rich geriatrics in thousand-dollar clothes and ties cower in their business cells.
In the dead center of the room is a white pillar with a grey metal box on it. Doubtless that's the switch in question. Conveniently, there's an old man in a fancy black suit and striped tie frozen besides it. Even from here he exudes an aura of callous wealth.
I stride towards the switch and examine it. There's a keypad lock on it. I look over at the executive and put an arm around his shoulder.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Barnard. Barnard Sachs," he stutters.
"Tell me, Barnard, what's your… what's your job title?"
"I'm the — I'm the chief technical officer."
"Fantastic! Barnard, what's the key code for this box?"
"I-I'm not at liberty to-"
"Ah-ah-ah, Barnard. We're friends here. And you wouldn't want to disappoint your friends, would you?" I press the gun barrel against his forehead. He swallows.
"Ah… n-no…"
"Then you wouldn't mind opening it, I'm sure." I take my free arm off of his shoulder and cock the hammer of the pistol. The click echoes in the silence.
Barnard swallows, then punches the code into the keypad.
"Thanks, Barney," I say. "On your knees or I'll blow your brains out."
Barnard falls to his knees. I open the metal box up. Inside is a large red handle labeled "DATA SERVER ACCESS".
"I'm in position," I say.
"Understood. On my mark," Alliott says through the earpiece. "Three… two… one… Now!"
I pull the handle. The room goes dark.
"Alliott? What's going on?"
"Don't use my name. I'm in."
"The lights went out."
"Wasn't me. Everything's green down here."
At that moment, the lights come back on and I find myself face-to-face with a flaming skeleton in a striped black suit.
"Fuck!" I fall onto my ass and roll behind a cubicle. All of the old people are possessed. Green flame pours out from their orifices.
I recognize that green flame. I have pills that do the same thing to me. The name Chappell Wraith Securities pops back into my head. And then everything clicks into place.
"Natasha… you fucking bitch!"
"Ruku!" the drones croon in unison. "I thought I killed you!"

NEXT: The Revelation


by DarkStuff

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More by DarkStuff~!

Independent SCPs

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France & the Tale of the Well-Intentioned Understudies

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Better Safe Than Sorry

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Only Birdbrains Live the American Dream

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#MassaTruthetts

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Co-Authored SCPs

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Title
Co-Author

SCP-1549
In Absence of a Perfect Medium
Billith

SCP-2983
Choco-Wonder Explosion Marshmallow Bites!™ by Dr. Wondertainment
Uncle Nicolini

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Vend-a-Friend

Chapter
Title

Act I

Chapter 1
We Just Make Toys

Chapter 2
To Think I've Spent My Whole Life Waiting

Chapter 3
I Don't Get It, I Functioned Before

Chapter 4
You Can't Win Them All

Chapter 5
Be Strange or Be Forgotten

Act II

Chapter 6
Sometimes the Best Intentions are in Need of Redemption

Chapter 7
Life's a Show

Chapter 8
...And I'm the Star!

Chapter 9
Back in Habit

Chapter 10
Pepper's Lament

Chapter 11
Souls & Somas

Chapter 12
Deceptive Cadence

Act III

Chapter 13
And I Think To Myself...

Chapter 14
Everything Will Be Okay

Chapter 15
Holding an Umbrella but the Sun's Still Shining

Ascension

Chapter
Title

Chapter 1
Sometimes I Wish This Moment Could Last Forever

Chapter 2
Waiting on the Good Times

Chapter 3
Forever Young

Chapter 4
We Didn't Do This For Nothing

Chapter 5
URA-1902 aka The Missing Link

Chapter 6
The Consequences of a Deep, Dark Disassociation

Chapter 7
The Call to Action (for a Modern Audience)

Chapter 8
The Elusive Mx. LaFerrier

Chapter 9
It Feels Like I Only Go Backwards

Chapter 10
Along for the Ride

Chapter 11
A Hole in the Tapestry

Chapter 12
XXXXX

Chapter 13
Industrial

Chapter 14
Dancing with Rachael

Chapter 15
Ascension

Epilogue
A World Unto Yourself

Collaboration Contest Entries w/ Ellie

Make America Normaler

Off the Hook

Misc. Tales

Cornelius the Collector

Curtain Call

The Really Really Real Adventures in Capitalism

I've Been Through the Desert on a Horse with No Name

On the Radar for the miniseries The Ursus Maritimus Incident

Group of Interest / Canon Hubs

Hub
Notes

Dr. Wondertainment Hub
Made w/ taylor_itkin does not match any existing user name

What a Wonderful World Hub
Made w/ help from Uncle Nicolini, a canon sprouted from Vend-a-Friend!

Wilson's Wildlife Solutions Hub
My pride and joy, my very own Group of Interest

"Hmm."
Dr. Dorer gave another glance over the papers. First, the directory to his right. Then, the list of previous tenants to his left.
"Hmm."
Rachael sat on a desk and pushed her face into her hands. The dim light of the lamp was obscured by the towering piles of papers, folders, and documents. The window was open, and thin moonlight leaked in like a waning creek through underbrush.
More rustling of paper.
The rubbing of eyes.
"Alright, double checked. It doesn't add up."
"No," Rachael said without moving her hands. "It doesn't."
"So, we're left with…"
"No definitive record of a V. A. LaFerrier anywhere. Not in any of the apartments we have come across, not in any orphanages. Any names that are written down, no one remembers the kid. Zero leads. No heritage. Blood tests on each LaFerrier instance give us different DNA, none of which correlates to any known bloodline… it's a mess, it's a fucking mess. And we've got nothing to show for it."
"Well, that's two months of my life gone, heheheh." Dorer pushed the rolling chair away from the desk, and hissed an exhale. "What next?"
Rachael put one hand beside her, and rubbed her forehead. "Uugh. What else is there to do?"
Dorer put a hand to his lips. "Well, first thing I can think of is to burn all this useless paperwork. Are you with me?"
"They'd kill us."
"These are all copies."
Rachael paused. "Fuck it."
Soon, in front of a very active fireplace, Rachael and Dorer discussed the future.
"Well, I just don't see what else to do," started Dorer.
"There's always something else to do," retorted Rachael.
"Not always. We have no good idea what to be doing right now."
"You've got that one right."
"So what else is there to it? I guess we first have to report back to Dr. Hillenburg, show him that we did our due diligence —"
"That's gonna be harder with burnt paperwork."
"— as I said, it's all copies. Don't you worry your little head about that, sweetie. So, show him that we did our due diligence, see if he has anything else for us to do. Right? And if he doesn't, then mission over. We didn't figure out where LaFerrier was from, we didn't find his, er, 'baby', and we didn't find his house. But we're only part of this operation! They've got a whole team exploring the other option, which is the company itself. What was it? Something Industrial?"
"Yeah."
"So, that's the other venue. And they have that covered. What else is there to do? Jack squat, that's what. So, we're done."
Rachael squeezed her face into her nose.
"Oh come on, Rachael. Relax! We did our job, we're good. Why can't you just accept that?"
Dorer tossed another sheaf of papers into the roaring fire. "Why don't we hold off on calling into Dr. Hillenburg, and take a couple much needed days off. Explore some streets of Paris, eh? Maybe walk through some parks. See the sights! Smell the smells! We deserve as much, and who would be the wiser, eh? Heheheh. I'd like that quite a bit."
"No, we're not doing that."
Dorer rolled his eyes. "Maybe you're not doing that…"
"No, we're not doing that. There has to be something else we can do."
Dorer finally, actually frowned. "Alright, Rachael. You're seriously beginning to bother me. You got some plan? Something to do?"
"Just give me a moment," Rachael leveled. "I have to think."
Over the cracks and pops of the fire, Rachael just stared into the night. "Think, damn it," Dorer imagined her mind repeating. That cheesy movie line, when some character had to figure something out, and fast. Dorer chuckled, amused that she had somehow got it in her head that this was urgent. She really was set to please. To climb the ranks. She must have been crazy.
Dorer shook his head, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. The fire was warm, and like hell he wasn't going to enjoy it.
"Why was there only one Agent LaFerrier interview?"
"Hmm?"
Rachael stood up, and started pacing. She looked deep, deep in thought, her eyes panning back and forth over some nonexistent battle plan.
Dorer sighed. "Are we doing interviews?"
Rachael pulled a hairpin turn, and made her way to the phone in the adjacent room.
"…Are you dialing Dr. Hillenburg right now?"
The beeps of button presses met Dorer's ears.
"Oh, Rachael… you have no sense of fun."
By the time Dorer had picked up a pillow and buried his face under it, Rachael was already reciting her access code for Site-31.

"Alright, Mrs. LaFerrier."
"Actually, it's just 'miss'. I've never married."
"Uhhhh-huh."
Dr. Dorer sat, hunched, unconvinced of the validity of the idea, next to Dr. Davidson, sitting upright, wide-eyed and filled with fire. The room, as with all standard interview (or multipurpose) rooms, was plain, white / cream, sterile, and laced with surveillance — as transparent as a human-sized petri dish. Agent LaFerrier, in any of their many forms, would always sit opposite of the doctors, and always — always — comply.
Dorer and Davidson exchanged glances. They had already set the control with a previous instance. Each following time, a new tactic had to be implemented, to try and extract new information. The unfortunate variable was that every LaFerrier instance had a slightly different personality… but it was all they could do to try new material. LaFerrier was an audience, Dorer & Davidson a comedic duo, and the only option was to try and gauge for the loudest laughs. The varying levels of audience energy was just something they were going to have to deal with.
Alright, Dorer nodded, it was time to proceed with Plan A.
Rachael began. "LaFerrier, we've found discrepancies in your paperwork. We can not locate your place of birth, your residence history, your job history, your birth certificate, any records of previous passports, your alleged 'mild criminal record' from your childhood, nothing."
"Now, now," Dorer added, "strange things happen when in close proximity to the anomalous. We're no strangers to out-of-nowhere retroactive data removal. However, you can probably see how worrying this could be to us, eh? We don't want to have to go on a whole investigation, LaFerrier, so please, make this as easy on us as possible…"
"We need you to tell us everything you can. Your childhood address, your entire work history — when you first moved to the States —" this current instance was based in Maine "— and when we supposedly offered you a job. Do you think you can do that for us, LaFerrier?"
LaFerrier's eyes darted between the two. "O-of course. To begin, I don't know where I was born, as I was an orphan —"
"What orphange?"
LaFerrier blinked. "What?"
"I said, what orphanage?"

"Well, ma'am, I couldn't rightly tell ya," he said through buck teeth. "It was somewhere in Paris, that's about all I can give ya. I'm terribly sorry, but it was so long ago, y'see?"
"Alright, alright," Dorer cut in before Rachael could prod once more in a useless direction. "What about your first house? Do you remember your first house?"

"It wasn't a house, I was first in an apartment. It was four rooms: my own, my parents' —"
"No, no, we mean your address."

"Address?"
Rachael rolled her eyes for the thousandth time. "Yes, your address. Do you know the address of your first residence?"
"Uhh… hmmm… no, I'm sorry, I was very very young you see."
"Well, then, what school did you go to?"

"It was a small school —"
"In Paris?" Rachael blurted impatiently.
"Uhh, yes."
"Where in Paris?"

"I'm sorry, so sorry, but I'm just not sure."
"What about your friends? Do you remember the names of your friends?"
"Truth to tell, sir and madame, I don't remember having many friends from that time. I certainly can't remember any of the names of my playmates."
"What year did you graduate school?"

"I-I don't know…"
"LaFerrier, how old are you?"

"Wh-what? Thirty… thirty-four."

"Forty-six."

"Thirty-two, I believe. You start to lose track after a while, heheh."

"Forty-seven."

"Twenty-nine."
"Ooo," Dorer quipped. "That's young for your age."
"…What?"

"Tell us, do you remember your first job?"
"Uhh, uh, yes! I do, I ran a lawn mowing business, with my friend."
"What friend?"
"Hmm?"
"Can you name your friend?"
"I… I…"

"Well, I should be able to…"

"I think it might have started with… with…"
"Okay, simpler. Boy or girl?"

"Boy."
"French or foreign?"
"French."
"How did you know them?"
"We went to school together."
"What school?"

LaFerrier screamed.

LaFerrier puked.

LaFerrier hyperventilated.
"Calm down, calm down," Dorer attempted to take the frustration out of his voice. "Think of this as us working together to solve a puzzle. You're only helping us. You're in no danger, and we're just as confused as you are. Understand? We bare no ill intent."
Rachael squinted at Dorer with scorn. She disliked how he stripped the benefit of intimidation with which she was so comfortable.
LaFerrier nodded, and took a couple deep, calming breaths.
Dorer smiled and looked to Rachael, as if to say, "See? You should follow my lead sometimes."
"Alright," Rachael started up again, tapping her pen on her clipboard. "Let's start from the top. Everything you know — and I do mean everything — and this time, we won't ask you anything."

Rachael shoved a needle into a howling Veronica's arm.

A screeching Vaughn's.

A crying Victoria's.

A stoic, silent Vinn's.
LaFerrier fell to the floor, dead. Not for long, of course. Vinn would be walking and talking and laughing by morning, of that there was no doubt. But they did not know what would happen if a broken URA-1902 instance was left to live, and they did not care to find out. At best, they would reset. At worst, the whole schism of URA-1902's would have a reaction. And that would be… unsatisfactory.
Rachael pulled the needle out of Vinn. "Well," she picked up her clipboard again. "I'm getting very tired of neutralizing LaFerriers."
"It's astonishing how similar their death throes all are," winced Dorer.
Rachael tossed the needle aside in the same mildly grossed-out manner used for nose-blowing tissues. "Well, back on the plane we go."

Airplanes and Foundation Sites seemed to share a similar aesthetic. They were most usually white on the interior — slick, bland, and far more about function than form. Often uncomfortable. Sometimes anxiety inducing: something about the flippant pilots, assuring you everything was going to go fine when every spot of turbulence made your stomach churn and your heart rate spike. Dorer mused that if you had cut out the times spent in cars and coaches between Sites and airports, the transitions would be absolutely seamless. It would appear as if they had just stepped out of one section of the Site and into a busier section of another.
The major difference was that these people (most of them, at least) were in front of the veil. Dorer & Davidson were holders of forbidden knowledge, everywhere they went. Dorer thought that was downright exciting.
Rachael didn't give it a second thought.
"Thank you for flying British Airways. Takeoff will begin soon after the cabin safety video. Please, be attentive for its duration. Thank you!"
After a utilitarian summary of emergency exits, dropping oxygen masks, life jacket locations, et cetera, the plane sped forward and took off. From Dallas, Texas, Rachael and Dorer were in for an 11 hour flight. Such were their days. The routine was to land, sleep, interview a URA-1902 instance — so far to no avail — and then sleep and take off again. If they even had time for the sleep. Sometimes the flights were so close together, it was better to just sleep on the plane and expect no other downtime. It was tiring, but not nearly the worst thing that the Foundation had put them through.
The plane climbed, climbed, and climbed, until the clouds formed a cloudscape that blotted out the land. It was pretty, and Dorer wished that Rachael had traded him the window seat. She certainly wouldn't appreciate the beauty, she was staring straight forward. She almost looked like a statue… more like an item being transported, not a person going traveling. So still, so emotionless, so… clandestine.
It bothered Dorer.
But… all the other flights where he had made it a point to elicit a human reaction from her had gone nowhere and led to only more animosity, which was too common in close proximity with Rachael to be exciting and fun anymore. So, Dorer tried to resign to being bored.
…
When that failed, Dorer tried to be tired. Maybe sleep could take him. He pulled out his neck pillow, fit it to himself, and tried to keep his eyes closed. He dreamed of that same guy again, and then about cakes, lots of cakes, and then some of his D-Class that he therapized (his own word), like that funny carpenter guy with the penchant for exploration.
…
Except, no, he wasn't dreaming about those things. He was only attempting to force that "random thoughts" feeling that one gets before falling asleep, where nonsense seems to interject between each thought. But these weren't nonsense. These were just a simulation. And he was as awake as ever.
Annoyed, he figured that the next best thing was to do, he sighed, procedures.
He stood up, and idled into the aisle. It was easy, because the Foundation had ways to make sure that no one sat next to their personnel on flights, just in case they carried any memetic influence. And seeing as this mission required memetic resistance, Dorer figured that they had implemented that small detail as a gesture of safety. One more layer of paint on the shoulder, in case anything should crash. Dorer pulled his carry-on out of the overhead compartment, and began to dig through it. Before long, he pulled out a bottle of pills labelled Adderall, but it really contained mnestics.
Dorer thought it was a great little detail. That they should hide mnestics, a pill to fight against any antimemes and enhance memory and retention, inside a bottle labelled with a medication that fights against losing focus. Kind of a subconscious reminder, both of the intended effects of the pills, and to the agents. "Keep your focus," some dingus in the pharmaceutical departments was saying, "keep your eyes on the road and stick to your mission". The Foundation was great at tiny details like that.
On the other hand, it could have been a coincidence. Adderall is simply a common medication, great to hide pills in. But Dorer liked to think that people really did think as much as he did about relatively meaningless things.
Dorer took his seat back, and waited for the trolley to come round with water. He was never good at dry-swallowing pills, though the Foundation recommended that everyone learn to get used to it. You won't always have access to water, of course. But as long as the option was there, he was more comfortable waiting.
Eventually, the stewardess came around.
"Would you like a drink?"
"Water, please."
She handed him his water. Then, addressing Rachael, "Would you like a drink?"
Rachael paused. "Yes, ginger ale."
Dorer smiled. He always liked to see her facade leak a little humanity.
The stewardess poured her a small, bumpy cup of ginger ale, and then continued down the aisle. Dorer unscrewed the top of his mnestic bottle, and popped out two light blue tablets, with small letter Ws inscribed onto them. The recommended dose was actually just one, but Dorer liked the feeling of enhancement that a hit of mnestics gave him.
After downing his two pills, he looked over to Rachael. She was sipping her ale, and, for the first time, looking out the window.
"Rachael?"
"Mm?" Without a verbal response from Dorer, she was forced to turn around. Dorer motioned the bottle of mnestics to her. "Mm, no, thank you."
Dorer looked inquisitive. "Really?"
Rachael mirrored him. "Yes, really."
Dorer held eye contact for a second or two longer, and then sunk back into his seat. He screwed the lid closed, and stuck it in the pouch in front of him.
…
Two hours passed.
…
Dinner was passed out. They had a choice between chicken and pasta (vegetarian). Dorer chose chicken, Rachael chose pasta. Shortly after, another trolley came around with drinks yet again. Both the doctors chose water this time, and the trolley passed. Dorer dug into his bland airplane food, and Rachael slowly picked at hers. Dorer finished first. And then he watched.
Rachael made her way, slowly, through her pasta. No water was drunk.
Rachael slowly consumed a pastry. No water.
She ate her small bowl of salad. No water.
She made it halfway through a breadstick… before noticing Dorer's gaze. Dorer turned to his right, to be aimed away from her, and (barely) heard her eat her breadstick. Water consumption: uncertain.
A few minutes passed, and then he heard the unmistakable sip of water.
With no time to waste, he whipped forward, pulled out the mnestics bottle, and motioned it to her.
Her face contorting into a glare, and with her cup still in her mouth, Rachael put out the open palm of her hand — the universal gesture of "no, thank you". Dorer was incredulous.
"Really?" Rachael shook her head. "You know, for someone so devoted, I have never seen you take these."
Rachael held up a finger as she finished her water. Then, when she was ready, "We haven't been made to forget anything."
"How could you know that if you don't take your pills? We are fully aware that LaFerrier has some unknown… effects. Unless you know about their properties in the first place, you don't notice all the weird things about them. They've been at every site we have been to, and until this mission we never noticed. You don't think that shouts antimemetic?"
"We have been made aware of him. We can remember all the weird things about him. We're not at risk."
"We're in close proximity to them, all the time! We are the most at risk."
Rachael rolled her eyes.
"Dr. Davidson." That got her attention. "Hillenburg said that you have abnormally high memetic resistance. I have a similar resistance due to my field. When I come into contact with low level memes, I not only resist them, I detect them. If you're anything like me, you feel a tingling right here." Dorer scratched the base of his head, right where the brain stem would be. "Do you?"
Rachael remained silent.
"You can't tell me you don't feel that all the time in the presence of LaFerrier. Just talking about him, I can feel it a little. That's a meme trying to edit your brain, Rachael." He placed the bottle on her fold out table. "Take your pills."
Rachael continued to glare.
Dorer leaned in, and looked her dead in the eyes. "Dr. Davidson, take your —"

/ / /

Dorer held his head, and blinked until he regained his vision. His mouth was dry, and his head ached for only a second before the pain dissipated. What was that? He took in his surroundings. Airplane, of course. Right. He had a suitcase in the overhead compartment, he was sitting to the right of Rachael, who had the window seat, and his dinner had been taken away. Dinner had just happened. Gotcha.
His Adderall bottle was in a pouch on the back of the seat in front of him. Of course.
He had better put that back in his carry-on.
"Rachael, did I fall asleep?"
Rachael nodded, and stared back out the window.
"Huh," Dorer said. "Makes sense, this whole business has been pretty exhausting, heheheh. Woke up with a headache, though."
Rachael didn't react.
Dorer sighed, and turned over onto his side, nuzzling into his neck pillow.

« The Call to Action | The Elusive Mx. LaFerrier | I Only Go Backwards »