《Ash and Blue: Mirrorfall》


 01 - Broken Doll

    A child screamed.


    Ryan swore as he lost his footing on the uneven carpet and only regained his balance two steps into the room. It was a pastel-painted nursery so perfect it could have been featured in a magazine.


    A silenced shot¡ªdeafening in the confined space¡ªhit the wall beside his head. He didn¡¯t need to worry¡ªthe criminal had seemingly run out any weapon that could hurt him. Ordinary bullets were no threat to him¡ªbut they were to the crying child, the little girl, struggling against the Solstice operative holding a gun to her head.


    Ryan raised his own gun. It raised the stakes, especially now that it was a hostage situation, but he couldn¡¯t allow the chase to go on any longer. Entering a civilian dwelling was a sure sign that the man¡ªnameless for now while the search for the operative¡¯s file was still running in his HUD¡ªhad crossed a line and wouldn¡¯t hesitate to cross more.


    Murder of fae was one thing¡ªit was a standard crime for a member of the Solstice. Threatening a civilian¡ªa civilian child no less¡ªwent against the organisation¡¯s so-called ¡°humanitarian¡± goals. Threat to action was one twitch of a finger, and given how ragged and desperate the operative was looking, there was a frighteningly good chance that he might murder the child by accident.


    A ping in his HUD alerted him that the man¡¯s file had finally been found¡ªDaniel Thomson. A file well out of date and marked ¡°inactive¡±¡ª a sign that Thomson had either been on a leave of absence, or simply working deep within the Solstice, well out of the eyes of the Agency.


    ¡®Back. Off,¡¯ Thomson said, the first words spoken since the beginning of the chase. He still had dried blood from the fae boy he¡¯d murdered on his hands, and it was now rubbing onto the little girl¡¯s purple dinosaur shirt.


    Ryan looked to the little girl, and hoped, prayed that she would settle down before Thomson decided to just start shaking her. Tiny little blue eyes locked onto his, and she settled. However rusty his skills as a father were, there must have been something in his expression that still worked on small children.


    The little girl stopped screaming and thrashing, settling instead for sobbing against the china doll she held in her hands.


    A hostage situation, and one that was sure to go downhill fast¡ªthis was a private residence after all¡ªand even though the house was large, and there was an event going on in part of the garden, it was logically only a matter of time before a parent came to check on their child.


    ¡®Put the child down,¡¯ Ryan said, barking out the order. ¡®I¡¯m willing to talk.¡¯ A dialogue was pointless, but it would give him a few more seconds to rescue the child. A few more seconds without another death on his conscience. He retreated a few steps, to calm Thomson a little.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want to talk,¡¯ Thomson said, giving the little girl a rough shake. ¡®I want to live.¡¯


    Ryan scanned the man. The reason for his panic was clear, the blackout energy in the Solstice¡¯s body was degrading. Five minutes¡ªgive or take a few seconds¡ªand his time was up. Five minutes, and Ryan would be able to shift the criminal straight into an Agency cell.


    He didn¡¯t have five minutes; the little girl didn¡¯t have five minutes. ¡®Put the¡ª¡¯


    Thomson gripped the child tighter, the pain making her struggle again. The doll slid from her hands and fell to the floor. There¡¯d been a chance whilst she had been still, and he¡¯d missed it. Now, with the hostage flailing again, he couldn¡¯t chance taking the shot with the little girl still in Thomson¡¯s arms. Even an infinitesimal miscalculation would¡ª


    He couldn¡¯t have another death on his conscience. Not two in one day.


    The chances of a miscalculation were themselves infinitesimal. His HUD-assisted aiming was perfect. He could take the shot. He could take the chance.


    She wailed again, and his resolve wavered.


    The easiest way to change the situation would have been to shift the child away from Thomson, to teleport her into his own arms, her playpen, one of the other rooms, or ¨C at the extreme ¨C his agency, where there was no chance of injury. It was dangerous, too dangerous, given how close the gun was to her head.


    Shifting, despite how quick and painless it was, could be detected by those with enough practice. A momentary tactile difference in the skin just before the shift, and that moment would be all Thomson needed to pull the trigger.


    There were still no screaming parents, no concerned visitors phoning the authorities¡ªhis HUD indicated that¡ªnothing, just the sounds of the party outside. From an emotional standpoint, it was horrible; from a strategic standpoint, it was the best scenario he could ever hope for. The less complicated the situation, the better.


    ¡®One last chance,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®Put the child down.¡¯


    Thomson started to back away to the door. Something crunched, and the man looked down, distracted by whatever he had stepped on.


    In that split second, Ryan shifted the girl away from Thomson, one arm clutching her tightly as she reintegrated, holding her close, trying to convey without words that she was safe.


    Confused, then enraged, Thomson looked back up at him, then swung his gun up and took a few shots. The anger, combined with his clear exhaustion, made the shots go wild¡ªone bullet lodged in Ryan¡¯s shoulder, but he pushed away the pain. It would pass soon enough.


    ¡®You brought this on yourself.¡¯ He adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger. The man fell, and blood began to seep into the expensive rug.


    There was something warm against his side, and he looked down to comfort the little girl, knowing that a nappy change was the least of¨C


    Half-closed, dead little blue eyes stared at him, stared past him, stared nowhere. He dismissed his gun with a thought, and he lifted her to inspect her, feeling the blood on his hand before he saw it.


    Blood oozed from a gaping hole in her chest. Her life leaked out, staining her soft purple top, dripped onto his hand before it fell to the floor, the beginnings of a puddle starting near his feet.


    His fault. Another death on his conscience. Another innocent life gone.


    He pulled the child close and lifted a hand to close her eyes. It was the least he could do. It was all he could do.


    There was a flash of blue to his left, a light barely in his field of vision.


    Ryan turned towards the twinkling light, time rushing and freezing as he did. His thoughts ground to a half as the tiny spark of the girl¡¯s soul floated past.


    One more chance to put things right.


    He pulled his right arm tighter to his body, holding the tiny dead girl as if she were the most precious thing in the world, then lunged towards the soul. On his first try, his hand passed right through it, ignoring him as if he were on a totally different plane of existence, which after all, he was.


    Souls only lingered for the briefest of moments before falling into Death¡¯s realm, and whatever came next. And if he missed this chance, then¡ª


    The soul floated higher, a dust mote in sunlight, and began to fade away like an after-image. He concentrated on the weight of the little girl, on all of the experiences she would never have, on the knowledge that she would never open her eyes again and grabbed for the soul.


    This time, he felt tenuous contact, wind and sunlight caught in a palm on a winter¡¯s morning. He held onto the feeling, and closed his fingers around it, light streaming through his fingers like he had captured the smallest star.


    The feeling of sunlight disappeared, and the soul grew heavy. Screaming started in his head, blocking out all other sound. The sounds from the beginning of life, from the end of life, from chances denied and hopes dashed.


    It grew hotter and hotter, a molten ball of lead trying to escape his grasp. He stumbled, feeling sweat pouring down his face as he fell to his knees, light beginning to crack through the back of his hand as the soul tried to melt its way through his flesh to an escape.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    He had to hold on. Every second was one more chance to get her attention. She would feel him interfering. She would¡ª


    A cold breeze blew from behind him.


    ¡®What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡¯ She sounded disappointed, as usual.


    For a moment more, Ryan stared at the light streaming through his fingers, then opened his hand and let the soul float away, a balloon without a string. He curled his fingers over his burnt palm and turned to face Death.


    ¡®What are you doing?¡¯ she asked again.


    He looked away from her, then down at the dead child in his arms. ¡®She¡¯s too old to become a Starbright¨C¡¯


    ¡®Far too old,¡¯ she snapped, staring at him with her skeletal face. ¡®Your point?¡¯


    ¡®Lady, please, I¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t beg, Ryan.¡¯


    He held the little corpse held tighter. ¡®Please.¡¯


    For a moment, Death said nothing, then she stepped forward, and touched a humanlike hand to the little girl¡¯s cheek. ¡®She is too young to make the choice on her own.¡¯


    There was such a note of finality in her voice. He followed the line of Death¡¯s cloaked arm to the little girl¡¯s face. ¡®So, she¡¯s passed on?¡¯


    The oldest of the three Ladies stared at him, expression unreadable. She turned away from him for a moment, and his heart sank. She took a step towards the nursery window, stared down at the party in the garden, then looked back at him, a human face replacing her skeletal visage.


    Death pulled away her hood, and silver hair spilled out over her shoulders. ¡®Think about why you¡¯re doing this, Ryan.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s my job,¡¯ he said.


    She walked back to him. ¡®This is not your job, angel,¡¯ she said as she lifted his hand. She ran cool fingers across the burn. The pain and the injury disappearing with her touch.


    ¡®Please,¡¯ Ryan said, nearly choking on the word. He looked up at her. ¡®Please, my Lady.¡¯ He felt tears stinging at the backs of his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away.


    ¡®I do wish you would consider the consequences.¡¯


    ¡®She¡¯s a child; the consequence would be a life.¡¯


    ¡®If you want to retrieve her soul, Ryan, put her body down.¡¯


    He held the girl for a moment more, then knelt and placed the body back in her playpen, laying her on the blanket embroidered with her name.


    Stephanie.


    Ryan looked away from her, from his failure, from the blood covering her, and his gaze fell on the broken china doll¡ªthe thing Thomson had stepped on. He picked it up. It was something familiar, and hopefully it would convince her to trust him, to come back with him, to reject death.


    Death took a step towards him, and everything fell away. For a moment, he saw the house in its constituent parts¡ªeach piece turned into dust, leaving nothing behind, until he was alone in the blackness. He took a breath, then let himself go, and he dropped through the darkness, through the emptiness that was Death¡¯s realm.


    There was no need to stare out into the darkness. There was nothing to see, nothing to do but imagine monsters in the darkness, so he closed his eyes and waited for the journey to end.


    After a small eternity, he felt solid ground under his feet, and after a moment to collect his thoughts, he felt brave enough to look. Limbo¡¯s eternal storm clouds swirled overhead in the grey sky¡ªpromising a storm that never came, brimming with rain that never fell, and occasionally cracking with lightning that never struck the ground and that was never followed by thunder.


    The grey earth beneath his feet let up little puffs of dust as he crossed towards the tree line of the winter-dead forest and two little girls.


    One of the girls was the child he was there to save, the other was the grey land¡¯s guardian.


    Limbo rolled a bright red ball towards the dead child, turned to him, laughed, and looked away. Limbo existed entirely in greyscale, her hair silver, her skin ashen, and her eyes black. Even her monk¡¯s robe was in muted tones. Limbo, despite her age and responsibility, always appeared as a child.


    All he could do was watch them play. The girl he¡¯d failed was happy. All her fear had disappeared. There were no more terrified screams or tears of pain, there was just the ball and her new playmate. Children adjusted so quickly. He envied them that quality.


    His hands shook, and Ryan buried them in his pockets¡ªit was a useless gesture. The sisters would know how he felt, know his thoughts and decisions before he spoke them aloud. His mind was as open as a picture book with large text. Secrets were an impossibility when dealing with the Ladies. Death knew his fears, his paranoia, his guilt. It was more honesty than he preferred. Bravado didn¡¯t work. Facades of strength did nothing to keep her from seeing his lack of conviction.


    The little dead girl caught the ball, bounced it, and pushed it back towards Limbo. Limbo turned to him and laughed, the innocent sound doing a lot to make him feel a little better about the situation.


    He sat on the felled log behind Limbo and watched the girls play for a few long moments.


    The ball rolled in his direction, and he pushed it back towards the little dead girl. She barely looked at him, her attention entirely focussed on the ball. The lack of attention didn¡¯t bother him. He was an agent. He wasn¡¯t there to be noticed. He wasn¡¯t there to be remembered. Today would happen, and then it would be lost in the miasma that was the foggy memories of childhood. His mistake wouldn¡¯t impact her.


    If he could take her back.


    If he took her back.


    ¡®You¡¯re right to hesitate,¡¯ Death said as she stood beside him, making him feel so small. She touched his arm, a rare gesture of affection. ¡®You do not have the right to do this. You can¡¯t force this choice on her.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s my right,¡¯ he said as he uncurled his fists within his pockets, ¡®to try and save her.¡¯


    ¡®Is this really saving her, Ryan?¡¯ Death stepped in front of him, blocking his view of her sister and the little girl. Death¡¯s face was skeletal for a moment, angry, before appearing human again. ¡®There is every chance,¡¯ she said, ¡®that she will become a ghost. Is that what you wish on her?¡¯


    He felt a chill as he struggled for an answer. ¡®My Lady¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Do you want her to become a ghost?¡¯ she asked.


    It took every shred of self-control to keep his voice calm. ¡®Of course not.¡¯


    ¡®Then let her pass.¡¯


    He looked away from Death and down to Stephanie again. ¡®She deserves a chance,¡¯ he said, the words coming easily as the decision fortified in his mind. ¡®She has to have a chance.¡¯


    ¡®This isn¡¯t even about her,¡¯ Death said, an angry edge to her voice, her skeletal face returning and staring through him. ¡®You¡¯ve no investment in the child. You¡¯re acting out of guilt because of¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I know,¡¯ he snapped, and shame overtook the anger. He hung his head and stared at his feet, unable to meet Death¡¯s gaze, taking in the detail of the fine dust covering his leather shoes. ¡®I know why I¡¯m doing this,¡¯ he said, quieter that time. He looked back up at her. ¡®I need to save someone,¡¯ he said weakly, ¡®even if it isn¡¯t Carol.¡¯


    Death sighed and stared off into the dead forest of identical trees for what seemed an eternity. ¡®As is your wish,¡¯ she said at last. ¡®But she has to come willingly.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Yes, my Lady.¡¯


    Ryan stepped over the fallen tree and walked towards the little girl. Limbo grabbed his pants leg and offered the red ball. He stooped and accepted it, thanking her with a nod. She stared at him for a moment, her black eyes reflecting his unsure expression back at him, before she smiled, climbed to her feet, and ran off into her forest.


    Stephanie stared after her playmate for a moment, then began to get to her feet to follow Limbo into the never-ending forest.


    ¡®Wait,¡¯ he said, not wanting to risk losing her. He held up the ball, sat in the dust, then rolled it across to her. She clapped her hands and pushed it back towards him. Children¡¯s games. A skill that had grown rusty with disuse, a skill he didn¡¯t mind reviving, if only for a few minutes. He pushed on the ball again and reached for the doll that he¡¯d brought with him. The doll was missing.


    That time when she rolled the ball back, he let it go past his leg and hit the log behind him.


    He looked at the ground around him and to the log where he had sat.


    No doll.


    He looked up and followed his footprints in the dust back to the place he had entered the grey land. No doll.


    ¡®You dropped it,¡¯ Death said, picking the question from his mind. ¡®What¡¯s to say that you wouldn¡¯t drop her?¡¯ The broken doll appeared in Death¡¯s hand, and she passed it to him.


    ¡®I would be¡ª¡¯ he said, then faltered. Careful? He would be so much more careful with a child than with a doll. The doll wasn¡¯t important. The doll wasn¡¯t a small, precious life that needed protecting. The doll wasn¡¯t a tiny step towards redemption.


    He noticed that the girl was watching him, staring at the doll in his hand through the wispy brown hair over her tiny blue eyes. He couldn¡¯t leave her behind. ¡®I would be a lot more careful with her,¡¯ he said as he offered the doll to its small owner. ¡®I will be more careful with her.¡¯


    The child¡¯s eyes grew even wider, then filled with tears, her tiny pink mouth opening to let forth yet another wail. He looked back to Death, wondering what he¡¯d¡ª


    His gaze fell on the doll in his hand. He¡¯d grabbed it without thinking, without repairing it. He shoved the broken, bloody mess into his jacket, out of the little girl¡¯s sight.


    In Limbo, he had no connection to the System, so he couldn¡¯t require the doll fixed. Any other time, it would have been the least of his worries, the enormity of standing separate from the world far outweighing his ability ¨C or need ¨C to conjure items. But now, in this moment, with a crying child in front of him, it felt as though he was missing a limb.


    It was such a small thing, and he was without his usual way to fix it.


    The land being what it was though, it had a way of providing what you needed, of paying heed to small wishes, of filling simple needs. He brushed a finger over the broken edge of the china doll¡¯s head and concentrated, opening his mind, and asking for the doll to be whole again.


    Immediately, he felt the broken face flow, tiny, perfect features once again in place. The was a fuzzing sensation under his palm as the clothes replaced themselves, clean cotton and silk, the blood disappearing like a bad memory.


    With a smile, he pulled the renewed doll from his jacket and held it up to the girl.


    The screams stopped, and the tears disappeared. She rubbed her dirty face with a sleeve, then half-stood, resting one hand on his leg and grabbing with the other for her doll. He lowered it to her reaching hand, and she dropped back to the ground, her tiny, pudgy arms wrapped tightly around the redhead doll. She buried her face in the doll¡¯s frizzy hair, her hands curling into the fabric of the doll¡¯s dress.


    He let himself take comfort in making her happy for a moment, then rose and looked at Death, whose face was skeletal again. ¡®May I take her home now?¡¯


    ¡®She has not said yes yet, Ryan. She has to make the choice.¡¯


    He opened his mouth to protest, a dozen arguments forming in his mind, each fighting to be the first stated. A child so young had no way to understand the choice she was being asked to make, nor any way to articulate the answer. It was unfair. He¡¯d failed after all. There was no way to¡ª


    There was a tug on his jacket. He looked down and saw the girl. She smiled up at him, then hugged his right leg, mumbling something that was probably a thank you into the fabric of his pants.


    Death put a hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him. ¡®She wants to go with you. That¡¯s a ¡°yes¡±, Ryan.¡¯


    He knelt and picked up the little girl and her doll. ¡®Time to go home, Stephanie.¡¯

 02 - The Best of Stories, The Worst of Stories

    The world around Stef had ceased to exist. The only things still tangible in the smoky limbo were her screen and her keyboard. The latter was less real, existing only as an abstract, a tool through which algorithms and codes took shape.


    From somewhere in the smoke, a beep reminded her to breathe. Stef took a breath but didn¡¯t dare to blink, lest the fragile connection she had to her task be lost. Losing concentration would mean losing the battle with consciousness, and she¡¯d only been awake for twenty-three hours.


    ¡®I¡¯m awake,¡¯ she said, unconvinced. ¡®I am awake.¡¯


    A knock from somewhere out in the smoke made her hands slip from the keyboard. She swore, shook them, and began to type again, her gaze never leaving the screen. She was satisfied with the change on the screen. Her hands left the keyboard again, that time of her own accord, one to grab the drink to her left, one to click the mouse three times. After that small pause, she began to type again.


    There was another knock, louder that time.


    Her nostrils flared, but she made no move to greet the visitor. Whatever they wanted couldn¡¯t have been as important as the task at hand. The firewalls were closing in around her, blocking further access, keeping her from her goal.


    Stef looked back to her computer. It wasn¡¯t a difficult hack, but it was a trial of a new methodology and a lot of untested code, and the closest to an adventure she could have without booting up WoW.


    There was a third knock.


    Knock, knock, Spyder. Go get the door.


    But I¡¯m busy.


    Go get the door.


    She shook her head and saved the new algorithms. With a few clicks, she killed the connection and the hack, then alt-tabbed to the desktop just in case someone was watching. She pushed herself back from the desk, rolling down the sleeves of her shirt to hide her monitor-bleached skin ¨C lest her landlord give her another pseudo-lecture on how unhealthy she looked ¨C and shook her legs in the effort to help them remember how to stand. She spun on her chair and stood on still-uneasy legs, letting the wall provide her with balance as she made her way to the front door.


    She crossed the small apartment and groped for the keys on the small entry cupboard.


    ¡®I already put the rent in your box, Mr Jenkins,¡¯ she said as she pulled the door open.


    The man standing before her wasn¡¯t her landlord or anyone else she recognised.


    A tall, blond man stared down at her. ¡®I¡¯m not after the rent.¡¯ He gave her a small smile. ¡®Two minutes, thirty-two seconds ¨C most people don¡¯t leave me standing on their doorstep so long. My name is Dorian; may I come in?¡¯


    For the eighty-third time since moving into the flat, she silently cursed that the peephole was out of her easy reach.


    She stared at the man for a moment, watched him spin a silver pocket watch on a long, tarnished chain, then reached for the door, ready to slam it shut.


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t do that, Spyder,¡¯ he said as he put a hand near hers. ¡®I did come this far to see you, after all.


    Stef tried to slam the door shut. Power levels taxed by insomnia were no match for a firm hand on the frame and a doorstop made of foot and expensive leather shoe.


    Door close now, plz!


    Kick his foot.


    She kicked his foot, and he swore. ¡®Spyder, you really shouldn¡¯t¨C¡¯


    ¡®Who the fsck are you?¡¯


    ¡®We went over this; my name is Dorian.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah? So? Who are you?¡¯


    A piece of paper was pushed through the shoe-wide crack. It flipped and landed face down on the floor near her feet ¨C she grabbed the corner of it with a socked foot and turned it over.


    She let go of the door.


    ¡®Does that mean I can come in?¡¯


    She looked back to him, possibilities spinning in her mind. ¡®Do I need to invite you in?¡¯


    He pushed on the door and stepped over the threshold. ¡®No,¡¯ he said. ¡®I was just being polite.¡¯


    This is not one of your brightest ideas.


    All the best stories and all the worst stories start with inviting a strange man into your house.


    Which is this?


    Don¡¯t know yet. Probably neither.


    I don¡¯t like this.


    Dorian closed the door behind him, but quickly lifted his hand away, showing that he hadn¡¯t locked it. She bent, picked up the piece of paper, and walked through to the lounge room. She sat in the single armchair and made a vague motion towards the couch.


    She knew what the code was: it had been a coding challenge in a rubber duck coding group. A place where people posted problematic code to try and get it work when even explaining it out loud to their coworkers and collaborator duckies couldn¡¯t help.


    This one had been different from the beginning. The post hadn¡¯t been by a frustrated coder, instead of someone calling themselves a project manager - though not pretentious enough to capitalise the position within the post.


    Gallingly, the code itself hadn¡¯t even been in one of the accepted attachment formats, or even a Pastebin link - instead, it was just a screenshot of what had, at first glance, seemed like complete nonsense.


    Nonsense that she had just known, somewhere deep in her coder instincts, was real and not just the result of someone rolling a cat across a keyboard.


    And now, weeks later, that same project manager was in her apartment.


    Dorian, apparently tired of waiting, sighed and pushed at the pile of old game guidebooks until there was enough room to sit on her stained couch.


    All desire to sleep had fled. ¡®I thought this was¨C This was weeks ago; I thought you¡¯d already hired someone to work with it.¡¯


    ¡®I had,¡¯ he said, straightening his expensive suit. ¡®You¡¯re by no means first string. I¡¯ve brought forty-two people on board so far; all but six have left. Some lasted a day; some lasted a week. It¡¯s a bit of a challenge.¡¯


    Stef crumpled the paper at its edges, anything to keep her hands moving. It was beautiful, but the same beauty she¡¯d already seen. ¡®I¡¯m up for it¡­presuming that there¡¯s more than just this. I can¡¯t do anything with the same one page of code.¡¯


    ¡®We do have the complete program. That¡¯s the point: We need to get it working.¡¯


    She nodded, her mind spinning in a dozen different directions, half-formed questions waiting their turn. ¡®What¡¯s the pay?¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t care about the money,¡¯ he said with a smile. ¡®Your response was one of the more verbose, and not once did you ask about the money.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, you¡¯re right, but I do have rent to pay.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s living expenses for now,¡¯ he said. ¡®Because of the nature of the work, you¡¯ll need to be sequestered.¡¯ He lifted his briefcase and pulled out a slim folder. ¡®Standard non-disclosure agreement.¡¯


    ¡®What am I not disclosing?¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t tell you that until you sign the form.¡¯


    ¡®This is beginning to sound like the Manhattan Project 2.0.¡¯


    ¡®Is there something about constant exposure to the internet that makes coders paranoid, or have I just been fortunate?¡¯


    ¡®Just ¨C just for reference,¡¯ she said as she fixed her eyes on a stain on the opposite wall. ¡®This isn¡¯t some missile defence code thing or to open a secret vault of¡­evil stuff?¡¯ She gave a self-conscious smile. ¡®If this is global domination, I need to know the philosophy before signing up.¡¯ He could be a villain; he could very possibly be a villain. He certainly had the accent for it.


    ¡®Nothing so childish, Spyder,¡¯ he said. ¡®We need to get the rest of the program that section of code belonged to working again. All of the original programmers are¡­incommunicado, and it¡¯s time sensitive.¡¯


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡®Does ¡°incommunicado¡± mean ¡°dead¡±?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, Spyder, it does.¡¯


    ¡®You aren¡¯t inspiring confidence, here.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m here, aren¡¯t I? That means something.¡¯


    ¡®It means you should hire some professionals,¡¯ she said. ¡®If it¡¯s that important, why are you bothering with this¡­routine? This whole thing as a hiring pitch for a long-time job, I can buy ¨C but not if you¡¯re working with a limited window.¡¯


    ¡®Professionals won¡¯t give me what I need.¡¯


    She looked just to the left of his face. ¡®And what do you need?¡¯


    ¡®To sound like some people I don¡¯t like very much, we need new perspectives, and I don¡¯t want professionals. They will ask questions that I¡¯m not willing to answer. I need people willing to do a job and walk away.¡¯


    ¡®Pass.¡¯


    ¡®¡°Pass¡±? Really?¡¯


    She shrugged. ¡®Yeah. Pass.¡¯


    He leaned forward and pulled another folder from his briefcase, then extracted one sheet from the slim file and held it up. Another page of code. More of that beautiful, intricate language that she hadn¡¯t seen yet.


    She stared at it.


    She pushed herself out of the armchair and grabbed for the sheet, but he drew it back from her reach. ¡®NDA first, Spyder.¡¯


    ¡®Then give me a fucking pen.¡¯ He gave her a pen, and she scrawled out something that barely resembled her signature and pushed it back at him. ¡®Gimme!¡¯ she demanded, and she pulled the sheet from him as soon as he offered it.


    ¡®Well?¡¯ he prompted.


    She tore her eyes away from the new sheet of code and ran back to her bedroom.


    Two clicks had her desktop shutting down while she pulled her laptop bag from the bottom drawer. She retrieved Frankie from his usual place under her pillow, paused briefly to make sure that she had not left him on by accident again, then slid him into the fraying brown bag.


    She pulled a heavily vandalised overnight bag from her wardrobe and tossed the first six items of clothing that came into her hands into the open bag ¨C five T-shirts, one pair of pants. She caught sight of her rumpled top in the mirrored door, then wriggled out of her pyjama pants, leaving them with the pile of clothes on the floor.


    One more piece of dirty laundry on the floor made no difference at this point. The pants would help to keep the other clothes company. The rest of the laundry had been on the floor for long enough to gain sentience and begin the planning stages of a coup ¨C it would welcome fresh blood, new ideas, or at least another piece of cannon fodder in the soap wars that were to come.


    The stench of her stained shirt was inexplicably bad as she pulled it over her head. She gave it a suspicious glance and wondered if that was a sign of a gas leak. There was no reason for it to smell so badly, no reason at all, after all¨C


    I showered on Tuesday¡­


    It¡¯s Tuesday again, Spyder.


    The shirt joined the pants on the floor.


    Stef reached for the closest clean shirt in the wardrobe ¨C something that had started as a black shirt with white writing, but the writing had faded so badly that it was now just a modern art study in flecks and spots. She tossed the shirt behind her and onto the bed as she rummaged for a pair of pants.


    She closed the mirrored door and stared for a moment at the moving shape it contained. She looked up and tried to focus on the odd shape ¨C if it was even there at all, and not some figment of her very active imagination. The form in the mirror moved, and it became clear, became a man.


    Her hands went sweaty against the mirrored door of the wardrobe as hot prickles crawled up her exposed spine. Dorian was looking at her there was no way that he was not looking at her.


    I should have closed the door; I should have closed the door; I should have closed the door¨C


    Stop it; settle down.


    She wrapped her arms around herself and turned halfway so that she could look at him. Instructions to get out, to turn away, to leave her the hell alone died somewhere in her throat and lodged in the solid lump of fear there.


    Get out! Get out! Get out!


    ¡®I was going to say,¡¯ Dorian said, ¡®that there¡¯s no rush; it¡¯s a private car, not a cab.¡¯


    He took a few steps into the room, and she felt dizzy.


    All thoughts froze as he came closer, and she quickly wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, in an effort to hide her shame. Hot prickles ran up, and down her spine, the heat dried her mouth and made her head spin.


    She fought the urge to rip the wardrobe door open, to push herself through the clothes and escape through the back of the wardrobe ¨C whether it be to the flat next door or¨C


    Dorian lifted her shirt from the bed and came closer. He extended his hand and stopped when he came in range. His freaky grey eyes stared at her, and she pulled her left hand away from her body to grab the shirt. She clutched the old shirt to her chest and felt some of the blood return to her head, and some of the breath to her body.


    He retreated across the room but did not leave. ¡®Take your time,¡¯ he said. ¡®But one observation, if I may?¡¯


    She made a vaguely affirmative noise, her throat still not ready to push out words.


    ¡®Most people,¡¯ he said, ¡®would have covered their breasts, not their scars.¡¯


    She stared at the floor, gave a one-shouldered shrug, and waited for him to leave. The door closed, sealed her in, alone and safe, her sanctuary restored. She sank to the carpet, the musty smell familiar, comforting, normal ¨C so very normal in comparison to the last five minutes.


    One quick count to ten in binary later, she stood, gave the door a suspicious look, then slowly got dressed.


    So, have you decided yet?


    Well, I haven¡¯t been axe-murdered yet.


    Clothes in place, she dropped a few more items in her overnight bag ¨C USB memory sticks full of pieces of code, little programs, music to code by, codecs that made life easier, and some games in case there were periods of boredom. She zipped up the bag, threw the laptop bag containing Frankie and his accessories over her shoulder, then left the bedroom, dragging the heavier-than-anticipated bag behind her.


    Dorian lay on the couch, head on the left arm, feet propped up on the right, left hand holding a cigarette, right hand tapping out something on his phone.


    ¡®Got everything you need?¡¯ he asked, not looking up from his phone. ¡®If there¡¯s anything more you need, we¡¯ve probably got it already, or we can get the car to bring you back.¡¯


    ¡®I really don¡¯t need that much.¡¯


    He slipped the phone into his pocket, stood, and reached for the overnight bag. He tugged it from her hand even while she protested. ¡®Let me be a gentleman, Spyder,¡¯ he said as he lifted it.


    She grabbed her wallet as she walked past the entryway table, slipped it into her pocket, and pulled the door closed as she followed him. They walked past the adjacent flats, then down the wide internal staircase to the open lobby. The building had once been a hotel, catering to short stays, but the owner had tired of the upkeep and just taken on long-term occupants, charging a small fraction of what the size of the flats and the location warranted.


    Mister Jenkins ¨C who always insisted on the ¡°mister¡± part and had no first name so far as she knew, had the only ground floor flat, the door of which was open as usual and blaring noises from his television, usually shows from the eighties.


    If Dorian¡¯s arrival were a case of the worst of stories, then at least he would not have any problem renting the flat, and the sale of the computer equipment would more than cover the cleaning costs. The cost of fighting the rampaging laundry, however, would probably be out-of-pocket on his part.


    Dorian pushed open the door, and she stepped out onto the street, the light nearly blinding her. She cursed the sun, natural enemy, to hacker and geek alike, and blinked until her eyes adjusted. The temporary blindness served one purpose though: It informed her that she was indeed in reality. Terrible, bright, sleep-deprived reality.


    The chauffeur of the dark blue town car stepped forwards and took the bag from Dorian, then held out a hand for her laptop bag. She slid it from her shoulder and watched him pack them gently in the boot. The driver opened the door, and Dorian slid in first, then offered a hand to her.


    You are allowed to turn back.


    I think I¡¯m going to find out if it¡¯s a worst of stories first.


    By then it¡¯ll be too late.


    She joined Dorian and pulled the door shut so that the chauffeur had one less menial task to do. She put on her seatbelt as the driver climbed into the car, raising the tinted privacy window.


    Dorian laid the folder on her lap and pulled his phone from his pocket again. ¡®This is only casual business,¡¯ he said as he gave the phone a slight shake. The car pulled off and into traffic. ¡®I¡¯m interested as to your first impressions.¡¯


    She pulled out the page she had scribbled all over. ¡®It¡¯s not a language I¡¯ve seen before. Some of this almost looks familiar, but it doesn¡¯t do what I¡¯d expect, so I think that¡¯s a coincidence unless coincidences don¡¯t exist, in which case it¡¯s just a thing. Other bits, like here¡¯ ¨C she stabbed a finger at the sheet of paper ¨C ¡®that¡¯s just¡­nothing. I have no idea what that bit is doing there. Or that. Or that.¡¯


    ¡®Have fun,¡¯ he said as he looked down at his phone.


    She swallowed. ¡®I think I have to ask the obvious question of what your stake in all this is.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m doing this for the story.¡¯ He caught her expression. ¡®Don¡¯t look at me like that, Spyder. I don¡¯t mean it in the way you think. Not a report. Not a news story. Nothing so¡­tabloid. Literally, for the story. So many lives these days are pedestrian, carbon copies and attempts at copies, emulation, and clich¨¦. The want to be a picture in a magazine. It sickens me.¡¯ He stared at her. ¡®It¡¯s a rare chance to be a part of something truly worthwhile. That¡¯s what I get out of this. And I know the financier; I¡¯m doing this as a favour to him.¡¯


    She gave him another shrug and went back to the pages of code, scribbling notes in the margins and circling the lines of code that boggled her the most.


    Five pages of annotated code later, the car stopped. ¡®We¡¯re here,¡¯ Dorian said.


    She rolled down the window and stared out at a mansion. The large iron gate rolled open without a sound, and they drove up the circular driveway, giving her barely enough time to take in the grounds and the outlying regions of the huge property.


    The driver opened her door, and she stuffed all of the loose printouts back into the folder and stepped out. The mansion rose up in front of her, old ¨C but not too old ¨C and immaculately kept ¨C no chips in the brickwork and no faded paint. The boring kind of big, old house. Big, old houses were only interesting when they contained dust, must, ghosts, secrets, and mysteries that could be solved on a rainy afternoon.


    ¡®The others are on the second floor,¡¯ Dorian said as the heavy front door was pulled open for them. ¡®You should have no need of the first floor, as all meals are brought up. If you need something at a non-designated meal time, there should be refreshments lying around, or you can call down to the kitchen.¡¯ He stopped and turned to look at her. ¡®And stay off the third floor.¡¯


    She gave him a deadpan look. ¡®Why, is there a rose in a glass case?¡¯


    ¡®Close,¡¯ he said with a smile. ¡®Antique items that we¡¯d rather not have any more exposure than necessary. That and your financier stays up there. He¡¯s a very private man, and he¡¯s rather unwell, so he¡¯d prefer not to be bothered. ¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, okay. I can deal with that.¡¯


    ¡®The others will introduce themselves,¡¯ he said. ¡®Some are choosing to operate under pseudonyms adopted especially for this project. You can, too. That¡¯s your prerogative, though I don¡¯t think you have enough of a reputation to tarnish should you fail.¡¯


    She opened her mouth to protest, but he was halfway up the stairs before she could think of anything witty to say. ¡®You¡¯re in room five,¡¯ he said. ¡®Up this way, Spyder.¡¯


    Black-and-white photos stared at her from silver frames, but there was no time to focus on them as he urged her up the stairs. The room was small ¨C barely enough room for the single bed, wardrobe, and desk ¨C but it was a comfortable kind of small.


    She lifted her laptop bag from the floor as Dorian handed her the key.


    ¡®All the rooms look pretty much the same, so be careful you don¡¯t fall asleep in the wrong bed.¡¯


    She shrugged.


    ¡®I¡¯ll have everything brought to you, printout and digital copy; there¡¯s stationery in the desk; dinner is at seven. Is there anything else you need?¡¯


    ¡®Coffee,¡¯ she said as she turned Frankie on, the fans whirring to life. ¡®Lots of it. Something for a headache. Something to eat ¨C nothing heavy, though.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯ll be sent up in a little while. For what it¡¯s worth, good luck.¡¯


    She gave him a little smile, locked the door after he left, then sat on the bed and stared across at Frankie as the desktop loaded.


    Two minutes ¨C two minutes, then I¡¯ll get back up and deal with this.


    You really don¡¯t need to bother lying to me.


    She put her head on the pillow.


    Fine. A subjective two minutes then.


    She yawned, closed her eyes, and let sleep finally win.

 03 - Keeping Time, Losing Time

    Three Weeks Later


    ¡®You should come out of your room.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯ Stef looked up at Dorian, playing the part of doorway lurker again, for the umpteenth million time since her arrival at the mansion. She looked back down at the pages of code spread in a messy, haphazard circle on the floor around her. ¡®No thanks.¡¯


    ¡®The rest of the team think you¡¯re entirely more mysterious and interesting than they are.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m always a disappointment,¡¯ she said as she circled a large section of gibberish with a red marker. ¡®Let them live with the mystery for a while.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re reusing ideas they¡¯ve already rejected,¡¯ he said as he took a step into the room. ¡®It¡¯s inefficient.¡¯


    She scooted across the floor toward him and rescued a piece of paper from under his expensive leather shoes. ¡®I don¡¯t play well with others, if you want me working here, then-¡®


    ¡®Fine, I¡¯ll have the staff bring your food here again.¡¯


    She looked back to the code, and let her mind spin.


    ¡®Spyder, you really should come out.¡¯


    ¡®We just had this conversation, Dorian,¡¯ she said as she piled another piece of paper onto the discard pile.


    ¡®No, we had this conversation three days ago,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®More like three seconds.¡¯


    ¡®Spyder-¡¯


    She looked up. He was wearing a different shirt; his hair was different, he had a newspaper under his arm.


    ¡®Three days?¡¯


    He gave a nod.


    She looked back to her floor pile. There was a sandwich sitting beside the discard pile. ¡®I don¡¯t remember that sandwich; it looks like it was a good sandwich. Poor sandwich.¡¯


    Her stomach growled. ¡®Okay. Um. Maybe I need food.¡¯ She closed Frankie¡¯s lid, he likely needed as much of a break as she did, and awkwardly planted her hands on the floor, got to her knees, then used the edge of the bed to pull herself up.


    Dorian took a half step back. ¡®I¡¯ll make you a deal, take a shower - you need it, trust me; then meet me in the kitchen, I haven¡¯t eaten yet today either, and we can discuss your working situation.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, okay.¡¯


    He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. ¡®Your colleagues are about as social as you, but you¡¯d at least have the benefit of their¡­attempts at success, so you avoid reworking.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, yeah, learn from their fail. None of the others are having any luck?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll give them credit in that they are still working at it ¨C we¡¯ve had people quit within three days, assuming that this is some sort of joke or-¡¯


    ¡®Social experiment. Don¡¯t worry; the idea crossed my mind too. Especially after I found our your surname, Mr Gray.¡¯ Dorian Gray. Unlikely to be part of a part of an experiment, unless it was to make some weird point of technology versus the classics, but as there had been nothing to indicate that, she¡¯d dismissed it.


    More likely, and in a way that Oscar would approve it, Dorian had simply changed his name for the aesthetic.


    She pulled at a lock of hair and wound it around her finger until the top joint was red and puffy. ¡®There¡¯s- There¡¯s no gain, and if it¡¯s a hoax, it¡¯s of Voynich quality, there¡¯s rhyme, there¡¯s rhythm, this is a real language, busted as it may be, it¡¯s real, but it¡¯s not based on anything I¡¯ve seen before, I have to work from scratch.¡¯


    ¡®As are they, you could be of benefit-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not interested in doing their work for them.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s all the same work, Spyder.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, but I like to get credit for my contributions.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not sure how much credit you¡¯ll get for this.¡¯ He pressed two fingers to his forehead. ¡®I¡¯ll see you for lunch in a few minutes then.¡¯


    ¡®Ye-yeah,¡¯ she said, then turned towards the wardrobe, and moved to get her shower bag as Dorian¡¯s footsteps disappeared down the hall.


    The converted servants quarters were comfortable, for what they were - the size was similar to the private room she¡¯d had at school - and like that room, there was a small attached toilet, but no shower or bath.


    She opened the pocket on the end of the overnight bag and retrieved the small bag - old shampoo and soap, something that would need to be replaced after this...job, experience, social experiment, whatever it was.


    Bag retrieved, she gathered some clean clothes from the pile of clean laundry near the door and headed down the hall to the shared facilities. The hallway was empty, but sounds of life filtered through from the house, loud voices from the large room that had been set up for the coders, a delivery truck pulling up, and all of the creaks and cracks that an old house made.


    Stef stepped over the threshold into a bathroom, though while modern, had been made to fit in with the aesthetic of the rest of the house. She pulled her phone from her pocket and connected it to the Bluetooth speaker, and set it to play all of her half-lucid notes that she had recorded when she¡¯d been too tired to type or write them out.


    She stripped, found the laundry bag assigned to her room, and dumped the clothes inside. Her recorded voice, full of sleep, started to read out sections of code.


    The water was warm, and nothing made sense.


    The code was a complete scramble. It was a whole program - or near enough to one, but it was as though someone had taken the entire thing and thrown it into a tumble dryer. There were some intact functions, but calling them had been next to impossible.


    There were patches of interface that were mixed in with the seemingly infinite conditionals, an interface, that while simple, wasn¡¯t laid out like anything she¡¯d ever seen before. And it was orange - that was one of the pieces of information she had gleaned in the small patches of time she had spent around the team.


    One of the other coders - who had gone on at length about his frustration in dealing with any of the meaningful pieces of code, had dedicated himself to working out the colour variables, which, whilst hexadecimal, either didn¡¯t conform to the standard hex colour chart, or had been designed by someone with outstandingly lousy taste.


    With some work - which Scott was happy to expound upon - he had tweaked at it until he¡¯d come up with a formula to rework the interface colours until they seemed to work. And thus: an orange interface.


    It wasn¡¯t much, but it was more progress than the rest of the team had been willing to state publicly.


    Her body at least nominally clean, she stepped out, lazily towelled herself somewhat dry and dressed, her t-shirt clinging to her damp skin.


    She disconnected her phone from the speaker and walked back down the hall, grabbed a sheaf of code from the pile on the small desk, sat on her bed and stared at it, begging it to make sense.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    There was a strange knock.


    She looked up and saw an old man, pale enough to be a ghost, knocking against her door with a cane. ¡®Dorian said you were joining us for lunch.¡¯


    Stef dropped the papers from her hands. ¡®Yeah. Sorry. I¡¯ll be there in a-¡¯


    ¡®You are hours too late, my dear, it¡¯s well into dinner service now.¡¯


    Stef looked to her right, and the window there - what had been the bright light of lunchtime was now the pinks and oranges of a dying sunset. ¡®Oh.¡¯


    Dissociation is a hell of a drug.


    The old man stepped into the room and picked up some of the annotated code sheets from the desk. ¡®So¡­so beautiful,¡¯ he mumbled as he ran his fingers over her notes. ¡®Before this, I never knew¡­¡¯ He looked to her, his eyes bright. ¡®This was my father¡¯s code, but I was too young to ever learn how- And now it is corrupt and- And if we are able to-¡¯


    Stef rubbed at her eyes. ¡®I¡¯m going to need to you to stop, back up, and finish every one of those sentences.¡¯


    He gave her a sad smile. ¡®I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m allowed to give you the answers you need.¡¯


    ¡®Dorian said that all the original programmers are dead,¡¯ she said, then winced, knowing how blunt the statement had been. ¡®But context is so important in knowing what the fuck I¡¯m working with. I-I-I mean, I¡¯ll credit this with not being some operation to resurrect some unknown form of Pac-Man, but-¡¯


    The old man lifted his cane, and she silenced herself. ¡®My father did he- Did my- My Son, Dorian. Yes-¡¯ the cane shook as he put it down. ¡®Did Dorian ask you what you think of fairy tales yet?¡¯


    ¡®Did he what?¡¯


    The old man shook his head like she¡¯d failed a test, then beckoned with a hand. ¡®Come on; it¡¯s roast beef. It¡¯s my favourite because, after all this time, it¡¯s still the closest thing I¡¯ve found to my favourite meal as a child.¡¯


    That¡¯s a weird thing to say.


    Stef sighed, grabbed the closest armful of pages, roughly folded them in half, then followed the old man through to the stone-walled kitchen. This kitchen was the smaller of the two - the one that had food available at any time, snacks in the fridges, and an ever-present coffee pot.


    It served a dual purpose as somewhere to eat, with a long wooden table in front of a semi-circular window. Dorian sat, back to them as they approached, staring out the window.


    The old man - who still hadn¡¯t given his name - sat at the head of the table, and Stef took the seat that backed against the window. After a moment, she put the pages of code down, out of the way of where a server would put her plate, and felt slightly out of place, just like at every meal she¡¯d ever had with her parents.


    ¡®Spyder, have I asked your opinion on fairy tales yet?¡¯


    ¡®Your dad just did,¡¯ she said as she lifted a carafe and poured a glass of water. ¡®I don''t think I passed whatever test it¡¯s supposed to be.¡¯


    ¡®A call-and-response maybe, not a test, not exactly.¡¯ He lifted his head and put his phone down. ¡®You do seem like the kind of person who would pass, the fact that you don¡¯t confuses me.¡¯


    ¡®If it¡¯s an old school tie thing, then-¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s got nothing to do with your wealth,¡¯ Dorian said dismissively.


    ¡®I¡¯m not-¡¯ she started.


    ¡®But you¡¯re used to it,¡¯ he said sharply, ¡®nothing about the size of this house, of how to treat the serving staff, the household staff, you aren¡¯t out of step at all.¡¯


    He¡¯s got you there.


    She stared down at her water glass. ¡®My family. But it¡¯s nothing I¡¯m connected to anymore.¡¯


    ¡®Ask your questions,¡¯ Dorian said. ¡®Your NDA is in place. Understand I might not be able to tell you everything, but for now...consider this a more open forum than your colleagues have received. A patch of four-leaf clover,¡¯ he said, carefully enunciating the last word.


    ¡®I don¡¯t feel lucky,¡¯ she said, ¡®I feel like I¡¯m smashing my head into a brick wall.¡¯ She reached for the sheets of code and started to flick through them. ¡®What is it?¡¯ she asked, putting all of her stress into the question. ¡®What are we trying to do or fix or- Whatever you can tell me-¡¯


    ¡®A black box,¡¯ the old man said. ¡®In as much as I can give you a description, that¡¯s what it is. There¡¯s data from one trip in there and...let¡¯s¡­¡¯ he looked to Dorian. ¡®Father, I¡¯ve told you couching the explanations makes this difficult.¡¯


    Stef reshuffled her pages of code, carefully ignoring reacting to the fact that the old man had just referred to Dorian as his father - perhaps for the second time. A common enough slip with dementia, but-


    ¡®It looks for particular types of atmospheric information,¡¯ Dorian said. ¡®And if we could get it running again, the information it would provide would be priceless.¡¯


    ¡®Wouldn¡¯t that need like a satellite or-¡¯


    ¡®The machine this came from does that side of things. It works, or at least appears to, but- With the interface corrupt, there¡¯s no way of actually interpreting what it¡¯s telling us.¡¯


    There¡¯s a machine? There¡¯s a fucking machine? I thought this had been pulled off old supercomputer tapes or-


    You never asked.


    Stef laid down her annotated pages and smoothed them out. ¡®And I assume there¡¯s no kind of factory reset you can pull, nothing that will just purge the shit data and-¡¯


    Dorian sipped his drink like it had wronged him. ¡®I wouldn¡¯t have spent a half a million so far if that was the case.¡¯


    ¡®Fuck, if you''re that loose with money, I need to negotiate for a better rate.¡¯


    ¡®Solve it, and I¡¯ll write you a cheque that will make you very happy.¡¯


    ¡®I need to know what I¡¯m doing,¡¯ Stef said. ¡®Please. Context is key.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s that feeling in your bones when you know a storm is coming,¡¯ the old man said, staring at the head of his cane.


    ¡®Jon,¡¯ Dorian said quietly.


    ¡®It¡¯s like that. Truth, as solid as a mountain. I know it¡¯s coming. And-¡¯


    ¡®Jon.¡¯


    The old man looked away, the expression on his face one of a child chided by a parent. ¡®I apologise.¡¯ Jon turned to look at her. ¡®Never grow old, it¡¯s a curse.¡¯ He tilted his head towards Dorian. ¡®I do not wear it as well as Dorian does.¡¯


    Okay, that¡¯s one too many veiled comments.


    Dorian sighed, then reached out to gently touch Jon¡¯s face, the gesture somehow more paternal than comfort coming from a child. But that only made sense if-


    Do I even need to point out that you¡¯re insane?


    Stef dabbed at her mouth with the expensive napkin, feeling the thread count with her fingers before placing it beside her plate and looking towards Dorian, unable to quite meet his eyes. ¡®Is this the point where you tell me you¡¯re the real Dorian Gray?¡¯


    Dorian moved his head to catch her gaze. ¡®And if I was, Spyder?¡¯


    Her heart spiked and jumped. Hot sweat beaded on the back of her neck. ¡®Then I- Then I guess you¡¯d actually be able to tell me what¡¯s going on and I¡¯d be able to do my freaking job?¡¯


    ¡®I was the inspiration; I am not fiction come to life. I have no grotesque portrait hiding beneath a sheet.¡¯ He sipped his drink. ¡®And if we are laying our cards on the table, what is your story? I¡¯m surely not your first glimpse beyond the mundane?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re trying to flatter me, but I¡¯m a muggle so far as I know.¡¯


    ¡®Most people don¡¯t consider dying to be mundane, Spyder.¡¯


    ¡®I beg your pardon?¡¯


    He made a vague gesture towards her. ¡®You¡¯ve died. You¡¯ve seen Limbo. It¡¯s something I can see about a person. Not an aura, I¡¯m no young hippie with crystals, more like...gaydar. Something in the eyes, usually. I¡¯ve been wrong. That, or you were very young, and if you were, that raises a lot of other questions, such as-¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s grey, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ the question slipped out, unbidden. ¡®I dream about drowning sometimes. And there¡¯s grey and blue and-¡¯


    ¡®Grey as if you had stepped into an old Hollywood picture, there¡¯s no colour but that which you bring with you.¡¯ He drained his drink. ¡®Gods, you must have been young. Your family might be in on the reality of the world or¡­¡¯ He hesitated for a moment. ¡®Well, a lot more people believe they can see Death when the reality of a dead loved one is in front of them, even after, they do not necessarily know about Faerie.¡¯


    ¡®Faerie? Like- Like-¡¯


    ¡®Yes, but far different than even you could possibly imagine.¡¯ His expression softened a little. ¡®Forgive me, Spyder, but I don¡¯t like playing Morpheus to those fresh to the world. I¡¯m too old and too tired to take that kind of responsibility. When you finish up here, I¡¯ll point you in the right direction, but for now, can we focus?¡¯


    Thoughts, each one as real and as far away as stars in the sky, swirled. Death. Faerie. She had died. Magic - he¡¯d said everything but the word itself - was real. And he expected her to- To sit and eat roast beef.


    She¡¯d died.


    Cold. Dark. So very cold. So very dark.


    Someone was holding her. Keeping her safe from the dark. Keeping her safe from the cold. Blue. Blue meant safety.


    The dream was always unpleasant, the sensation of sinking in darkness, something she¡¯d always interpreted as drowning. But- But it always had a happy ending, but someone stopped her from falling to the bottom of the endless ocean.


    ¡®Jon is my adopted son,¡¯ Dorian said, breaking into her thoughts. ¡®In the simplest way I can put it to you, his world died, and his parents built an escape pod.¡¯ He held up a hand to stop her. ¡®No Superman references, please, have some dignity. His parents perished in the journey, as the escape from a dying world is not easy or kind. He fell into the Blitz and was evacuated with other confused children, to a house in the country where I was recuperating from an injury. I recognised him for what he was immediately, and took him under my wing.¡¯


    There was one comment she couldn¡¯t hold back. ¡®He looks human.¡¯


    ¡®The journey extracts a toll. In this case, his parents were the fee. If you survive, the universe sees it fit to grant you language and breath, and in the rare instances where it is kind, a new form.¡¯


    ¡®He said- He said he can feel it coming.¡¯ There was a cold feeling in her stomach. ¡®Does that mean the world¡¯s ending?¡¯


    Dorian shook his head. ¡®Not ours. When a world dies, its heart is ejected out into void and falls onto another world. It¡¯s powerful and worth the effort of finding. We¡¯re hoping to use the escape pod code to anticipate where it will land.¡¯


    ¡®Ye-yeah,¡¯ she said. ¡®I think I can- I think I can use this to fill in some of the holes. It at least gives me a direction.¡¯


    ¡®If you¡¯ve got any questions that pertain to the project, I could answer those, but otherwise-¡¯


    ¡®I think- I think I just need to process this for a bit,¡¯ she said, stood, walked into the kitchen island, then half-stumbled out into the hall, and straight into a man holding a clipboard.


    ¡®Hey,¡¯ he said, and she vaguely recognised him as one of the newer team members. ¡®We¡¯re doing pizza later, and we¡¯re gonna go over what we¡¯ve collectively learned so far. What can I put you down for?¡¯


    She shrugged. ¡®I dunno, pepperoni or some shit?¡¯


    He smiled broadly. ¡®Pepperoni and shit, done.¡¯


    ¡®Um, yeah,¡¯ she said, and walked past him, back towards her room, head spinning with death, fairies and magic.

 04 - The Last Moment

    Stef stood in front of her assigned dorm room, looking at her wonky reflection in the brass number five that adorned the door.


    Go inside. Going inside was probably the thing to do.


    She fumbled with the handle, walked inside, and locked the door behind her. The lock was small, nothing that would withstand more than a solid kick from the average person, but the illusion of safety comforted her.


    And comfort was what she needed.


    ¡®He said- He said-¡¯


    Inside voice, Spyder.


    ¡®Why, no one can-¡¯


    Spyder.


    He said magic was real. Well, may as well have said it. He¡¯s- And-


    She stared at the wall. Nothing was anything without proof. Proof that wasn¡¯t something could be accomplished by smoke and mirrors, or talented sleight of hand illusion.


    You still want to believe.


    She pitched forward and pulled the pillow under her head. Belief was already pooling in her chest, like a video game rumour she was desperate to believe, something she could spin her entire life on, at least for a moment.


    And it wasn¡¯t as though she hadn¡¯t always believed anyway. In the low-key way many people did, looking for magic portals, stepping in puddles, waiting for animals to speak. It wasn¡¯t trying to learn magic from a website built in the Geocities era; it was just the hope that there was more to the world.


    But she had to be careful. So careful. More careful than she had been about following Dorian in the first place. That had been cavalier, stupid, and...yet had worked out. And if it hadn¡¯t, nothing of value would have been lost.


    You had to care about living to worry about the concept of death. And if she¡¯d been less of a coward, then-


    Spyder.


    She exhaled and tried not to taste the ghost of vinegar, puke and sleeping tablets.


    ¡®Most people don¡¯t consider dying to be mundane, Spyder.¡¯


    Dorian¡¯s words had been shocking, had been the last thing she¡¯d ever expected anyone to say, but- But once they had landed, they just felt as true as knowing her own name.


    There was a need for caution, as smart as she was, she knew she wasn¡¯t always wise. And crazy was easy to take advantage of - especially crazy that was already constantly hallucinating.


    The audio stuff she could deal with - needed; she needed the audio stuff, needed her sensible side to have a voice loud enough to shout at her.


    Visual stuff, on the other hand, ran the gamut from mundane to terrifying. Visual stuff didn¡¯t happen all that often, and that made it harder to get used to. It was a useful - if grating - sign she was on the bad end of some spiral or other, and a huge warning light she needed to be careful. But other people go warning signs that weren¡¯t screaming severed heads in their toilets.


    As annoying as the head had been, the mundane slips scared her more. The momentary illusion that the crosswalk light was green; or-


    Dorian didn¡¯t know she was crazy. Probably didn¡¯t know she was crazy. She¡¯d tried to keep her interactions with him limited to when she could maintain a professional-ish mask; the same with the contact she¡¯d had with the other code monkeys. It was easier to hide in a crowd, easy to stay at the back during a pizza night or sushi-and-debug session.


    It wasn¡¯t like she hadn¡¯t interacted with the others, but it was so much easier to let the code sing by herself.


    But now she had to deal with whatever Dorian had dropped on her, and a pizza party all in one day, and there was a limit to what a little hacker could deal with.


    Stef rolled onto her back lifted the pillow high above her head and dropped it like a nurse testing for responsiveness.


    ¡®Ow,¡¯ she said mildly, then wrapped her arms over it and pulled it close, the sensation smothering and comforting at the same time.


    ¡®Most people don¡¯t consider dying to be mundane, Spyder.¡¯


    The drowning dream had been there was long as she could remember - a recurring dream before she¡¯d known the term for it. Sinking and darkness; a flash of red that made her think of Alexandria, then blue and safety.


    She reached to the end of the bed with her foot and drew her shoulder bag towards her. A quick rummage found her phone, and she flicked through to the galley - which was now frontloaded with notes on the code that hadn¡¯t made it to one of the shared cloud drives yet.


    At the end of the gallery were a few pictures of Alexandria, it had seemed silly at the time - part of her had justified the photos as needing to test the camera; the rest of her had scoffed at the justification and just accepted that she wanted to be able to always carry her favourite toy with her.


    A doll that she¡¯d never been able to bring herself to part with. It wasn¡¯t just sentimentality; the doll had either been a present from a father who didn¡¯t love her or a mother who loved only the parts of her daughter that agreed with her worldview. It wasn¡¯t that Alexandria had gone on magical and wonderful adventures with her - it had usually been her mutilated fashion dolls and teddy bears that starred in the theatre of childhood.


    Alexandria was somehow more important than any of that. Was so important. Felt like peace when she held her.


    And time had proven the photos to be a good idea - in them, Alexandria was whole; in her room at home, Alexandria¡¯s head was caved in.


    Even if magic was real, it didn¡¯t mean her dreams would make sense. It didn¡¯t mean anything would change. Not everyone got to go to Hogwarts, not everyone-


    Her phone buzzed - an alert in the group chat, announcing that pizza was only half an hour away and that everyone should start gathering.


    Okay, that¡¯s half an hour to get ready to pretend to be normal.


    It¡¯s just pizza.


    I¡¯m not even hungry. I just ate.


    Stef sighed, got up, walked over to the desk and flicked on the electric kettle. That had been an ask - Dorian had pointed out that there were two kitchens in short walking distance. She had maintained that if he didn¡¯t provide one, she¡¯d order one and have it delivered.


    Coffee close was always better than coffee far.


    She pulled a paper cup from the desk drawer, and dumped in imprecise quantities of instant coffee and too-much-sugar, then filled it up as soon as the water had boiled.


    Coffee always helped in dealing with people.


    One and a half cups of help later, she grabbed her most presentable notes and headed down to the common room, where some of the desks had been shoved aside to make a space for chairs in impromptu-seminar seating, facing a wall that currently had a projector¡¯s logo screensaver bouncing around.


    Two of her code monkeys stood near the door handing out pizzas to a loose line of hungry, hungry hackers - each box had a name, or a description scrawled on it in marker. ¡®BBQ chicken or whatever,¡¯ the blond called, and the pizza was claimed a moment later. ¡®Kevin McAllister''s cheese pizza.¡¯ A girl with blue hair giggled and stepped forward to claim the pizza. ¡®If you ordered ¡°I dunno¡±, step to the right, you¡¯re getting meatlovers.¡¯ A few more pizzas were handed out. ¡®Garlic prawn, thank god, an actual order.¡¯ The pizza was passed over her head. ¡®Pepperoni and/or shit?¡¯


    ¡®Um, me, I think.¡¯


    The pizza-master didn¡¯t hear her, so she stepped forward and pulled it from his hands with a mumbled apology, before heading to the back row of the seminar seating.


    Everyone was eating.


    I look out of place.


    Carefully, she opened the pizza box, folded the lid over, and took two random slices out and threw them under the desk beside her - it was a bit cruel to the cleaning staff, but it at least gave her the surface impression of fitting in.


    And surface level integration was all she could hope for.


    After everyone was seated, someone took control of the projector and started to show before-and-after screenshots of some of the recovered functions, and several attempts at building a variable library.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Halfway through a summary explanation of why Scott¡¯s hexadecimal orange UI interface was important, someone at the front of the seminar chairs vomited.


    ¡®Hey, shit, you okay?¡¯ the blue-haired girl asked, springing to her feet, presumably to look for something to wipe up the mess. She took two stutter-steps, then doubled over, leaning on an empty chair, and vomiting herself.


    It was a cascade, a wave of people standing, trying to move, and coughing or throwing up or collapsing back into their chair and shuddering.


    ¡®What the fuck?¡¯ Stef breathed, even as her gaze dropped to look at the pizza in her lap.


    Everyone had pizza. Everyone was throwing up.


    Over by the door, calm as the world during winter, drinking from red cups, were the two pizza-masters. The room had twenty or so sick, screaming and puking nerds, and they didn¡¯t care.


    They expected this.


    She wasn¡¯t sick; she hadn¡¯t eaten pizza. And if she didn¡¯t- If she didn¡¯t seem to be one of the sick people, then she¡¯d be an immediate target. Blending in was the only way to go, whatever this was - and it seemed to be attempted mass murder - being the odd duck out wasn¡¯t the way to go.


    One of the taller hackers stepped toward the pizza-masters, one hand held to his bleached surfer curls. ¡®Hey, you fucks, what¡¯s going-¡¯


    There was a loud sound, and the tall hacker fell.


    The entire room fell silent for a moment, except for one enthusiastic puker in the middle of the seminar group.


    Her brain was- She couldn¡¯t make sense- Time was taffy and- Loud noise. A tree cracking in winter. A-


    ¡®Gun!¡¯ The shout, from someone at the front, was enough to make the entire room scatter. The group seethed and rushed, some people heading for the doors, others for the windows, someone started throwing something that shattered - a cup or two.


    There was another gunshot.


    Run.


    Stef spun, her feet automatically aiming her for the door that would take her towards the dorm rooms.


    There was wetness on her back, and behind her, someone fell.


    Keep running.


    The hallways were a mess. Someone had pulled an alarm. Someone was screaming for the police to be called.


    And she ran, her entire body turning into a stitch as she did, physical effort being the furthest thing from normal.


    Another gunshot.


    She wasn¡¯t the only one who had thought of going to the dorms - ahead of her, someone slammed the door to their room, with heavy noises following sounding like the bed being dragged against it. A defence that could be broken by a few shoulder shoves.


    She tried to breathe.


    It was one idea. But-


    Stef stepped over the threshold of her room, head spinning. It was one idea, but not the best idea. A closed door, one that could only be locked from the inside, was a sure sign that someone was inside.


    As soon as the pizza-masters came to the closed and locked dorm room door, they¡¯d make every attempt to get in, to get at the hacker prize at the bottom of the cereal box.


    She stepped away from her door, leaving it half-closed. Half-closed. A casual look. Anyone running from guns would have closed their door. Locked it. Put furniture in front of it. Done everything they could to prevent ingress.


    There was no time for redundancy, but there was time for cleverness.


    On her third night in the mansion, the world had been just too much to handle. Too many thoughts, too many ideas. She¡¯d been so close to running, to wanting to leave and go back to where everything was boring, but made sense.


    Escape had been the goal, but with the code too fascinating to leave in the midst of a panic attack, she¡¯d crawled into the wardrobe. Two minutes with a tiny screwdriver had allowed her to lock it from the inside, and a forgotten blanket at the bottom had provided enough softness to let her sleep.


    And now, the wardrobe was going to provide escape again.


    Carefully measuring her steps to create the least amount of sound, she hooked her shoulder bag on the window¡¯s latch, as if it could have gotten caught there, had she fled that way, then opened the wardrobe door.


    The door creaked as it opened, and she felt her heart curl up and die in her chest, sick panic spreading to every extremity.


    She pushed the few hanging clothes aside, hoping for one moment that there might be a forest to escape into hiding in the back of the wardrobe. No forest. No snow. No lamp post.


    She stepped inside, pulled the door closed, and slid the lock¡¯s bolt home, so that anyone who decided to rattle the door would assume it had been locked from the outside, and not investigate the world¡¯s second stupidest hiding place.


    As quietly as she could, she slid to the floor of the old wardrobe, back against the inside of the right wall.


    Now just be quiet.


    Her phone was in the shoulder bag hanging from the window - a deliberate choice. Whatever was happening was happening right now, and however quick a response could be mustered, it wouldn¡¯t be immediate, and it wouldn¡¯t help anyone in the next five minutes.


    And if there wasn¡¯t help in the next five minutes, then it wouldn''t matter if they weren¡¯t there for an hour, so a phone call could wait.


    There was also the small-but-significant point that the wardrobe wasn¡¯t airtight - so however dim the light from her phone was, anyone looking into the room might be able to recognise clearly artificial light coming from within what was supposed to be an empty wardrobe.


    Stay quiet. Stay still. Don¡¯t move no matter what.


    Stef wiped her eyes, finally able to process that she was crying, then buried her face in her hands, and took the quietest deep breaths that she could manage.


    There was another gunshot, and she jolted.


    I don¡¯t want to die. Not like this.


    She leaned her head against the back of the wardrobe and begged it to open, to be a secret passage, to be magic, to be any way out of danger.


    The back of the wardrobe stayed obstinately wooden, refusing to give way to a real escape. She doubted that there was a way to charge her electronics in Cair Paravel or even in the den of some friendly beavers, but she didn¡¯t care.


    Please. I can¡¯t die here.


    Stef wished that she could sink into the wood, to be an interesting hacker-shaped stain on the grain, for her consciousness to suffuse into the wood, share its memories, and have the pleasure of a simple duty of containing coats and lamp posts.


    But she¡¯d died once already, if Dorian could be trusted. If stupid dreams could be extensions of memory she couldn¡¯t really remember. And if she¡¯d died once, maybe it wouldn¡¯t be so scary the second time around. Maybe-


    There was the sound of heavy-booted footsteps - not quite in her room, in the hall probably - loud enough that whomever they belonged to was surely stomping for effect, to inspire terror, and-


    ¡®No! Fuck no!¡¯ A shout, then a gunshot.


    She drew her knees to her chest, leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her legs, and tried to concentrate on becoming still. Tiny breaths, tiny measured breaths, so that the sound wouldn¡¯t give her away.


    The stompy boots came into her room.


    The stompy boots walked right past the wardrobe, and there was the squeal-static of someone operating a walkie-talkie. ¡®Another one got into the grounds. Eastern side.¡¯


    There was a huge sound - probably the bed being lifted and dropped.


    He¡¯s still checking.


    Be still. He¡¯ll come here next.


    Stef pinched her nose, willing to die of oxygen deprivation if it meant not getting shot, and waited for the inevitable. The inevitable came three seconds later, a half-hearted pull on the wardrobe door, then another squeal-static of radio noise. ¡®Room five clear. Moving to six.¡¯


    There were no sounds for a moment, then there was the chk-chk of a lighter, and an exhalation of breath before the stompy boots finally left the room.


    Carefully, in a way that hopefully would antagonise the universe, Stef released her nose and started to breathe freely again.


    In movies, people tended to immediately leave whatever safety they had as soon as the first, obvious danger/monster/guard had passed on by, with little regard for even average human hearing. If she opened the wardrobe door, the squeak would attract someone; her footsteps would alert one of the people with guns, even the sound of snot and/or tears hitting the ground would bring death down on her head.


    Small sounds - somehow especially small sounds - were capable of generating a lot of attention. There had been one night she¡¯d been unable to sleep, disturbed by an unusual squeaking - after a far-too-long search, and shining a torch down into the alley beside her apartment building, the source had been a rat on a dumpster, seemingly singing at the full moon. Probably a mating call - but one stupid rat had managed to get her attention from two floors up and at the far end of her apartment.


    If a rat could draw attention, so could a Spyder.


    She adjusted herself slightly, to stop her bum from falling asleep, bowed her head and tried to listen to what was going on in the rest of the house.


    Some people - probably a lot of people - would be praying in her position, but prayer had never been a fixture of her childhood - her parents were Easter-and-Christmas-mass Church of England attendees, and even those events were more for the look of the thing than for the content.


    Given the givens, maybe a prayer to Death might be appropriate, even if it was just asking for a quick and painless passing.


    She counted to one hundred in binary, while her fingers traced circles on her knees. Numbers, systems, things she knew, things she loved.


    There were still noises outside; there were still people in the mansion - shouting voices and calls, but so far-


    The floorboards in her room creaked.


    This wasn¡¯t the return of stompy-boot-man unless he had suddenly decided to walk normally.


    Her hand went quietly back to her face and pinched her nose, and she went back into breathe-as-little-as-possible mode. Stompy-boots had been survived; she could survive quiet-shoes.


    ¡®I¡¯ll give you until the count of five to come out,¡¯ a steady voice said, distorted slightly by the wardrobe door. ¡®Slowly. No sudden movements.¡¯


    She started to cry again.


    I was so quiet! I was so quiet!


    ¡®I¡¯m addressing the individual in the cupboard,¡¯ the voice said, killing any hope that this was a ploy that she could ignore.


    Please make it quick.


    The door was pulled open - but thanks to the gloom of the dark room outside the wardrobe, the man was barely more than a layers of shadow. One thing was unfortunately clear though - the gun, two feet from her head.


    There¡¯d been no hesitation killing anyone else, so-


    ¡®Out,¡¯ he ordered, his voice still level.


    ¡®Why-¡¯ her voice shook. ¡®Why are you- You shot everyone else. If you¡¯re gonna- Just-¡¯ She couldn¡¯t bring herself to say ¡°just do it¡±. ¡®You killed everyone else.¡¯


    He reached forward, locked his hand around her upper arm and pulled her out of the wardrobe. She stumbled back, her hip knocking into the bedpost, the pain knocking yet more tears loose. ¡®We give your people the chance at surrender. If you fight-¡¯


    ¡®How much fight can people puking their guts out have?¡¯ she asked, asking the question of her shoes, unable to look at the man who was probably going to kill her.


    God, these shoes are really dirty. I should have-


    The light flickered on.


    He didn¡¯t touch the light switch.


    Like that¡¯s important right now.


    Of course it¡¯s important. It¡¯s data.


    You¡¯re the half that¡¯s going to get us killed.


    No, that would be the scary guy with the gun.


    ¡®Who are you working for?¡¯ he asked, a little of the harshness gone from his voice.


    ¡®Dorian,¡¯ she said, still addressing her shoes. ¡®I¡¯m working for- Dorian. Like all the other dead people.¡¯


    She managed to look up at him. With the lights on, he wasn¡¯t as scary. Still scary. But not as scary. Not as scary and- And blue. He wore a vest and tie that were a very familiar shade of blue. A- The blue that meant safety. The blue from the drowning dream.


    Black jacket. Blue vest. Blue tie. Brown hair. Memories stirred but refused to break through the surface.


    The blue had always been connected to someone. That knowledge had always been there, but- But the foreground was always so much more important. Like the person and the face had been out of frame. An out of focus guardian angel.


    ¡®You weren¡¯t among Mr Gray¡¯s personnel photos.¡¯


    The face wasn¡¯t familiar, but the voice. Now that he wasn¡¯t yelling. Now that he wasn¡¯t threatening. The voice was familiar. A lullaby you only remembered when looking at an old toy.


    ¡®Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    She jumped at the sound of her name. ¡®I- Uh- Yeah- Dorian kept bugging me for a selfie but I never sent it to him. I-¡¯ She pressed her hands into her cheeks, then tried to meet his gaze. ¡®Um.¡¯


    It was stupid. It was crazy. It was exactly as stupid and crazy as she was. And if she had five seconds left to live, she had to say it.


    ¡®I remember you.¡¯

 05 - The Third Path

    Ryan watched as ghosts drifted past the window-wall of his office. They weren¡¯t ghosts in the traditional sense, these weren¡¯t the less-than-cogent spectres that inhabited the in between and lost spaces of the world; these ghosts were echoes of memories.


    A mirrorfall¡¯s parade of ghosts, one of the events that preceded the fall of the dying planet¡¯s heart, seemed to him to be the most bittersweet - in the way of a wake, rather than a funeral. The ghosts, images of those swallowed by their dying planet, were always of the strongest memory that an individual had.


    It was always amazing to see how beautifully mundane some of those strong moments could be - a family with their children, a flower and the briefest hint of perfume. Every moment was perfect to someone.


    Two indistinct adults drifted past his window, far enough away so that they were barely more than wisps of fog. Three children - two in skirts and one in shorts - ran ahead of their parents, the fastest of the girls trending up as if she was climbing a hill, before tumbling back and landing at the feet of her parents.


    Memories, of his son rolling down hills, cycled through his HUD. There had always been grass stains, and they had always been worth it ¨C each streak of green had been a badge of honour, of fun, proof of an afternoon well spent.


    At the time, the moments had been perfect - and they still were, in isolation, when he refused to think of how his relationship with his son had soured, then become non-existent. The memory was sweet, but the context marred it from being as perfect as the moment playing out in front of him.


    The hill-climbing girl started to roll again, but this time, her trajectory brought her into his office - the silvery light of her form passing by his feet, the image of a smiling, pointed face visible for a brief instant before she disappeared.


    Ryan looked from the floor to the sky again, and the rest of her family had disappeared as well. That was to be expected, the memories never lasted long, there and gone, one final chance to be seen and remembered.


    [Sir.]


    A video chat appeared in his HUD, the edges pulsing red, showing that it was an emergency, and Jones¡¯ worried face backed up that his tech hadn¡¯t used the priority indicators for nothing. He accepted the chat. [What¡¯s the situation?]


    [Direct call, known individual. Unsure of the entire situation, but people are dying in his house. Fast response required.]


    Ryan tabbed to Jones¡¯ location data - the Tech Department¡¯s main call centre room - and shifted down there. ¡®What have you organised already?¡¯


    Jones touched the side of his head, as he often did when indicating he was active within his HUD. ¡®I¡¯m scrambling Magnolia and her go-team as we speak. And- She¡¯s away. That¡¯s six combat recruits and Mags. The known individual - Dorian Gray, sir, yes, like the book - child of Fortitude; is in a safe room, but requests that an Agent go.¡¯ Jones gave a wan smile. ¡®You¡¯re a better choice than Taylor, sir.¡¯


    The tech who had been handling the call - Sacha - spun in their chair to look up at Jones. ¡®Mr Gray has a bunch of contractors on site, he¡¯s saying coders for some sort of startup, he can¡¯t give me a precise number right now, but over twenty.¡¯


    Jones put a hand on Sacha¡¯s shoulder. ¡®We need names and faces to Mags¡¯ team.¡¯


    Sacha nodded. ¡®Working on it, Jonesy.¡¯ Sacha turned to Ryan and handed him a business card with a long code on it. ¡®Shifting location for the safe room, Director.¡¯


    Ryan took the card, the code automatically translating in his HUD to show a targeted shift location, with an ¡°accept¡± button floating over a map. He took a moment, nodded to Jones, then hit the blue accept button.


    The world skewed as he shifted, the call centre disappearing; then the point of a sword coming into focus as he reintegrated.


    Immediately, the sword was retracted - though not sheathed - by a handsome man who appeared to be in his early thirties. ¡®Sorry, Agent,¡¯ he said. ¡®But I am just trying to protect what is mine.¡¯


    ¡®Mister Gray,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®I¡¯ve got combat recruits going through the house now, but you also advised us that you had staff onsite?¡¯


    Dorian Gray nodded, walked over to a table, laid the sword down, and indicated to two folders. ¡®Left are my usual household staff. All but a few have already clocked out for the day.¡¯ He dragged the red folder to the centre of the table. ¡®More troublesome. IT contractors. Don¡¯t have a photo of all of them.¡¯


    Ryan nodded, and flicked across each page, sending each photo to Jones to disseminate to Magnolia and her team.


    ¡®Do you have any idea why-¡¯ Ryan began as he finished with the last of the photos.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t see this coming,¡¯ Gray said. ¡®No background checks indicated anything worse than- Oh, one person I had a few weeks ago had some minor ties to Blue Earth, but they¡¯re as harmless as people who believe the apocalypse is next week.¡¯


    ¡®No Solstice?¡¯


    ¡®I would never let any of those monsters into my home,¡¯ he said. ¡®I¡¯ve been on the receiving end of their hospitality, Agent. What we¡¯re working on isn¡¯t strictly human, so- So it¡¯s a possibility that someone inactive or someone with unrecorded ties-¡¯


    ¡®And the nature of this project-¡¯


    ¡®Immaterial at the moment,¡¯ Gray said. ¡®Please. See if you can help.¡¯


    Ryan nodded, then turned away and brought up the list of active recruits and pinged Magnolia. [When you have a moment, Aide, I¡¯d appreciate an update.]


    Most recruits tended to reply as quickly as they could; Magnolia...replied in her own time. It wasn¡¯t insubordination, it was a matter of priority, and reporting to anyone other than Taylor was less important in her hierarchy than whatever was in front of her.


    But with Magnolia being the only reason he had anything close to a functioning Combat Division, he gave her all the freedom he could, more than he should.


    ¡®Solstice,¡¯ she said, skipping straight to the heart of the matter. ¡®Right language. Fuck, right tattoos on a couple of these assholes. Got dead. Got survivors. Parkers are coordinating medical across our network. Jones is waiting for the clear to deal with the dead.¡¯ There was a shout, from Magnolia¡¯s end, then the sounds of violence. ¡®Fucking shit, Hannah, you know better than to cuff in front.¡¯


    ¡®Director,¡¯ Magnolia said, finally addressing him again. ¡®Can you sweep for life signs. We¡¯re dealing with what¡¯s visible, we don¡¯t know who¡¯s still around. They had blackout bombs in their van. I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any in the house, or they would have been used already.¡¯


    [Acknowledged,] Ryan said. It would have seemed backwards to most agents to take orders from a recruit, even an Aide, but there were cases, like now, when he was happy to act in a support capacity. It just made things...easier, than arguing with Magnolia.


    He began to scan for life signs, true colour dropping from his vision, being replaced with a scanning mode that visualised like something between an X-ray and a CAT scan, the architecture of the house showing itself as thin lines; recruits showing as a solid blue, tooltips showing their ID numbers, with further options available.


    There were several unaccompanied figures in the house - he shifted to the one furthest from the recruits. In his vision, the figure was shuddering, and when he reintegrated, it was easy to see why - they were vomiting.


    Their face immediately matched one on Dorian¡¯s list. He knelt and placed a hand on their shoulder. ¡®We¡¯re here to help,¡¯ he said. ¡®Hold on.¡¯


    [Parkers,] he said, opening the dual channel to his medical agents. [Another one coming your way.]


    Parker-1 sent a simple text [Acknowledged], which meant that the twins were in full swing, too busy for even Parker-2 to be laconic or sarcastic.


    The next life sign was of a running person. Ryan focussed on the layout of the house and shifted so that he would meet the figure just around the next hall.


    ¡®Whoa- Whoa shit!¡¯ the young man shouted as he crashed straight into Ryan. ¡®Shit- Agent- Fuck!¡¯


    Ryan caught the young man as he tried to back away, swung him into the wall, then twisted his arm to hold him still. ¡®Solstice, I presume?¡¯ he asked, his voice level.


    ¡®You know it!¡¯ the young man said, surprisingly cocky.


    Ryan looked the Solstice up and down, scanning for anything indicated blackout energy - but there were no holes in his scan, no fuzzy areas that he couldn¡¯t discern - so there was no reason for the bravado.


    ¡®Doesn¡¯t matter what you do to me!¡¯ the young man said, wiggling ineffectively. ¡®We already got all those collaborators!¡¯


    [Magnolia.]


    ¡®Go,¡¯ she said - this time, responding almost immediately.


    [I¡¯ve got one for you to detain.]


    ¡®Give me- Hewitt, you good? You can go ahead and bring Hewitt to you. Everyone else has their hands full.¡¯


    [Acknowledged.]


    Once again, he brought up the list of active recruits, selected Hewitt, and shifted him in. Hewitt snapped off a sharp salute as he reintegrated - something that wasn¡¯t required but was a common way for combat recruits to act around agents, even those that they didn¡¯t report to.


    ¡®He doesn¡¯t seem to have any blackout weapons,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®but I haven¡¯t searched him for standard weapons.¡¯


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡®Not a problem sir,¡¯ Hewitt said, expertly cuffing the Solstice. ¡®I can take it from here.¡¯


    Ryan nodded, then shifted towards the next life sign - this one was also still, alive but not in any visible distress like the man he had sent to medical or the rest of Gray¡¯s contractors.


    Confusion rolled over him.


    The room was small, dark, and without any sign of an occupant. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the messy bed, the desk-cum-tea station, and the small stack of dirty plates on the chest of drawers.


    He heard breathing. The sound was barely there ¨C if he¡¯d been human, he wouldn¡¯t have heard it. Whoever this person was, was hiding in the wardrobe. Impossible to tell right now - the report was that all of Gray¡¯s contractors had been poisoned without exception - those that weren¡¯t dead were with medical.


    Solstice, however, sometimes hid; hoping for the careless eye of a recruit to pass on by.


    The situation warranted caution.


    ¡®I¡¯ll give you until the count of five to come out. Slowly. No sudden movements.¡¯ No response. ¡®I¡¯m addressing the individual in the cupboard.¡¯ No response. He drew his gun; then took a step forward, required the door unlocked, then yanked the wardrobe door open. ¡®Out.¡¯


    A young woman was curled at the bottom of the wardrobe, tear tracks on her cheeks - scared, but no signs of medical distress. He let the door go, and it slowly fell swung outwards on its hinges to bang against the body of the wardrobe, the loud sound making the girl flinch.


    Her face didn¡¯t match those on Gray¡¯s list on contractors, so with that localised search failed; his HUD immediately ran a more extensive scan, looking for any System records, or failing that, any civilian records.


    The search was near-instantaneous, returning a System-based result. Her name, age, a lack of previous known Solstice activity ¨C and strangely, a cross-reference to himself. He stared at the cross reference, then looked to the girl, unable to place her in his memory as witness or suspect, then opened the file, curiosity more important than progress.


    His gun wavered a little as he looked at the file, his own incident report slowly scrolling by, thumbnails of photos sitting to the right. It wasn¡¯t possible. It didn¡¯t make any sense. He looked into the wardrobe again, at the little girl he¡¯d carried back from Limbo, at the young woman potentially working for his enemy.


    ¡®Why-¡¯ her voice was shaking with genuine fear. ¡®Why are you- You shot everyone else. If you¡¯re gonna- Just- You killed everyone else.¡¯


    Words that a civilian was less than likely to say. Words that a Solstice, having heard their comrades die would say.


    Ryan reached forward, grabbed hold of her upper arm and pulled her up and out of the wardrobe - whatever this was, it didn¡¯t make sense for her to remain in her hiding spot.


    ¡®We give your people the chance at surrender. If you fight-¡¯


    ¡®How much fight can people puking their guts out have?¡¯


    Those, however, were the words of a civilian. For a moment, he tried to see the situation from her point of view, a man in the dark, pointing a gun at her. He looked to the wall, and required the light on, hoping that it would give her some comfort.


    He tried to soften his voice. ¡®Who are you working for?¡¯


    ¡®Dorian,¡¯ she said, still not directly addressing him. ¡®I¡¯m working for- Dorian. Like all the other dead people.¡¯


    A line he wanted to believe. A truth he wanted- It was impossible that she was the same little girl, but the blue-trace records were close enough to infallible as made no difference. Still, protocol demanded that he not take words at their face value.


    ¡®You weren¡¯t among Mr Gray¡¯s personnel photos.¡¯ he said, even as he sent an image of her face to Sacha to get verification from Dorian.


    She stared, almost at him, but past him at the same time; like an agent switching into communication mode with no regard for how they were presenting in the physical world.


    ¡®Miss Mimosa?¡¯ Usually, knowledge of someone¡¯s name was enough to jolt them or to put them off-kilter, the young woman, however, gave no reaction. Solstice or contractor, she was in shock, and his weapon wasn¡¯t helping things. He looked at her once more, made a decision, and holstered his weapon.


    A text message came in from Jones. [Gray said she¡¯s one of his contractors.]


    At the same time, she seemed to shake herself. ¡®I- Uh- Yeah- Dorian kept bugging me for a selfie but I never sent it to him. I- Um.¡¯ She finally looked at him, meeting his gaze for the first time. ¡®I remember you.¡¯


    Three words, three impossible words, and he felt his own shock mirror the young woman¡¯s.


    He must have misheard; he must have- She couldn¡¯t remember him. She had been a baby, far too young for- There was no way she remembered him. Remembering him for one day, yes; two, yes; even a week was reasonable. Not twenty years.


    ¡®I know you¡­ I remember you,¡¯ the girl said again, more sure of herself that time. None of the fear had left her expression, and belated, he realised that while he had information that verified her identity, she had nothing to know who he was.


    ¡®Mister Gray called us in,¡¯ he said. ¡®I¡¯m not with the people who injured your compatriots.¡¯ She was still looking at him as though she had seen a ghost. ¡®However, as we have not-¡¯


    ¡®I remember you,¡¯ she said, her words so quiet even he could barely hear her.


    ¡®Miss Mimosa, you need to come with me. We haven¡¯t secured the entire property yet.¡¯ Another thought hit him. ¡®And our medical staff need to check you over, the others-¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t eat any of the pizza,¡¯ she said quickly, ¡®I wasn¡¯t hungry.¡¯ She looked at her hands. ¡®So no ingestion, but I touched it, so if there¡¯s contact effects, then-¡¯ She shook her head and looked back up at him. ¡®Who are you? Seriously like- Like who the fuck are you?¡¯ She looked past him. ¡®I don¡¯t hear sirens or see lights, I- Unless Dorian knew they were going to poison us all, then your response time is-¡¯ Her tongue went to the corner of her mouth, and she looked past him. ¡®Who- Um- Assuming Dorian doesn¡¯t have a private army on staff, then- Then who is he to be able to call in- I mean, do- Is there anything special about him?¡¯ she asked, stressing the word ¡°special¡±.


    She wasn¡¯t of his world, anyone who had even the barest interaction would know about the Agency. The way she was phrasing the question though-


    ¡®Do you have a reason to ask that question, Miss Mimosa?¡¯


    She muttered something that sounded a lot like ¡°magic cops¡±. ¡®What was the- Shit- Fairytales? You want to know what I think of fairy tales?¡¯ She tilted her head from side to side. ¡®Um, in the metaphor- Got the book but haven¡¯t read it- Fuck. I know he¡¯s Dorian Gray and magic and- And if you¡¯re not you¡¯re gonna think I¡¯m-¡¯


    ¡®Agent Ryan,¡¯ he said, breaking into her train of thought. ¡®From the Agency. Yes, we¡¯re aware of who Mister Gray is. If you¡¯re willing to accept a few things, then this process can be easier for you.¡¯ He looked at her hands. ¡®If you had contact, I would feel better if you got checked out by our doctors.¡¯ He took a step forward and held out his hand. ¡®I¡¯d ask that you trust me, please.¡¯


    ¡®I remember you.¡¯


    She had no reason to trust him, and he could shift her without contact, but most people remarked that their first shift was easier when holding onto someone. Even if was just psychosomatic, any comfort that he could provide after what had undoubtedly been a traumatising event was a comfort that he was glad to give.


    ¡®I remember you.¡¯


    A small, cold hand reached out and touched his fingertips. ¡®Okay.¡¯


    [Magnolia, I¡¯m taking a witness back. Can your team handle it from here?]


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ came the short response. ¡®We¡¯re already bringing in Techs.¡¯


    Ryan looked down at the young woman. ¡®Hold on.¡¯


    Her small hand tightened its grip on his fingers then he targeted the reception area of the infirmary; thought for a moment, the infirmary would be bright, loud, and full of people. Not the best destination for a first shift, especially with the apparently fragile state that the young woman was in.


    Instead, he targeted his office and shifted them both.


    As they reintegrated, he dropped his hand from hers but kept it close, ready to catch or steady her, as many people got disorientated the first time they were teleported - especially if they weren¡¯t expecting it.


    She wobbled a little but planted her feet, her eyes saucer-wide, small sounds of disbelief floating up and away from her. He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder - which she quickly dipped from as she turned to face him.


    The girl stared at her legs as though she didn¡¯t trust them to move. ¡®No¡­¡¯ She swallowed and looked up. ¡®No electrical tingle to indicate machinery, no apparent loss of time ¨C it was instantaneous. No lapse in consciousness to indicate that I was in fact destroyed upon disappearance and remade upon entry. No equipment visible, no transponder ¨C you did that with a touch.¡¯


    He smiled. She sounded like Jones. He let stare at her hands for a solid minute before he asked, ¡®Conclusion?¡¯


    ¡®Not technology,¡¯ she said at last. ¡®However, in light of recent events, not surprising.¡¯


    He indicated to the couch in the office¡¯s small seating area. ¡®Sit, please.¡¯ He went to his desk, and placed his hand on his office chair.


    [Doctors, when you have a moment.]


    Parker-1 responded. [Yeah, I¡¯ve got a moment to breathe, Director.]


    [No he doesn¡¯t,] Parker-2 chimed in.


    [Possible poison contact on a witness. She¡¯s close to shock, so I¡¯d prefer to avoid the bright lights of your infirmary.]


    Parker-1 made some thinking noises, then sent a list of two items in a text window. [Small injectable to null small poison traces. Cleansing cloth for anything left on the skin. Tracking blue will do the rest. Make sure she gets a drink of water.]


    [Thank you, Doctors.]


    Ryan cut the chat, required the items, laid them on the seat of his office chair and wheeled the chair over to the couch, where Stephanie - impossible, it was still impossible that it was her - sat, perched right on the edge, and seemingly ready to run.


    He sat, and handed her the sealed cleansing cloth. ¡®Use that on your hands, it¡¯ll clean any traces of poison, then I have-¡¯ he looked a the injectable, which looked like a thick-bodied lancet. ¡®I realise that have little reason to trust me,¡¯ he said as she tore open the cloth. ¡®But I have to give you this shot.¡¯ He held the lancet in his palm, and she eyed it carefully as she meticulously cleaned every square centimetre of her hands. ¡®You¡¯re free to self-administer if you wish, it¡¯s a simple-¡¯


    ¡®Do I remember you?¡¯ she asked, her voice wavering. ¡®I mean you didn¡¯t argue the point, but you didn¡¯t exactly confirm it either. Do I- Do I remember you?¡¯


    ¡®You do,¡¯ he said gently.


    ¡®Go ahead then.¡¯ She held out her arm. ¡®I mean. Um. You just teleported- Fucking teleported me. And- And if you could do that and wanted to hurt me, you wouldn¡¯t need my permission.¡¯


    He pressed the injectable to the base of her wrist and depressed the trigger. ¡®Would you like a glass of water?¡¯


    She nodded, her eyes going back to saucers as it appeared in his hand - water, cold, with enough tracking blue to run a scan for residual poison and to register her with the System for the duration of her questioning and follow up.


    ¡®I have several questions for you, Miss Mimosa-¡¯


    ¡®Stef,¡¯ she said as she accepted the water. ¡®My name is Stef.¡¯


    ¡®But I feel my questions can wait until you get a few of yours out of the way. You seem to be aware of some things, but-¡¯


    ¡®Dorian¡¯s a cryptic bastard. He thought I was too weird to be a muggle so felt safe letting a few things loose. Other than the- Okay just confirmed existence of- Of- Damn you just teleported me. That¡¯s not smoke and mirrors. I know he¡¯s Dorian Gray or as close to it as there is, and the old guy is his adopted son who is an alien or something and- Starting from the beginning would be- Please. Do that.¡¯


    ¡®My name is Agent Ryan, this is the Agency. We step in with situations like this. We keep humans safe from when Faerie interferes. Or in this case- We have initial information that the people who did this had some inkling that something non-human was going on and took steps because of that. Solstice. They perceive everything magical to be a threat that has to be destroyed. And that often means humans working alongside fae, like you and your co-workers.¡¯


    She leaned forward and put the water glass on the coffee table. ¡®Are you- Is there a point to you telling me this? Are you gonna flashy-thing me when we¡¯re done? And you¡¯re just doing this to be nice?¡¯ She looked down at her feet, then picked up the water and slowly began to turn the glass in her hands, the water sloshing against the sides as she did so.


    ¡®I don¡¯t see a need to remove knowledge of magic when it¡¯s not causing distress. If you want to remember, then you¡¯re free to-¡¯


    ¡®Please let me remember!¡¯ she said, her voice the loudest he¡¯d heard yet, her eyes bright for a moment before she calmed again. ¡®Please. And- And can you point me somewhere where I can learn more-¡¯


    Ryan smiled. ¡®That won¡¯t be a problem.¡¯


    She was the same little girl - a coincidence so unlikely he¡¯d need a Tech to calculate the odds. But the fact that she remembered him - that was a gift beyond measure, in a way that seemed so impossible to communicate to humans.


    ¡®I know you must be wondering what happens next,¡¯ he said. ¡®Generally speaking, there are three options - the first is that you cooperate, answer our questions, then leave; I feel that is what will happen with most of those who survived tonight. The second doesn¡¯t apply, it¡¯s for cases when we need information, but the person in question is Solstice or some other group opposed to us. The third-¡¯ Eyes as bright as when she¡¯d held her completed doll met his for a brief moment. ¡®-is that rather than parting ways after imparting what information you know, you come work for us.¡¯


    She seemed to vibrate for a moment, a puppy waiting to jump on a favourite toy. ¡®Um- Yeah. I-¡¯ she stared at her hands for a moment, her fingers moving like she was making silent calculations. ¡®I¡¯d like that- Um. Choice three. A lot.¡¯ She lifted her head but looked past him. ¡®Please, if you don¡¯t mind.¡¯


    He extended a hand. ¡®I think something can be arranged, Miss Mimosa.¡¯

 06 - The Beginning

    Stef stared down at the man¡¯s hand, then shook it, doing her best to make it as professional as possible. One of the few skills that her family had passed onto her was the ability to give a handshake so trustworthy your clients had no problem handing over their money or their fates to you.


    There were a hundred questions to ask, from the simple ¡°don¡¯t you have a fucking vetting process?¡± to ¡°what¡¯s the pay like?¡±, but for now, the man in the suit had answered all the questions that had been burning holes in her brain.


    Well. Almost all. Death hadn¡¯t been brought up yet, but fair was fair. ¡®You- Um. Your turn. I don¡¯t know what I can tell you what Dorian can¡¯t, but- Whatever you need to know. Go.¡¯


    Ryan. The patch of blue from her dream had a name. And was a real person. And-


    ¡®Miss Mimosa?¡¯


    Concentrate, dumbass.


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®Sacha, the Tech recruit running point with Mr Gray, has managed to gather that he hired most people online, is that what happened with you?¡¯


    She nodded and haltingly retold the story about the rubber-ducky-coding forum, how Dorian had shown up on her door unannounced, and exactly how old-and-busted the code was.


    ¡®He said it was a way to-¡¯ running and hiding for her life had scrambled her brain, just a bit. Just a lot. ¡®Said it was a way to track a dying world? Or- Something like that. That his son also came from elsewhere so jury-rigging the code might work like a GPS for the bits that come through.¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®His son is a what the fae call a starchild, they¡¯re rare, those that live this long are rarer. We¡¯ve got him on record, as refugees like him have to be aligned with a fae court. Mr Gray¡¯s son appears to be aligned with the Plenty.¡¯


    ¡®And the dead world thing?¡¯


    A sombre look crossed the agent¡¯s face. ¡®Mirrorfall. The heart of a dead world is called a mirror. The easiest way to explain it is to say that if you have a piece of mirror, you can make a wish. It¡¯s a higher-order of magic, more aligned with the primal forces, like Life and Death and such, so almost anything is possible.¡¯ He ran a hand through his hair. ¡®So it¡¯s highly valued. Priceless. If there¡¯s any accuracy in this program you were working on, Mr Gray stands to make a lot of money, even just selling the approximate coordinates.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re welcome to a copy of whatever I had- I just-¡¯ she instinctively reached beside her for Frankie, but her hands closed on air. ¡®Oh. Right. I- I¡¯m going to have to go get my stuff.¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®You can go with one of my recruits tomorrow after your recruitment tests. That will give Jones¡¯ teams time to-¡¯ He paused for a moment, seeming to consider his words. ¡®Make the property presentable.¡¯


    Stef¡¯s head dropped as she translated his words - ¡°presentable¡± meaning ¡°until they clean out all the dead bodies¡±. Dead bodies that she so easily could have been among. Poison, it wasn¡¯t like you could dodge poison, you couldn¡¯t argue with poison, you could only ingest and hope. And with her track record of being laid low even by a mild cold, if there had been more than the traces on her fingers, she wouldn¡¯t be having a conversation with a not-figment. A real person. He was a real person.


    He was real and- And something was bothering her. It was his voice that had clued her in. A voice that couldn¡¯t have been the same one she¡¯d heard way-back-whenever. People¡¯s voices changed, especially over such a long length of time. Unless- She looked at his ears, no pointy tips. Not an elf. Probably. But- Dorian was immortal, and he looked normal on the surface.


    ¡®Ryan?¡¯ She drew her knees up to her chest. ¡®Or is it ¡°sir¡± now? Agent? Admiral? Grand Moff?¡¯ She sighed and chewed on her lip for a moment. ¡®I¡¯m gonna ask something- And- And I¡¯m sorry. But what are you?¡¯


    ¡®Agent,¡¯ he said, ¡®my rank and what I am, is agent.¡¯


    ¡®Yes ¨C the suit, gun, and office kind of gave that away. I meant the literal what.¡¯ She bit her lip and waved her hands. ¡®If there¡¯s a more delicate way to phrase that question, feel free to tell me. I don¡¯t think you¡¯re human. If you are, then sorry; feel free to shoot me. Except don¡¯t, cause it¡¯s a compliment.¡¯


    He smiled. ¡®What are your conclusions so far?¡¯


    ¡®You can conjure stuff, but there¡¯s no arcane bullshit, so I¡¯m not expecting that this place is Hoggles. No runes, no smoke, no wand, no reagents. You arbitrarily clicked your fingers, but I don¡¯t think that¡¯s key ¨C it¡¯s no nose of Samantha. Teleportation, you can take at least one person with you, but I don¡¯t know if it has a recharge. There¡¯s no obvious Scotty, possibly personal, possibly some variant of shunpo. You also knew my name without stealing my wallet.¡¯


    ¡®And?¡¯


    ¡®I have no conclusive conclusions. And there¡¯s been too many questions lately, so I¡¯d just like a simple answer. Please.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s nothing complicated about us,¡¯ he said. ¡®The full extent is that we were created to keep order. To protect. To mediate.¡¯


    Created...Like an automaton?


    She cocked her head to the side. ¡®Man, machine, or magic?¡¯


    He tapped her water glass and refilled it. ¡®Depending on your perspective, all three, I suppose.¡¯


    ¡®Immortal?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®How immortal?¡¯ She tried to look him in the face and saw his nose wrinkled. ¡®Sorry. Too personal?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not something we tend to discuss, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    She looked at him, one obvious question forming. ¡®You can teleport, and summon stuff, and- So why the shit- What the hell do you need humans for? Fuel? Cause I¡¯ve got a few names if you subsist on Soylent Green.¡¯


    He gave her a strange look. ¡®This isn¡¯t usually how this conversation goes.¡¯


    She tried to steady her gaze. ¡®That¡¯s not a ¡°no¡±. Look, some people just deserve to get eaten.¡¯


    He sighed. ¡®Miss Mimosa. I- No. We don¡¯t consume humans for fuel. That¡¯s- No. You don¡¯t have to worry about being cannibalised within these walls.¡¯ He stared at his hands for a moment and laid them palms up. ¡®It¡¯s perspective. New priorities, new ways of thinking. Everyone has something they want to protect, and by being a recruit, you can¨C¡¯


    ¡®Oh spare me, please,¡¯ she interrupted. ¡®If I have to sign up for the whole saving the world rhetoric, then I¡¯m out of here.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re a hacker, Miss Mimosa. Data, information ¨C that¡¯s what matters to you, correct?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, but¨C¡¯


    There was a slight distortion in the air above his hands, and Frankie appeared. ¡®Then the only rhetoric you have to believe in is your own.¡¯ He leaned forward, and she gratefully pulled Frankie from his hands and pulled her best friend close, the warmth of his power source comforting as she cuddled him.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said, without looking at the agent. ¡®Thank you, this means a lot.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve got my liaison, Agent Clarke, looking over the paperwork Mr Gray¡¯s contractors signed, to see what you can and can¡¯t legally share with us. Depending on what it says, and who it is backed by, we may negotiate for the data.¡¯


    ¡®I almost died tonight, I¡¯m happy to share,¡¯ she said, reaching for the clasp to life Frankie¡¯s screen.


    Ryan shook his head. ¡®I¡¯d advise against that, Miss Mimosa. If, for instance, he has it backed by the Court of Kings - the court that maintains and regulates fae law, the consequences might be quite unpleasant. Given the nature of what he was dealing with, it¡¯s not out of the realm of possibility. No one is at immediate risk, so don¡¯t put yourself in danger.¡¯


    ¡®Ok, I guess that¡¯s fair enough.¡¯ She stretched, then rubbed at her shoulder, then froze at the unfamiliar texture under her hand.


    It¡¯s- It¡¯s- Oh god, it¡¯s-


    Unable to stop herself, she pulled her hand forward and looked at the half-dry bloody mess. Part of-


    It¡¯s- It¡¯s- Oh god, it¡¯s-


    Someone had been shot behind her. She¡¯d felt the- There¡¯s been a shot, then wetness, and she¡¯d kept running and-


    That¡¯s- Is that brain-


    Calm down.


    She heard herself scream.


    She pushed herself up, only half-noticing as Frankie fell to the ground. There was blood and stuff on her hand and- And she couldn¡¯t breathe- And it could have been her. And-


    The world spun, everything too bright and too dark all at the same time.


    And there was still blood on her hand.


    And it could have been her.


    Unsure of how it happened, she felt carpet under her hands, saw the blood on her hands smearing onto the pristine carpet, then felt warmth as she vomited over her hands, half-digested lunch covering the blood, in a strange battle to be the lesser evil.


    There was a hand on the non-bloody shoulder - or the shoulder she assumed was free of blood, and she spasmed.


    ¡®Don¡¯t, please,¡¯ she mumbled, bowing closer to the ground to duck free of his hand, to wipe her mouth on her clean hand. ¡®Just- Just-¡¯ She puked again, and watched as fat tears fell into the mess of vomit.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®But please, may I help?¡¯


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    She wobbled, pushed up, then fell back onto her butt, her back crashing against the coffee table, the water spilling down over her. ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she mumbled, unable to focus. ¡®I messed-¡¯


    -everything up, I¡¯m really-


    ¡®-sorry, I¡¯m really-¡¯


    -I couldn¡¯t help it. I- But there¡¯s-


    ¡®-blood and I-¡¯


    ¡®Hold still,¡¯ Ryan said, his voice a light in her fuzzy darkness. For a moment, nothing happened, then the dripping water disappeared, as did the feeling of the wet shirt against her skin, replaced with the feeling of an ever-so-slightly warm feeling of a fresh shirt.


    She dug her thumbnails into the pads of her index fingers and forced herself to focus. She looked down and saw a fresh set of clothes - a grey shirt and grey cargo pants, along with new shoes.


    The puke was gone from her hands, the blood was gone. The carpet was fresh again.


    Did I disassociate or-


    Not that I know of, Spyder.


    ¡®Stef, are you okay?¡¯


    ¡®Huh, you used my name,¡¯ she said as she touched the fresh, soft cotton shirt. ¡®So I guess your summoning powers aren¡¯t limited to water?¡¯


    ¡®Most objects that you can think of can be required.¡¯ He knelt on one knee and offered his hand. ¡®The floor isn¡¯t very comfortable.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯d be surprised,¡¯ she said mildly, her eyes tracking the shine reflected on his cufflink. ¡®This carpet¡¯s pretty good.¡¯ She sniffed, then buried the balls of her hands into her eyes. ¡®Processing. I guess. I mean- Duh. I mean- Chaos theory. If I¡¯d taken half a step different, then- Then it would have been me shot. If multiverse theory holds true, then a lot of me died.¡¯ She dropped her hands away when she started to see pressure-induced phosphene-fireworks. ¡®I¡¯m not usually lucky. Probably shouldn¡¯t have been. Whoever died probably meant more than me.¡¯ She bit her tongue. ¡®Sorry. Sorry. And the carpet. I know it¡¯s fixed. But, sorry.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not a problem. It¡¯s far from the first time I¡¯ve had to replace sections of my carpet.¡¯ He moved his hand under hers, so that all she had to do was drop hers, and he¡¯d help her up. ¡®Crayon, spilled coffee, it¡¯s all dealt with easily.¡¯


    She laid her hand on his. ¡®Um. Coffee would be really good right now.¡¯


    He helped her to her feet, and she sat back on the couch. On the table, a single white coffee cup appeared, along with a sugar jar and a pitcher of milk. She closed her eyes, sent a thank you out into the universe, popped open the sugar, and proceeded to pour directly into the cup, ignoring the spoon that Ryan offered her.


    Far, far too much sugar - which, right now, was the right amount - added to the coffee, she finally took the spoon, sat back on the couch and began to stir the life-giving liquid.


    Two sips in, she knew there was a question she had to ask; and if the panic faded, so would the bravery to ask it.


    ¡®Dorian didn¡¯t tell me a lot. That¡¯s why-¡¯ She sipped the coffee. ¡®That¡¯s why I¡¯m glad you¡¯re ok with telling me stuff. But- But he said- He said I¡¯d died. And- And I can¡¯t think it¡¯s a coincidence. And-¡¯


    Ryan sat on the couch next to her, gave her a sad look, then turned to the coffee table and tidied the sugar jar. ¡®Are you sure this is the conversation you want to have right now? You¡¯ve just been through something traumatic, and-¡¯


    ¡®And that¡¯s a yes,¡¯ she said, hugging the coffee cup to her chest.


    ¡®The basic situation was that-¡¯ He shook his head and went silent for a moment. ¡®A member of the Solstice. Those people from tonight,¡¯ he reminded her. ¡®Took you as a human shield. I wasn¡¯t quick enough, but I rectified the situation.¡¯ He smiled, but it was faint. ¡®I¡¯m-¡¯


    There was a sharp knock on the office door, and it was pushed open before Ryan had a chance to respond.


    Another man - maybe another agent - walked in, a half-finished cigarette between his fingers, a blue folder tucked under his arm. ¡®Contract is easy,¡¯ he said without preamble or greeting. ¡®Human,¡¯ he said the word with disdain. ¡®So we¡¯re free and clear to use the data from any of the corpses.¡¯


    Stef fought a shudder at his wording.


    ¡®Clarke,¡¯ Ryan said curtly.


    Clarke didn¡¯t seem to notice Ryan¡¯s rebuke. ¡®There are commercial restrictions, but we¡¯re not in this for profit, right?¡¯ He placed the cigarette into his mouth, and a breath made the end flare red-hot, then he walked forward and dropped the blue folder onto the table in front of Ryan.


    Clarke tilted his head up, exhaled a long stream of smoke, then threw the exhausted cigarette into her abandoned water glass. He looked at the folder on the table for a second, then lifted his head and seemed to acknowledge her for the first time. He smiled in a disconcerting way, then adjusted his focus back to Ryan. ¡®Is that all, Director? If so, we can both get back to who we were doing.¡¯


    Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡®You¡¯re dismissed, Clarke.¡¯


    Clarke gave a casual two-fingered salute, tapping them against his temple as he disappeared, the smell from his smoke lingering in the air like the Cheshire Cat¡¯s smile.


    ¡®I apologise for him. He is an odious man.¡¯ Ryan lowered his hand from his face. ¡®Unpleasant.¡¯ He blinked a few times, then seemed to refocus. ¡®It is good news though, it means you¡¯re free to give us whatever information you can.¡¯


    Stef nodded, then reached for Frankie. ¡®It¡¯s, uh- All of my notes probably only make sense to me though. If you can get me a power cord, and some more coffee, I can notate it so it makes sense to actual people.¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®I¡¯m sure my techs would appreciate that. You¡¯re free to work here, but I need to step out for a minute.¡¯


    ¡®Power cord first,¡¯ she said as he stood, then dropped her head. ¡®Sorry, Frankie¡¯s battery is a bit touchy, so I don¡¯t want to take the chance that he drops out.¡¯


    Ryan took a step back, then pointed to the floor, where a power board and a laptop charging cord appeared. He touched the coffee table, and a full coffee pot appeared - and the dirtied water glass disappeared.


    She nodded to him, then opened up Frankie, and began to look for her code files.


    The first PDF opened - a scanned compilation of notes she¡¯d made on hard copies, and she felt herself swoon again - no matter how broken the code was, or the fact that it had nearly cost her life, it was still undeniably beautiful.


    Ryan stated that he would be back soon, and she nodded, her head already phasing into codemonkey.exe and the focus that came with it.


    Writing notes to explain bits of the program so that other people could understand it should have been easier - there was the old saying about how if you couldn¡¯t explain your thesis to a five-year-old, then you didn¡¯t really understand it, but...communicating was hard.


    She knew that some of the paragraphs were over-explaining, whilst others were lacking in detail that was needed. There would be follow-up questions, and hopefully, she could answer them.


    She lifted her hands away from the keyboard and shook out her fingers.


    ¡®Do you need a break?¡¯


    She jumped at the voice, then looked to its source. Ryan was sitting at his desk.


    ¡®Hey, what¡¯s the teleporting thing called?¡¯ she asked as she flexed and took her fingers through a series of exercises to keep her fingers from seizing. ¡®And did you do that- Um- Yanno, to scare me?¡¯


    ¡®Shifting,¡¯ Ryan said, then paused. ¡®I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m not sure what you mean by- I¡¯m not sure what you mean.¡¯


    ¡®You-¡¯ she tried the word out. ¡®Shifted in without warning.¡¯ She shook her fingers in his direction. ¡®Yanno, to spook me. Boo!¡¯


    ¡®Miss Mimosa?¡¯


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    ¡®I exited via the door.¡¯ She nodded to this. ¡®I also re-entered via the door.¡¯ He gave a polite cough. ¡®Over an hour ago.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Ah. Huh.¡¯ She felt the warmth in her cheeks from a blush. ¡®Anyway. I need a key thing. Um.¡¯ She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart, trying to think of the word. ¡®USB drive!¡¯


    A silver USB drive appeared on the table in front of her. ¡®I¡¯ve put together everything I had, and everything I had access to from the common drive that was set up. I didn¡¯t get it working, but I only had the context for a few hours, so¡­¡¯ She yawned as the files transferred. ¡®But godspeed with it.¡¯


    ¡®Miss Mimosa.¡¯ She looked up at him. ¡®Since going back to Mr Gray¡¯s residence tonight would be-¡¯


    ¡®A fucking nightmare?¡¯


    ¡®I was going to say ¡°unpleasant¡±, I¡¯ve arranged for a room here for you. Should you continue on to be a recruit, it will simply become your dorm room.¡¯


    She nodded, yawned again, and started to realise how tired she was. ¡®Ok. Yeah. Sleep would probably. Yeah. Good idea.¡¯ She closed Frankie¡¯s lid, pulled the power cord, tucked him under her arm, then stood, and followed Ryan out of his office.


    The hall outside his office was quiet, but there were sounds of life from elsewhere - it was apparent that the building wasn¡¯t without other inhabitants. The aesthetic was very corporate - white walls, with touches of silver, grey and blue.


    They went up one floor in an elevator and stepped back out into an identical corridor. The doors were closer together here though - each numbered, and some had nameplates or small whiteboards.


    Stef looked from one side to the other, then stopped. ¡®Um?¡¯


    Ryan, a couple of steps ahead of her, stopped and looked back. ¡®Yes?¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯s room twelve?¡¯ She pointed to the doors. ¡®All the other numbers are here. But- I mean, I know I¡¯m sleepy but-¡¯ She looked at the doors again, trying to make sure she wasn''t blanking on its existence, which was entirely possible, given her sleepy state. ¡®No, I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s missing?¡¯


    Ryan tilted his head to the side. ¡®It was dissolved due to an accident.¡¯


    ¡®What kind of accident?¡¯ she asked, taking a couple of quick steps to catch up to him as he pressed a keycard to the reader of room thirteen.


    ¡®Nuclear.¡¯


    ¡®Wat.¡¯ She said, the word dropping flat. ¡®Just. Wat.¡¯


    Ryan pushed open thirteen¡¯s door. ¡®I¡¯ll come and get you in the morning.¡¯ He handed her the keycard, which she immediately tucked into a pocket. ¡®Is there anything else you need?¡¯


    She stepped into the room, then turned back to him. ¡®Food? Maybe?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®The fridge is stocked. You should be able to find something to your liking.¡¯ He reached for the door handle. ¡®Good night.¡¯


    ¡®Um. Night.¡¯


    He closed the door.


    Stef looked at the closed door for a moment, then hurriedly opened it, knocking the edge of the door into her forehead as she tried to step out into the hall.


    Ryan had barely moved.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said, looking past him, still unable to meet his gaze properly. ¡®For. Yanno. Not shooting me. And explaining stuff. And. Yanno. Thank you.¡¯


    He smiled. ¡®You¡¯re more than welcome. Sleep well.¡¯


    ¡®Night,¡¯ she said again, then stepped back into her room.


    The cool corporate theme continued here - blue bed linen, silver lamps, and soft furnishings in greys. She moved deeper into the room to explore the amenities. The overall feel was that of a studio apartment that might be used by a junior associate for city business.


    The main room was the standard mix of bedroom, living room and kitchen. A full-size fridge sat in one corner, humming gently. She walked to the right-hand side of the room, to the desk, and placed Frankie there, a small smile forming on her face as she realised Ryan had furnished her with another power cord.


    She plugged Frankie in, made a comment about how hungry he was, then went through the door to the adjoining room - a hotel-ready full bathroom. She reached out and touched the towels and was surprised at how thick it was - it was the kind of quality that wouldn¡¯t have been out of place on her family¡¯s estate.


    The fridge was, as promised, stocked full of food. The freezer had a selection of microwave meals, each with a tidy and informative label - what it was, what it contained, and what diets it was safe for.


    After a moment of juggling the frozen containers, she selected one of beef stir fry and one of mac and cheese, though after a minute, returned the mac and cheese - the night had been strange enough without risking cheese dreams.


    While the stir-fry spun in the microwave, she opened the fridge compartment, found an acceptable selection of soda, and pulled out three cans of Mountain Dew. The microwave dinged, and she moved to the bed, food and drink in hand.


    She laid the piping hot plastic container on a pillow, then made an acceptable nest with the rest of the soft pillows.


    Food and drink. These were necessities. Motions to go through. It was normal to microwave food. It was normal to know you were drinking too much caffeinated sugar.


    It wasn¡¯t normal to know the feeling of blood and brain splattering on your back.


    It wasn¡¯t normal to know, without a doubt, that magic was real.


    It wasn¡¯t normal to know you¡¯d died.


    It wasn¡¯t normal to know to meet someone who had always been just a wisp more than a memory or dream.


    She looked at the food, sighed, then placed it on the bedside table, and began to slowly construct a pillow fort. There weren¡¯t enough pillows to make anything decent, but with a few minutes¡¯ work, she had a comfortable cave. She turned out the lights, then slid into the soft haven, lying so that her face was at the foot at the bed, her fingers dangling over into monsters-under-the-bed territory.


    ¡®Tell me I¡¯m safe.¡¯


    He gave you the keycard to your room. That¡¯s a pretty good sign.


    ¡®I¡¯m not- Always the best at- People.¡¯


    She buried her face into the soft bed.


    You¡¯re my sensible. Tell me I¡¯m safe.


    You¡¯re not getting any bad feelings. You know that. Trust yourself.


    ¡®Ha,¡¯ she mumbled into the mattress.


    One second delay. One step wrong. She was alive by luck. Pure sheer fucking luck.


    She closed her eyes, but sleep wasn¡¯t coming. The phantom feeling of brain and blood hitting her shoulder kept looping, the memory playing on repeat even as she tried to banish it.


    ¡®All children, except one, grow up,¡¯ she began reciting to herself.


    The familiar words calmed her, the comforting story, the well-trodden path ¨C all of it so wonderfully comforting in the face of her brave, new life.


    She continued the word perfect recitation, plying the sheet between her fingers, drawing a rough map of Neverland in the ripples and bucks in the fabric. ¡®You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.¡¯


    There was tightness in her chest


    ¡®Two was the beginning,¡¯ she stumbled.


    The dream was as old as memory. Ingrained as deep as bone. When her mother had been distant, or her father angry, she¡¯d search out the room for something navy blue, something like the colour that meant safety.


    And now-


    She wiggled and pulled the keycard from her pocket. Navy blue, with the number thirteen in silver print. She ran her fingers over the colour, and all of her fears dropped down to their normal background simmers.


    She stared at the keycard, closed her eyes, and let herself fall into sleep.

 07 - Wake Up Call

    Ryan knocked on the door of room thirteen.


    There was no response.


    He knocked again, harder, and still received no response.


    He unlocked the door with a thought, knocked once more, then slowly pushed the door open, as to not spook to the young woman. He stepped into the room, leaving the door open, and looked around.


    The quilt and pillows were a mess, but there was no obvious potential recruit in the bed. Idly, Ryan looked towards the built-in wardrobe but heard a soft snore before he could investigate the likely hiding spot.


    He looked to the bed again. Fingers extended past the end of the bed, and he could just make out the shape of the girl in amongst the folds and lumps of the quilt.


    Ryan crouched at the foot of the bed and lifted the thin quilt up. Her head was at a precarious angle, not entirely off the edge of the bed like her hands were, but it looked uncomfortable all the same.


    ¡®Miss Mimosa?¡¯


    Her hands slowly grabbed the air, like a child stirring during a nap, like Alexander in his crib. He stared into his HUD and changed the schedule ¨C pushing the recruitment tests forwards another hour ¨C and lowered the quilt again, so she could sleep.


    He walked to the door, stepped out to the hall, and locked the door behind him; then shifted to his office. He sat at his desk, spread two copies of her file across his desk, and stared back into his HUD. He brought up a list of his recruits and selected one from his list. [Curt?]


    Ryan waited a moment for it to connect and for the recruit to respond.


    ¡®Yes, sir?¡¯


    [I need to see you. When do you have time?]


    ¡®I¡¯m actually right outside your office, sir.¡¯


    Ryan unlocked the door with a thought. The young man walked in, his uniform neat and clean. ¡®What can I do for you, sir?¡¯ Curt took a step closer to the desk and seemed to notice the folders. ¡®New recruit?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯ Ryan indicated to the spare chair. ¡®I¡¯ll need you to peruse the file in the next few hours.¡¯


    Curt sat, adjusted his jacket, then lifted the file and flicked through it. ¡®Sir?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, Recruit?¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s no copy of the testing results.¡¯


    ¡®We had to delay them,¡¯ he said. ¡®But given the circumstances of her recruitment...¡¯


    Ryan paused - there was an apparent reason he was asking Curt to be involved, but at the same time, it always seemed awkward to say out loud.


    Curt saved him the embarrassment. ''Solstice involvement?'' Curt flipped back to the front of the file. ''Is this-'' he ran a finger down the page. ''Recruited last night? I haven''t had time to look into the operation, but Raz told me something happened. He likes to keep me informed when he can. He was in one of the clean-up teams. I understand we''re providing medical care for a number of civilians.'' Curt flipped a page. ''Not this one?''


    Ryan shook his head. ''She was lucky enough to avoid the brunt of the attack. A simple treatment, already provided.''


    ''That''s lucky,'' Curt said levelly. ''I understand there were a lot of- I never took part in anything like this, if Raz relayed the situation correctly. I never had to deal with civ- Human civilians.'' There was a momentary look of panic in Curt''s expression, and the young man quickly buried himself in the file again. ''But if a team goes after civilians en masse like this, they do a thorough job. Someone squeaking through like this is- Statistically unlikely unless they planned for it.''


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Ryan nodded. It was a quick and accurate assessment. It was elementary but still worth voicing. ''I appreciate that, Recruit,'' he said. ''But I am confident that she''s not a plant.''


    Dorian''s word had been enough to trust that she was an innocent party, but if there had been any lingering doubt, it had been firmly assuaged by his observations minutes earlier - any deliberate plant by the Solstice would surely not include an operative who made structurally-unsound pillow castles.


    ''As you say, sir.''


    Curt read some of the second page. ''There''s preliminary notes from Agent Jones, regarding data provided. Looks like she''s on track to be a Tech. If that''s the case, I can still do the welcome tour, Agent Jones doesn''t mind help in that arena, Mags on the other hand...'' Curt smiled to himself. ''No indications she''s Combat-bound?''


    ''I don''t think so,¡¯ Ryan found himself saying automatically. Unless she was hiding some very non-obvious combat abilities, he was sure of his opinion that she wouldn¡¯t be one of Taylor¡¯s recruits; but it was dawning that he had missed something far more obvious - that she¡¯d be one of Jones¡¯ recruits.


    And that wouldn¡¯t be a bad thing - Jones¡¯ recruits regularly topped the results of ¡°satisfaction with your agent¡± polls that were sporadically run to measure morale and harmony amongst the recruit populations.


    But-


    She had remembered him, and that was special beyond words. It was a momentary connection to be sure, but it was almost if though that one interaction two decades ago had left more of an impact than he had on his own son¡¯s life.


    It would have been a pleasure to mentor someone so excited by magic.


    ¡®Technical seems most likely,¡¯ was all he would allow himself to say.


    She remembered him. Against all the odds, against all logic, she remembered him. It should have been impossible. Agents weren¡¯t made to be remembered, Agents weren¡¯t supposed to have an impact that resonated twenty years later. He wondered, whimsically, if she still had the doll.


    ¡®Is the follow-up scheduled, sir?¡¯


    ¡®I expect testing and outfitting to be done by eleven,¡¯ he said. ¡®You can take her on a tour after that, then lunch. I¡¯ll pencil the follow-up for two this afternoon.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, sir.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s all, Recruit.¡¯


    Curt tidied the folder, snapped a quick salute, and quickly left the office.


    Ryan turned and stared out the window, letting the memory of his first meeting Stef stream in his mind. He skipped past his mistakes ¨C past all the moments where a quicker step would have caught the Solstice before they¡¯d broken into her house, past the feeling of holding a tiny, dead child. He filtered out the view, his office, and all of his HUD menus, letting the memory fill his vision.


    She¡¯d died, because of his mistake. She¡¯d fallen through death¡¯s realm, seen the grey land, played with Limbo. Duty had told him the right choice had been to let her go, to allow Death carry her away, on to whatever was next. Duty had told him that it wasn¡¯t his fault, that civilians died, and that the focus had to be on saving the next one.


    Duty had been wrong, it had been the right choice to let her live. Seeing her smile had been proof enough that it had been the right choice.


    The memory ended, and he turned his chair back towards his desk and the file on his desk.


    His recruits were aloof towards him, and he accepted that. He didn¡¯t demand respect like Taylor, who transferred recruits who didn¡¯t treat him with the proper deference. He couldn¡¯t become easy friends with his recruits like Jones. They treated him politely, kept him at a distance, unable to include him beyond what was necessary. They didn¡¯t smile and joke with him, preferring to socialise with their fellow recruits, and each new recruit was pulled into that way of thinking. Ryan was someone to be respected, to be obeyed, and to greet in the hall, not someone to joke with or chat with.


    Recruits he¡¯d known for years didn¡¯t smile as quickly as a girl he¡¯d aimed a gun at, even if she¡¯d given small, scared smiles. Recruits he¡¯d known for years didn¡¯t skip over his title and just call him ¡°Ryan¡±.


    The recruit he spoke with the most was an ex-Solstice turncoat Ryan only had in his agency out of a sense of duty, and even then, he trusted Curt as little as possible without having him constantly monitored.


    Distance might not be a bad thing. She would surely come to him for more information, for the full story of their meeting, and the smiles would disappear once she realised the depths of his incompetence. Once she understood he was responsible for the fact that she had died; and that he¡¯d made a such an important choice on her behalf, a choice that could have left her lost forever as a ghost.


    It could have all gone so wrong, it hadn¡¯t - he hadn¡¯t regretted it then, and he didn¡¯t regret it now. She had lived, and grown up to be smart enough to work on code that Jones had three of his recruits puzzling over.


    Ryan smiled to himself, then shifted back to the door of room thirteen.

 08 - Litmus

    There was a knock.


    ¡®Uuuuugh.¡¯


    There was another knock, louder this time.


    ¡®Uuugh!¡¯


    ¡®Miss Mimosa?


    Stef lifted her head up and felt a soft weight on her head. Blanket. Sleep time. Good sleepy time. She dropped her head back down and started to sink back into the warmth of unconsciousness.


    Another knock.


    Stop ignoring the door.


    Stef wiggled forward, expecting her bed¡¯s headboard - knocking her head against that usually gave her the slight jolt of consciousness to get up when sleeping seemed like the better option.


    Instead, her head hit nothing, there was the brief sensation of empty space, and then her hands hit carpet, the rest of her body following soon after.


    ¡®Ow.¡¯


    She looked at the carpet at the end of her nose. Too clean. The wrong colour. ¡®This isn¡¯t my carpet.¡¯


    Where the fuck am I?


    ¡®Miss Mimosa?¡¯


    She yelped and sat up, now fully awake. Context clues became information which morphed into memories. She looked up, saw the agent, and everything solidified into reality - or whatever it was that she experienced.


    ¡®Good morning,¡¯ she mumbled. Her head dropped forward, and she made some attempt to rake the hair back from her eyes. ¡®Probably? Is it?¡¯


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®I do apologise, I let you sleep as long as I could.¡¯ He paused. ¡®I tried knocking, but- Forgive me.¡¯


    She grunted in the affirmative, planted her hands, and clumsily got to her feet, then dropped her butt heavily back onto the bed. ¡®Sorry. When shit happens- You know, try turning it off and on again; sleeping¡¯s the human equivalent of that, and- Sorry.¡¯ Her train of thought was a pile of twisted metal and flames. ¡®Sorry. Um. Hi. Can I help?¡¯


    ¡®There are several things we need to do today. Getting you tested and outfitted amongst them, should you still wish to work with us.¡¯


    She nodded and tried to concentrate. ¡®Um. Can you- The conjuring thing. Coffee?¡¯


    ¡®Requiring,¡¯ he said, and she couldn¡¯t remember if he¡¯d told her what it had been called before.


    ¡®You call your conjuring power ¡°requiring¡±?¡¯


    He nodded.


    ¡®But that¡¯s so plain and¨C I like it,¡¯ she said. ¡®It¡¯s like a word that people actually use, not all ¡°Expecto Illiad Hydro!¡± or whatever.¡¯ She gave a magic wand flourish. ¡®So, um, coffee?¡¯


    ¡®And, of course. How do you like it?¡¯


    ¡®Black sugar.¡¯


    He held out his hand, and a white cup appeared. ¡®Black with one sugar?¡¯ he asked as liquid appeared in the empty cup.


    She reached up and tapped on the rim. ¡®More sugar.¡¯ She carefully took the cup and sipped it. ¡®More please.¡¯


    He sighed. ¡®If you insist.¡¯


    She sipped, and this time it tasted better. ¡®Okay, I don¡¯t know how your spells work, but set that as, like, my default amount of sugar.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t in good conscience-¡¯ Ryan started.


    ¡®Coffee makes the Steffie go,¡¯ she mumbled, then tipped her head back and chugged the rest of the cup.


    ¡®Jones has finished analysing the data you provided,¡¯ he said, ¡®and we¡¯ll need a few things clarified later.¡¯


    Well, could I also¨C


    Her mind caught up with what he¡¯d said. ¡®Get a few things clarified?¡¯


    ¡®Of course.¡¯ He paused for a moment, then sat on the edge of the bed next to her. ¡®Ask whatever you need to.¡¯


    She lifted the empty cup in his direction, and it refilled. Coffee would burn away some of the stupider questions. ¡®Um. The bad guys,¡¯ she said, feeling childish for the wording. Something to do with the sun. Something- ¡®I¡¯m getting the name wrong, Sol Invictus?¡¯


    ¡®Solstice,¡¯ Ryan corrected. ¡®Sol is...something else.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, and they¡¯re...Just stupidly scared of magic? They-¡¯ She swallowed a lump in her throat. ¡®They were smiling as people were dying.¡¯


    ¡®Last night was extreme,¡¯ he said, his voice gentle. ¡®Generally, they avoid going after human civilians like that; but yes, broadly, you¡¯re correct. They deem themselves to be a humanitarian organisation ¨C and they wish to destroy anything that isn¡¯t human. Their methods are¡­cowardly, cruel, unforgivable.¡¯


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡®And they¡¯re your ¨C um, our ¨C main bad guy?¡¯


    This earned her an amused look. ¡®They are only one of our priorities. They are, however, the most organised of the groups that are hostile towards us. Predominantly, our concern is keeping the fae and human worlds separate as best as we can.¡¯


    One question refused to be held back. ¡®Are we the Men in Black?¡¯ She put her hands to her mouth after the question escaped. ¡®Sorry. But. Suit and secrets and stuff.¡¯


    ¡®There are excellent reasons to believe we¡¯re responsible for the urban legends, at least as much as any other well-dressed organisation.¡¯


    She felt her eyes drawn to the blue of his vest. It was something that shouldn¡¯t have been real - he shouldn¡¯t have been real. It was a stupid dream, a coping mechanism to give herself some agency against an uncaring family.


    She¡¯d died. He¡¯d been there. And there was still more to the story that he hadn¡¯t told her yet. But- The impulsive bravery of the previous night was gone. She started to tap out the Fibonacci sequence on the coffee cup and tried to smile. ¡®So is that the kind of suit I get?¡¯ She looked down at her grey clothes. ¡®Or do I stick with this?¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ he said, ¡®that¡¯s a version of our training uniform.¡¯ He indicated to himself. ¡®This suit is the formal uniform for all departments and the standard uniform for my recruits.¡¯


    She rolled the empty cup around in her hands. ¡®So I guess that¡¯s an obvious next question.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m head of Field Operations. Agent Jones heads the Tech Department, and we also have a Combat Division.¡¯


    She froze the smile on her face, letting her toes curl and unfurl. Memory or not, she wasn¡¯t going to get to hang out with him. If there was an IT department, then there it was a fairly obvious choice as to where the Sorting Hat would send her. She kept her expression neutral. ¡®So what¡¯s the litmus test for where I go?¡¯


    His expression was more impassive than her own. He was looking for an excuse to get rid of her, to stop answering all of her questions, to palm her off onto someone else. He rose from the bed. ¡®If you¡¯ll follow me, we¡¯ll head to the tests.¡¯


    She tried to apologise for being annoying, but it came out as a squeak. ¡®Sure.¡¯ She ran a hand through her hair again, then stood, and tried to straighten her posture. ¡®Am I okay like this, or are you going to awesome new clothes onto me again?¡¯


    He raised his eyebrows slightly, and she felt the clothes ripple as they became as fresh and new as they had been the night before. The strangest sensation, though, was shoes appearing around her feet, and the ever-so-slight increase in height afforded by the thick soles.


    ¡®Ready?¡¯ he asked.


    Nope!


    ¡®Sure.¡¯


    She nodded and followed him through the door, and down the hall towards the lift. He pressed the button, and a few seconds later, the elevator appeared. ¡®Is this a magic lift? Last night and now, we only had to wait like five seconds for it. With all the buttons inside, there¡¯s a low statistical probability that it was that close each time.¡¯


    He gave her a strange look. ¡®That¡¯s a very astute observation.¡¯


    She stared at her feet. ¡®I¡¯m, um, a genius. Sorry. I notice things.¡¯


    It¡¯s also the paranoia, but you shouldn¡¯t mention that.


    ¡®You shouldn¡¯t apologise for that,¡¯ he said as they stepped into the lift. ¡®Intelligence isn¡¯t something to be ashamed of.¡¯


    She continued to stare at her feet and shrugged. The lift doors slid open, and she followed him out.


    This floor was a lot plainer than even Ryan¡¯s floor, but at least the doors had numbers, making navigation possible. The room he led her into contained only a few hard, plastic chairs, a table, and a television on the wall.


    Oh, please tell me there¡¯s not an orientation video.


    There was the sound of voices, and the door opened again, allowing a guy with a buzz cut and a mountain to enter the boring little room. She stared at the mountain for a moment before realising that it was a volcano ¨C one that looked as if it was going to erupt. The volcano rumbled, a deep, rocky sound ¨C one that would have made the residents of Pompeii wish they been thrown in jail. She was pretty sure it was shaking, the red on top obviously burninating fire that would¨C


    Ryan addressed the volcano. ¡®Taylor, are we ready to start?¡¯


    The volcano ¨C the agent with red hair ¨C grunted, his gaze drilling into her. Volcano or not, an ancient Roman jail seemed a much safer place to be. He took a step forward, and her heart skipped a beat, every bit of her imaginary Spyder-sense screaming at her to run.


    If that¡¯s not the guy who runs the combat, I¡¯ll eat my own feet.


    The volcano took another step forwards¨C


    Run. Run away from the volcano. Run away from the agent she was going to disappoint. Find her way by the battleship numbers to the lobby and break out. Run to a familiar street and catch a bus home. They could follow her, but they wouldn¡¯t bother. Get home, close the door, and lock¨C


    ¡®Miss Mimosa?¡¯


    She blinked up at Ryan. ¡®Yeah, I¡¯m ready too.¡¯ She looked back to the door, knowing that until she signed a blood contract that she could run at any time. Until then, there was no harm in¨C


    You¡¯re just too lazy to run to Adelaide Street, aren¡¯t you?


    No¡­


    The volcano ¨C Taylor ¨C opened the door at the back of the small room, and they all followed him through. The room was significantly larger than the one they¡¯d left. There was no plastic furniture in the room or plasma screens. There were, however, two thirty-foot brick walls.


    Two free-standing thirty-foot brick walls.


    ¡®What.¡¯ They had no visible means of support. ¡®So, um,¡¯ she muttered, ¡®a wizard did it?¡¯


    The three men all turned to look at her. She imagined smoke coming from Taylor¡¯s ears. She slumped and tried to sink into the floor. ¡®Sorry. Thinking out loud.¡¯


    Taylor walked forwards and stood between the two walls. ¡®First test. Combat. Objective: get to the other side. Equipment over there.¡¯ A thick finger was stabbed towards the side of the room.


    How is that combat? Is the wall gonna try and eat me?


    Spyder. Don¡¯t.


    Is the fscking wall going to try and eat me?!


    She walked towards the rack of gear, the buzz cut pushing past her as to get first choice. ¡®You¡¯re not exactly scary competition,¡¯ he said as he picked through the equipment.


    She examined a set of suction cups and dismissed them ¨C they were for climbing glass and smooth metal, not brick and mortar. Witty responses failed to form, and she just shrugged.


    ¡®I¡¯ll take that,¡¯ he snatched the grappling hook from her hand. ¡®Not like you know what you¡¯re doing with it.¡¯


    She stared straight ahead at the piles of equipment, letting her vision unfocus, pretending to be a robot, pretending not to be scared. Beside her, the buzz cut spoke about his basic training and methods of wall supremacy.


    Two recruits enter, one recruit leaves?


    Ryan didn¡¯t say anything about limited places.


    She ran her hand over another hook but left it alone. The tests had to be based on individual merits; competition didn¡¯t make any sense. It didn¡¯t make any sense. None of it made any sense.


    Magic was real, and things had stopped making sense.


    Except that they hadn¡¯t.


    A smile settled onto her face, and she turned back to the walls.


    Up was still up. Down was still down. The world was still operating according to all the rules she had always known. Right now, every limitation she knew about herself was still applicable.


    There was only one way over, one way that she could manage.


    At the next wall, the buzz cut was expertly pulling himself up, demonstrating a physicality that belonged to a video-game character. She turned from him, looked back at the brick in front of her, and nodded. There was only one way to do this.


    She stepped up to her wall, centred herself, then let her arms swing at her sides, giving herself a little momentum.


    She took a deep breath, then walked around the wall.

 09 - Laughter in the Dark

    Stef looked back at the brick wall, sure of three things: First, that the sound of flesh against flesh was her buzz cut opponent slapping himself in the head as he sat atop the wall. Second, she wasn¡¯t the ruler of the internets.


    Not yet.


    Third, the volcano-slash-agent was probably strong enough to push the wall down on her head and leave her as some sort of meaty hacker pancake.


    A delayed fourth thought slowly crawled into her brain, telling her that she couldn¡¯t stay behind the wall forever - one way or another, she had to receive judgement for her maybe-brilliant method of fulfilling the task.


    Beside her, the buzz cut slid down his wall, then jogged back towards Ryan and Taylor.


    She placed one hand on the cool brick and tried to suck out some of its strength, then settled her face into a neutral-as-masonry expression and crossed back to the starting side to face both agents, and the buzz cut.


    Ryan¡¯s face was unreadable ¨C though amused if she had to guess. Her opponent had his head hung, her method of approaching the test seemingly having caused his brain to reset.


    She turned to Taylor. Vesuvius was about to blow.


    Say something.


    ¡®Was that satisfactory?¡¯ He gave her no reply. ¡®You never said to go over, just to get to the other side. Was it¨C¡¯


    He growled, and she shut her mouth.


    Ryan turned to look at Taylor, and the larger agent turned and left without another word.


    Confused and desperately hoping that Taylor wasn¡¯t going to get a bazooka, she focussed on Ryan. ¡®Was that a pass or not?¡¯


    ¡®A pass,¡¯ Ryan confirmed as he walked over to her. ¡®Though,¡¯ he said, dropping his voice, ¡®my suggestion would be to give Agent Taylor a wide berth from now on.¡¯


    ¡®I just asked for clarification.¡¯


    ¡®You acted outside of expected parameters.¡¯


    She sighed. ¡®Um¨C¡¯


    ¡®Trust me, Miss Mimosa ¨C I¡¯ve already noticed. ¡°Outside parameters¡± seems to be normal for you.¡¯


    She smirked. ¡®I think there was a compliment somewhere in there.¡¯


    He looked up so that he could address the buzz cut as well. ¡®The next test is through those doors,¡¯ he said, pointing to the far end of the room.


    She took a step closer to him. ¡®Please tell me you¡¯re not locking me and the Defence Academy dropout in a room with knives and we have to fight for the honour of being accepted?¡¯


    He gave her another strange look, as if he couldn¡¯t quite believe¡­well, her. She wondered if it was too late to toss a ¡°sir¡± onto the end of her last sentence when he spoke again.


    ¡®Agent Jones is administering the next test, and he¡¯s already impressed with the work that he¡¯s seen so far.¡¯


    She hurriedly collated information. ¡®IT right? Nerd test?¡¯


    ¡®Something far more suited to your talents than this was in any case,¡¯ Ryan said, then pointed, indicating to the buzz cut who was already moving into the next room.


    She hurried to catch up, catching her arm on the door frame as she jogged through the door, realising that by not-quite-running ten feet, she was already feeling weirdly winded.


    The next room was much smaller, only containing three desks. Two desks held desktop computers, and the third had assumably-Agent-Jones leaning against it. Like Ryan, he was tall; but the same type of oh-shit-I-was-gaming-and-forgot-to-eat skinny that she was.


    The long, long blond ponytail was unexpected - Ryan¡¯s hair was almost a picture-perfect generic business cut; Taylor¡¯s hair gave off distinct soldier vibes; the anime-pretty-boy-ponytail was throwing her for a slight loop.


    ¡®Kayden,¡¯ probably-Agent-Jones said, addressing the buzzcut, ¡®take the computer on the left please.¡¯ Jones pointed at her. ¡®And if you could come here, please.¡¯


    ¡®Agent Jones I presume?¡¯ she asked, trying not to sound awkward as two chairs appeared next to the empty proctor¡¯s desk. Jones took the one behind, and she slid into the one at the front.


    Jones gave an easy smile, unnaturally bright green eyes glittering at her from behind glasses. ¡®You can probably just skip to calling me Jonesy, most of the nerds in this building do.¡¯ He laid a tablet on the desk in front of them, and the first page of notes on Dorian¡¯s code lay open.


    ¡®I¡¯m impressed,¡¯ he said. ¡®For largely working without context, you made significant headway.¡¯


    She stared down at her hands. ¡®It honestly felt like invisible Tetris most of the time. And the notes, I apologise for being, um, kinda...I mean, some of the copy-pasted stuff was done when I was sleep-deprived, but the stuff from last night, um, probably not my best work.¡¯


    ¡®Given the circumstances, it¡¯s completely understandable.¡¯ Jones pulled the tablet back, then flicked through to a photo of a page of nigh-unintelligible scrawl she¡¯d included - reluctantly - for the sake of completeness. ¡®As far as I can tell, you¡¯ve had no formal training. No university or-¡¯


    Stef focussed on the table in front of her, letting the white laminate fill her entire world. ¡®Yeah, my A-levels were a disgrace that could be seen from Mars, so I bowed out of formal education.¡¯ She tilted her head to the side, hoping some of the residual shame would leak out. ¡®It amazing what can be learned online though. And it¡¯s just code. I like to tinker. I like to make it make sense.¡¯


    Jones slid the tablet into view, the page of her notes replaced with a full-screen smiley face emoji. ¡®I¡¯m not even making you take this test, Recruit, I¡¯m taking the work you submitted last night as your portfolio.¡¯


    She lifted her head a little, unable to look the agent in the face, but enough to see that he was wearing a Portal shirt under his lab coat. ¡®So I¡¯m in?¡¯


    ¡®You were personally offered a position in this Agency by Director Ryan, I can think of few examples where a headhunted candidate didn¡¯t end up placing somewhere within an Agency after being brought in by an agent, let alone its director.¡¯


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡®I wasn¡¯t exactly headhunted,¡¯ she said, then laced her fingers together to stop herself from tapping out the Fibonacci sequence. ¡®I was kind of- Collateral damage isn¡¯t the right phrase. A bonus gift with purchase?¡¯


    ¡®I think you¡¯ll be fine, just one more test, then you¡¯re through.¡¯


    Stef twisted to look at Kayden. ¡®What about him? Don¡¯t we have to go through at the same time?¡¯


    ¡®Ah,¡¯ Jones said, then tapped the tablet, the emoji being replaced with a browser history. ¡®Well, he¡¯s just browsing YouTube, so I¡¯m happy to send both of you through, I¡¯ve seen what I need to see.¡¯ Jones stood, and Stef rose to join him. ¡®Kayden,¡¯ Jones said, ¡®come on, this way.¡¯


    Stef followed Jones to the door at the back of the room, which he opened. ¡®Good luck,¡¯ he whispered as she passed through.


    ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    The door let them into a short, dark hall, which opened up into the largest room yet - a room that- A room that-


    What the partial and entire fuck.


    The floor beneath her feet was thick, grey-speckled linoleum, anonymous and nothing to think about. A few feet ahead, however, it started to blend with a darker grey, then seamlessly became ugly, pitted parking lot concrete.


    A parking lot of an entire warehouse. A warehouse, contained within the room she was in. A warehouse, beneath a night sky that was far too real to be just a laser projection.


    ¡®Ok- Maybe-¡¯ She finally saw Ryan. ¡®Sky. Explain. Please. Projection? Super-duper-HD screen?¡¯


    ¡®Well, it is a simulation,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®I can explain its mechanics later on, should you wish.¡¯


    ¡®What do we have to do here?¡¯ Kayden asked, his voice sharp enough to break her from her wonderment.


    ¡®This building is split into two halves,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®So that you can¡¯t interfere or influence the test results of the other candidate. In each half, there is a creature, I expect you to consider the situation and take appropriate action.¡¯ Ryan turned and walked to a small table, where two small handguns lay. ¡®These aren¡¯t live, they fire simulation rounds. You can still hurt yourself, but it¡¯s more akin to a pellet gun.¡¯


    ¡®Disappointing,¡¯ Kayden commented, grabbed his gun, then headed towards the right-hand entrance of the warehouse.


    The agent turned to her and handed her the gun, pushing it into her loose grip. He smiled at her and pointed to the warehouse.


    She exhaled a long breath, then made her way across to the left-hand entrance. The door wasn¡¯t locked, and it easily swung open when she pushed on it. She wished she had a holster, but one didn¡¯t appear, so she awkwardly tucked the gun into her waistband - yet another thing they made look easier on television. Television was evil.


    The building was lit well, though all of the pipes and large metal containers reduced the effective visibility - though would make for a cool jumping-puzzle level design.


    Concentrate.


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    There could be anything waiting in the dark. Ghosts, mermaids, vampires, werebunnies. Hopefully not vampires, just so she didn¡¯t have to make it a personal vendetta to exterminate every single velvet-wearing emo one of them.


    Laughter rang through the room ¨C it wasn¡¯t a particularly evil laugh, but at the same time, it was vaguely unnerving. Not human. The voice behind it was too melodic, too modulated. That erased the possibility that they were using existing recruits in sheets to jump out and say ¡°boo¡±.


    Gunshots broke through the relative silence of the building - despite the cosplay-pellet-gun that Ryan had claimed it to be, the noise was that of something far more real - and the fact that she could hear it was also strange.


    Ryan had specifically said that the building was halved so that they couldn¡¯t interfere - and while there was probably a barrier wall preventing them from running into each other, noise was still an influence - whatever was on Kayden¡¯s side was apparently enough to get the impatient buzz cut shooting.


    What kind of ¡°enough¡± was the question dancing in her mind - scary enough, angry enough, violent enough - any could have provoked Kayden into firing into the darkness.


    And it meant - if the tests were identical, which they should be - that she should be prepared to shoot.


    A dark, fuzzy shape ran across some pipes and jumped down behind a metal shipping crate.


    Stef heard a shout from across the divide and more firing, but she fought the urge to reach for her own weapon. Assessing the situation meant having all the knowledge before making a move.


    It didn¡¯t mean shoot first and ask questions later. There might be girlish screaming and a mad fumble for a gun, but that didn¡¯t¨C


    Dark, glittering eyes stared at her from a pool of shadow. Her mind went blank. The shape laughed again. Up close, the laughter was unsettling ¨C it was the exact kind of laughter you didn¡¯t want to hear coming from a dark alley at night.


    No information. No backup. No frame of reference. ¡®My name is Spyder. I¨C¡¯


    It lunged at her.


    The fuzzy shape with the glittering eyes knocked her to the ground.


    She focussed on the creature. Its hair made him look like a Muppet reject. The black leather he wore was sprinkled with small pieces of glass ¨C sewn in as decoration, rather than the evidence of a defenestration. His face was wrinkled, like an apple left in the sun.


    ¡®I¡¯m¨C¡¯ she began, after she wheezed a breath in.


    It took a swipe at her, his long fingernails cutting into her shirt, though not deep enough to draw blood. ¡®Intruding. Intruding! Did you have a key? Do you know me?¡¯ His voice was wild, bad-tempered, raising and falling like the roar of a crowd.


    ¡®Didn¡¯t need a key. Had permission.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re not nice; have to pay the price. Have to pay the penalty, you shall see.¡¯


    ¡®Please stop with the stupid rhymes.¡¯


    A small fist punched her in the face, which slammed her head back into the concrete. ¡®Intruding, brooding girl. Bad!¡¯


    You forgot mad.


    It jumped onto her middle, and that time, sharp shoes scraped her stomach and only dug in further when she tried to move away. She screamed in pain. It was smaller than a human man ¨C a rough guess placed it at about two-thirds of a textbook son of Adam ¨C and much lighter than his size betrayed, but it was still an uncomfortable experience.


    ¡®Should make you a statue ¨C like that, will you? Put you in a cave, be your grave? Always watching, never moving ¨C what you get for intruding.¡¯


    ¡®Unless,¡¯ she said through gritted teeth, ¡®you have some biological imperative that will kill you unless you continue, quit with the rhymes!¡¯


    Assess the fucking situation.


    I wanna shoot the annoying thing.


    I don¡¯t think so.


    I have no desire to be a hacker kebab.


    ¡®What are you?¡¯ she asked haltingly, unable to get a real breath.


    ¡®Bob, Bob, Bob ¨C not a Bob, hob.¡¯ He looked down at her and licked his lips.


    She slowly slid her hand to her side, wondering if she could get the gun before it struck.


    If it strikes.


    ¡®Hob. Like a brownie? Household spirit?¡¯


    ¡®Kitties and tigers.¡¯ He jumped off her and laughed again. ¡®Kitties and tigers. Guess which I am?¡¯


    ¡®This is your home?¡¯


    His dark eyes showed no emotion ¨C at least none that she could recognise ¨C as he stared down at her. ¡®And my meal.¡¯


    Aren¡¯t I supposed to have some sort of chocolate to offer? Isn¡¯t that how it¡¯s supposed to go when you meet a monster?


    You haven¡¯t been paying attention to your own diet. You are made of chocolate, and you bleed coffee. You¡¯re a walking, talking mocha.


    I hate it when you¡¯re right.


    I¡¯m always right.


    ¡®This is so messed up.¡¯ She looked up at the hob and steadied her expression. ¡®What do you eat when you can¡¯t get hacker?¡¯


    The hob snarled, then rocked back on his heels and pouted. ¡®Garbage.¡¯


    She snorted. ¡®That explains the smell.¡¯


    ¡®You¨C¡¯


    He growled and jumped straight up, grabbed the closest hanging pipe, and proceeded to hang upside down, bat-like. ¡®I like garbage.¡¯ He fingered his jacket, the glass shining in the weak fluorescent light. ¡®I like recycling.¡¯


    ¡®Was just doing what I was told to do. Have you attacked any civilians?¡¯ The hob swung slowly from side to side, then shook his head. ¡®Actively working for anyone¡­evil?¡¯ Another shuffle and head shake. ¡®Affiliated with the Solstice?¡¯ The anger on his face gave her the answer for that one.


    She slowly stood. ¡®I deem you not a threat.¡¯


    The hob gave another high-pitched laugh. ¡®And you think that makes all the difference?¡¯


    She looked around. ¡®Yes?¡¯ The hob swung silently, a quest NPC with nothing more to say. She shrugged, backed away, then headed for the door.


    Part of expected the hob to attack her from behind - a last-minute twist, but with each step, it seemed less and less likely - it took a bit of extrapolation, and a good bucket of assumptions, but it wasn¡¯t hard to imagine that this was an everyday occurrence for Ryan and his Men in Black.


    If you didn¡¯t know anything - or knew just little enough to be dangerously uninformed, it was surely easy to call for help with every shadow and howl, without realising that some of those shadows were just stinky, overgrown brownies with no fashion sense.


    She hoped she¡¯d made the right call, and headed for the exit.

 10 - The Last Suit

    Stef slammed the door to the warehouse shut - she was already safe, but something about a closed door always made her feel truly secure. Like how hiding in a toilet stall at school didn¡¯t provide any real protection from the outside world, but gave you the false sense that you had some control over a tiny space in the world.


    Kayden was crouched beside the agent, pressing a very bloody handkerchief to his face. She marvelled at his condition in comparison to hers ¨C she had a ripped shirt and some minor scratches from where the hob¡¯s sharp shoes had landed on her, but other than that, she was fine.


    Her opponent, however, had scratches up and down his arm, sweat and dirt hung on him in a filthy film, and he looked exhausted ¨C and angry. ¡®What¡¯d you do?¡¯ he demanded as he got up from the floor. ¡®Hide the entire time?¡¯


    She blinked slowly, then looked to Ryan. ¡®I assessed the situation.¡¯


    ¡®And your assessment?¡¯ the agent asked.


    ¡®It ¨C the hob,¡¯ she said, quickly correcting herself, ¡®was only dangerous because it was provoked. It hadn¡¯t harmed civilians, and if it was open about its intention to eat me, then I don¡¯t think it would bother to lie about past crimes.¡¯


    Ryan¡¯s expression remained expectant, and she scrambled for more coherent sentences.


    ¡®With no further information, I extrapolated that I was to judge the situation independently. It didn¡¯t warrant¨C I didn¡¯t see the need to shoot it.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know what you had on your side, dork, but I was dealing with some vicious little bastard who wanted to-¡¯


    ¡®Kayden.¡¯ Ryan¡¯s voice was commanding - the voice of a boss, rather than the gentle tone he¡¯d been using with her. Wordlessly, Kayden turned towards the agent. ¡®Dismissed.¡¯


    ¡®Sir,¡¯ Kayden said, all fight and snark from his voice, then disappeared, disappearing with a rush of air, despawning without another word.


    ¡®Um,¡¯ Stef said at the same time as Ryan started to speak. ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said, ¡®you go first.¡¯


    Ryan handed her a bottle of water, then gave a small shrug. ¡®Kayden was part of this sim - there is usually more to his part, some anti-magic rhetoric, but you already dealt with Solstice last night. For my part, that element is secondary to the impact during the warehouse scenario.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®It¡¯s always interesting to see how potential recruits react when they have the perceived permission to injure the fae in the scenario.¡¯


    ¡®To see if they¡¯re susceptible to peer pressure?¡¯


    ¡®A little more complex, but in essence, yes. We need people who are able to look past initial impressions.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to say I wasn¡¯t- Surprised, pissed, something, but I went into its space - if someone broke into my apartment, I mean, there¡¯s a reason I keep a knife block on my desk.¡¯ She winced at the lack of flow to her thoughts. ¡®Um. Someone like Dorian¡¯s always going to get a free pass because he¡¯s probably handsome, I have no idea, but I think he is? No one is going to go at him, like, gun first. The hob dude, like, bed head and bad fashion, but- Yeah. I think I did the right thing?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, Miss Mimosa, you acted appropriately, and that will be reflected in your final score.¡¯


    ¡®So how does that work?¡¯


    ¡®Each of us will give you a score out of ten, these scores are not averaged, as each department is very different. The Field score, however, impacts all three, as it determines the level of assignment that you can be tasked with outside the Agency.¡¯ He paused. ¡®A shorthand some I¡¯ve heard some recruits use is that it¡¯s the ¡°danger rating¡±, for example, many Tech recruits have a Field score between three and six. A minimum score of four allows recruits to assist in active operations.¡¯


    ¡®So what happens until the scores come in?¡¯


    ¡®I have them already.¡¯ He extended a hand. ¡®So now I can officially welcome you to the Agency.¡¯


    She tucked the bottle of water under her arm, then shook his hand. ¡®Thanks. Thank you.¡¯


    He nodded, released her hand, and headed towards a door off to the right. ¡®First, I¡¯ll issue you a uniform, then I¡¯ll take you to Agent Jones.¡¯


    The urge to bounce off the walls deflated. Jones. Of course. The Sorting Hat had spoken - and working for Jones was probably going to be fun, but- She stared down at the floor as she followed Ryan - as fundamental as the memory of him was to her, it had probably just been another day for him.


    There were probably a hundred kids out there, just like here, who had the important-but-indistinct memory of being saved by a steak of navy blue.


    So other than being a mildly interesting coincidence, nothing was stopping him from assigning her to Tech Support, then retreating back to deal with his own, much more competent recruits.


    She scratched at her arm and dug her nails into her elbow. This was the logical way the situation went, and there was no reason to- Her heart felt weird and heavy. Talking to him had been - not fun, but- Meaningful. Communicating with another person in a way she hadn¡¯t done for years.


    And she owed him so much. Owed him for how often the lingering memory had brought her comfort. Owed him for her entire goddamn life. Twice.


    It was an end to something, even more than being welcomed to the Agency was the beginning of something.


    This next room was cluttered and gave the immediate impression of a military surplus store - racks of clothes with an ever-so-fine hint of dust everywhere. There were six racks of uniforms - the suits for Field, lab coats for Tech and BDUs for Combat.


    Along the back and right-hand side walls were metal shelving units - and she walked towards them, wanting to delay the moment she had to pull a lab coat off the rack and say goodbye to the agent for probably forever.


    The shelves contained accessories of a myriad of types - she saw everything from hats to scanners that wouldn¡¯t have looked out of place next to a Tricorder. One shelf held tablets and phones on the top half and-


    Stef felt her brain hitch as she stared at the small device on the bottom half of the shelf. ¡®Is that a fucking nuke?¡¯


    Ryan looked at her from the other side of the room. ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®And you keep it with the hats?!¡¯


    He gave her inscrutable smile as she continued down the line of shelves. There was a small container of what seemed like promotional badges. They all contained phrases that were counter to the Solstice beliefs ¨C or what Dorian had led her to believe were their beliefs. She picked the container up and experimentally shook it.


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    ¡®Agent Clarke¡¯s idea,¡¯ he explained. ¡®It wasn¡¯t something that really took off.¡¯


    She stole a pin, then moved to the next shelf. ¡®So if we¡¯re the Men in Black, where are the neuralisers?¡¯


    ¡®I think you might be disappointed, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®I thought you said you can fuck with people¡¯s memories?¡¯


    ¡®We can, but it¡¯s not in a convenient handheld device.¡¯


    Accessories - and a fucking nuke - seen, there was nothing else to distract herself with, so she turned back to the uniforms, and headed for the brightest of the white lab coats. Compared to Jones¡¯ Portal shirt, the rest of the official Tech uniform seemed to consist of a white dress shirt - of which there were several cuts and styles available, and simple black slacks.


    She pushed at the lab coats and began to pick through them, looking for one in her size. ¡®So, do I just pick one out, or what? Do I have to fill out some kind of form showing what I took so my sizes are recorded?¡¯


    ¡®Whatever you pick here will be recorded as your default uniform requirement - some people feel comfortable with a tighter or looser cut, so we allow them to pick out their own sizes and styles from those available to their department.¡¯


    She fidgeted with the cuff of a lab coat in her size, feeling the weight of the fabric as she rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. If she were sensible, she¡¯d pull it off the rack and look for the other uniform components, but her feet were as stuck as her brain, unwilling to move forward.


    She heard the scrape of metal-on-metal as Ryan picked something from one of the racks - probably trying to hurry the process along so he could be done with her as soon as possible.


    ¡®I thought uniforms would be, um, uniform,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®We make accommodations for comfort and choice where we can,¡¯ he said, another scrape telling her he¡¯d picked another item from the rack. ¡®As to sizing, I believe these should fit.¡¯


    She finally let go of the cuff, exhaled a breath to try and clear the mess of emotions in her head, then made an effort to lift her head and look at him.


    In his hands was a suit.


    She promptly turned away, then back, slower this time, just to be sure that her eyes weren¡¯t deceiving her. Her level of confusion was a notch above what it would have been had he been holding purple ice cream and gibbering about kittens.


    A suit, identical to the one he was wearing. Black pants, white shirt, blue vest, blue tie, big black jacket.


    ¡®I¡¯ve assigned you to Field.¡¯


    A lump formed in her throat, and she quickly swallowed it. ¡®Just so you know,¡¯ she said as she walked over to him. ¡®I make a problematic pet.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll take my chances,¡¯ he said. ¡®Come on. This way.¡¯


    He hung the suit on the hook of a changing room, then beckoned her to a rack of guns. ¡®I find a lot of recruits request something like this,¡¯ he said, pulling a large handgun from a high shelf. He handed it to her. ¡®Most regret it within a day.¡¯


    ¡®Oof. I think Lara Croft uses one of these,¡¯ she said as she tried to lift it.


    ¡®They like the look,¡¯ he said with a sigh. ¡®A gun¡¯s not a status symbol; it¡¯s not for style. It¡¯s a tool, nothing more.¡¯ He replaced the Desert Eagle, then handed her a much smaller and lighter handgun. ¡®Until you pass a proficiency test, it will fire modified paint rounds. Within the building, these serve little purpose, but outside they¡¯ll be laced with tracking blue, so firing them while in the field still does serve a purpose.¡¯


    ¡®Tracking what? Like, that phosphorus paint stuff to make trailing someone easier?¡¯


    He smiled. ¡®A little more advanced than that, Recruit.¡¯


    She looked at the gun. ¡®So I start with this, then work my way up to the rocket launcher?¡¯


    ¡®Recruit, I actually fear what you¡¯d do with a rocket launcher.¡¯


    ¡®Just¡­blow some stuff up?¡¯


    He indicated back to the changing room. ¡®Get changed, I¡¯ll gather your other accessories.¡¯


    She locked the door of the changing room and began to strip down. She knelt, her pants stuck, then half-shuffled, half-fell onto the small wooden bench and slid her sneakers off, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.


    I¡¯m twenty-something years old, you¡¯d think I¡¯d have figured out this getting dressed thing.


    She exhaled a long breath, tried to avoid looking at her scars in the mirror, then began to separate the pieces of the uniform. Knee-length jacket; blue vest, black pants, white dress shirt. An exact copy of what he was wearing, right down to the fact that the shirt was the right of straight cut straight from the menswear section, rather than the softer-cut blouse she¡¯d seen amongst the girlier clothing.


    There was a bump against her foot, and she looked down to see that a cardboard box had been slid under the door - she pulled off the lid, ripping into like it was a present, rather than just more bits to her uniform.


    Inside were two clear, sealed bags - a sleeveless undershirt, and a T-shirt styled undershirt; there were two pairs of socks - one navy, one black; the standard navy tie, and a small folder containing a varied selection of cufflinks and tie pins.


    Another sliding sound and a pair of black leather shoes appeared under the door.


    Those are a nope.


    Pinchy leather shoes were the harbingers of a lot of bad memories. Cute little shoes, a bit too small, that her mother didn¡¯t care to replace, because the style was no longer available, and they were ¡°so perfect¡± with so many of the doll-like perfect-little-girl outfits that she¡¯d been forced to wear.


    And then there¡¯d been her school shoes, which she¡¯d had to clean dozens of times to scrub away the proof of half-drunk puking in the bathroom.


    The leather shoes were an absolute non-starter.


    She slipped on the pants, found a belt in the cardboard box of accessories, then selected the sleeveless undershirt. When you had a chest as flat as a pancake, bras seemed mostly optional, so an undershirt was a good line of defence for when she forgot to dress properly.


    Shirt. Vest. Tie.


    She stared at the collection of cufflinks and tie pins, already feeling sick. Too many decisions. She¡¯d already made too many choices. None of the options were probably wrong, but-


    Stef balled her hands into fists, walking the fine tightrope of digging her nails into her palms so hard it gave her the pain to concentrate, without going to so far as to break skin. Explaining to a new boss where sudden and mysterious blood had come from was a conversation to be avoided forever.


    Relax.


    ¡®Can¡¯t.¡¯


    Inside voice, Spyder.


    She sat back on the bench and buried her face in her hands. ¡®Can¡¯t. I- Can¡¯t.¡¯ It was so stupid. It was just getting dressed. Just making a couple of decisions about what she wanted. And it was too much. And if this was too much, then- Then there was no hope. And she had to leave now. And it didn¡¯t matter that magic was real, she wasn¡¯t functional enough to be around it.


    One action. Another action. It was so easy in theory. So, so easy in theory. All she had to do was- Everything all at once. Every action had to be simultaneous, and any less was an imperfection that wouldn¡¯t be allowed.


    The world was spinning.


    So go home.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    She pulled the black socks from the box and put them on, feeling so mechanical with her movements that she expected error messages to flash across her vision, telling her that extremities.exe was encountering an error and needed to be shut down.


    She forced herself to stand, then moved stiffly and stepped into her sneakers.


    Okay. Good. Good.


    She looked down at herself, trying to work out what the bare minimum was in order to present as ¡°ready¡±. She unbuttoned the vest, aligned it properly, then redid the buttons.


    After two long, lung-emptying exhalations, she looked at herself in the mirror.


    For a brief second, she could almost see a confident version of herself. With a blink, reality set in and she saw a crisp and tidy uniform covering some sort of weird lab experiment.


    ¡®Once more unto the breach.¡¯


    She exhaled and opened the door of the changing room, leaving the jacket behind - even in air conditioning, it seemed like it might be too hot and bulky, like wearing your school blazer in the classroom - you could do it, but most people didn¡¯t.


    Ryan stood near one of the shelves, idly rearranging items, so she coughed to get his attention. He raised his head, smiled, and walked over to her. He looked her up and down, but his gaze seemed to get stuck on her shoes. ¡®Re¨C¡¯


    ¡®I¨C¡¯ She wrinkled her nose, waiting for him to rebuke her. ¡®I don¡¯t like those other shoes. I can put them on if you want, but¨C Are- Are these okay instead?¡¯


    ¡®I was simply going to ask ¨C I required those shoes less than an hour ago. How did they get so dirty?¡¯


    She shrugged. ¡®My shoes do that. I think it¡¯s my superpower.¡¯


    ¡®That wouldn¡¯t make you the strangest person to work within these walls.¡¯ He looked back towards the rack of guns. ¡®Between now and when you pass your proficiency test, you¡¯ll need to pick a style of holster, but for now, I¡¯ll set these clothing options as your default uniform requirement. It¡¯s easy enough to change later, so don¡¯t feel locked into any of your choices.¡¯


    ¡®So what now?¡¯


    ¡®Now, you have to go see Agent Jones.¡¯


    ¡®But-¡¯ Fear squirmed like a snake. ¡®I thought I was your new pet?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s Jones that arranges for you to access the ability to require. You¡¯d be the first, but if you¡¯d prefer to skip that-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m gonna get to poof stuff?¡¯ she asked, her voice far too close to a screech. ¡®You didn¡¯t tell me- Ooooh, I¡¯m gonna conjure so much shit. Wait, can you require shit? Why would anyone want to require shit? I mean, if you were doing a Biff-Tannen-manure thing, but-¡¯


    ¡®Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, sir?¡¯


    He offered his hand to her. ¡®If you would.¡¯


    She grabbed his hand and smiled as she tried to take in the detail of the world blurring and smearing as they shifted away from the supply room.

 11 - Crystal Laser Magic

    Stef slumped as the world became solid again, and moved to lean against the nearest wall - which was hard, almost every inch of wall space in this room was blocked by a cupboard, screen or set of cabinets.


    It wasn¡¯t like shifting hurt, and if she took the time to think about it, it wasn¡¯t particularly disorientating, but some part of her knew it was probably a wise idea to take breaths until the idea - the reality - of instant teleportation became something normal.


    Jones stood in the centre of the room, leaning on a long bench that looked like it belonged in a high school science room.


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said and straightened.


    ¡®I don¡¯t like it when recruits apologise to me for nothing. Keep that up, and I won¡¯t put your MMO subscriptions on the company account.¡¯


    She felt a tenseness in her back. ¡®You looked through my computer?¡¯


    Jones winked. ¡®No, Recruit, I used basic deduction. If you play WoW, we have a completionist guild if you¡¯re after achievements you should have gotten a decade ago.¡¯ He pointed to his desk. ¡®For now, time to give you phenomenal cosmic power.¡¯


    As Jones moved to sit at his desk, she saw something that his body had been blocking - something that didn¡¯t quite fit with the rest of the subdued corporate aesthetic that the rest of the Agency seemed to be aligned with.


    A three-foot-tall blue crystal.


    ¡®Uuuuuuuuh.¡¯


    Jones moved to adjust some of the electrodes that were attached to the crystal, each repositioning giving a corresponding lack of signal in one section of the triple-monitor setup that dominated the centre of what had to be Jones¡¯ main desk.


    She quickly let her eyes scan across all three screens - eight parameters were being represented by simple lines that jumped as data points were received. Six other parameters were more complex - some were flashes of light, that immediately tabulated in a bar graph column; another was just a Venn diagram that kept eating itself.


    Interestingly - or worryingly - none of the data labels were in English, each was just a long alphanumeric string without a key to its meaning.


    Jones adjusted one more electrode, then sat, clicked his mouse a few times, and the left-most screen was replaced with an interface that showed the outline of a stylised human head, looking more like a mannequin than anything that belonged on a real person.


    A photo of her - in the suit she¡¯d been wearing for less than five minutes - appeared above and left of the mannequin outline. After a moment, the outline began to fill - likely indicating that it was loading something.


    ¡®Do I¨C Do I actually have to ask the obvious?¡¯


    ¡®Just don¡¯t lick it, if you¡¯d be so kind.¡¯ Jones pushed a rolling chair towards her ¡®Sit, please.¡¯


    ¡®People-¡¯


    ¡®When you¡¯ve lived a life as long as I have, you see everything.¡¯ He turned to look at her. ¡®Sorry. That¡¯s only a joke if you know I¡¯m the baby around here.¡¯


    The crystal pulsed, and she lost track of what Jones was saying - hating herself for losing track, but unable to ignore the crystal that seemed to be looming larger and larger. Everything else seemed to be getting fuzzy, a photo with only one point of focus.


    She started to walk towards to crystal, drawn towards the blue crystal that seemed to be slightly pulsing with energy from within, lines of silver light slowly tracing the inside edges of the lines and points of the-


    Stef started to lift a hand, wanting to touch it, if just a little.


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t if I was you,¡¯ Jones admonished quietly, then moved to hold his clipboard between her and the crystal. ¡®Direct contact is dangerous for humans.¡¯ He adjusted his glasses with two fingers. ¡®Do not ask about the recruit that licked it.¡¯ He chuckled. ¡®Well, maybe on Halloween.¡¯


    ¡®Yikes,¡¯ she said and pulled her hand back. ¡®Sorry. And- You didn¡¯t answer the question I didn¡¯t ask.¡¯


    Jones lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and looked at her over the top of the frame. ¡®You¡¯re going to like this next part, Recruit.¡¯ He slid his glasses back into place, then turned to his computer, the sound of light key tapping filling the room as the pulses in the crystal changed.


    He jerked and paused in what he was doing, then reached out both hands to lay them on the crystal. ¡®Steady. Steady.¡¯ The pulsing died for a moment, then a single stream of light crawled its way up the interior of the crystal, then shot out like a cheap laser effect and slammed into her head.


    ¡®Holy shit!¡¯ Stef immediately slapped her hands to her head to make sure she had one. ¡®Jesus- Fuck- Did you just fucking shoot me? You-¡¯ Her hands tingled, and she pulled them down into her field of vision.


    A last, dying crackle of the silver light buzzed over her fingers, then sank into her skin.


    ¡®That¡¯ll do, pig, that¡¯ll do,¡¯ Jones said as he patted the crystal, then began to pull away all of the wires linking it to his computer. With the last one disconnecting, the crystal floated free from the desk.


    Stef watched as it approached the ceiling, pausing only in its flight to wait for a section of the white ceiling to slide away, revealing a hidden storage compartment. The crystal set itself in its home, and the tile slid shut, hiding it from anyone who would dare to want to poke it.


    ¡®You just shot me,¡¯ she said again. ¡®Like- You just-¡¯


    ¡®Do you want to try requiring something?¡¯ Jones asked, then stood, so that Ryan could take his chair.


    She wiggled her fingers as Ryan settled into Jones¡¯ chair. ¡®So how exactly does it work?¡¯


    ¡®Simply think ¡°require¡±, then the object you need.¡¯ A glass of water appeared in his hand. ¡®And ¡°dismiss¡± to get rid of an object.¡¯


    Her mind went blank. She¡¯d been given the powers of a genie, and she had no idea what to wish for. A pony. A car. A zeppelin with machine gun turrets. A cookie.


    Require¨C


    You¡¯re going¨C


    Require: cookie.


    A chocolate chip cookie appeared in her hand.


    She stared at it in confusion. The fact that she¡¯d pulled it from thin air was fine; the fact that it was chocolate chip was not. ¡®How did it know to be chocolate chip?¡¯ She sniffed it experimentally, then took a bite. ¡®I just thought about a cookie, I didn¡¯t¨C¡¯


    ¡®Is it what just you imagined?¡¯ Ryan asked.


    ¡®Yes. Exactly. Oh¡­¡¯ He gave her a nod. ¡®It¡¯s like¡­ Okay, I can deal with that. It¡¯s the command of non-specific request dealing with a brain macro.¡¯


    The word almost seemed to float in the air in front of her. Macro. And she¡¯d said that because that was how it made sense to her. She dismissed the current cookie, then required a copy of Mansfield Park - a book that had always been on her mother¡¯s dresser, even if it never seemed to get read.


    It was something she knew of, but she¡¯d never done more than crack the cover of her mother¡¯s copy - just in the hope that the dresser copy was a secret, hollowed-out book containing something secret.


    And the book complete - cursory glance at a dozen separate pages showed accurately Austen-y writing, so while a cookie recipe could be theoretically pulled from her brain - flour, sugar, chocolate, and the rest; there was no basis in her brain for the complete text of the book in her hand.


    She tried to look up at Ryan, her thoughts a flaming wreck of a trainyard. ¡®I-¡¯


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He quickly scooped up the book as it fell from her hands. ¡®Miss Mimosa?¡¯


    She wrapped her fingers around the edge of her seat to keep herself from slipping. ¡®Don¡¯t- Don¡¯t worry, the crystal didn¡¯t fry my brain. Probably. I just-¡¯ She buried her face in her hands. ¡®I can accept that maybe I can conjure stuff ¨C and for food and stuff, that¡¯s fine, cause I know what food tastes like, and that¡¯s the important thing. You got me water, coffee, those have simple recipes, simple sets of instructions, I-¡¯ She tugged at her suit. ¡®And the first clothes you gave me when I vommed all over your office, you could guesstimate my sizes by looking at me. All of that. Okay. All conjuration. All good.¡¯


    Ryan crouched in front of her, and she gripped her seat again, trying to hold onto the thoughts in her head, trying to keep herself centred. ¡®But if it¡¯s- If it¡¯s solely based off stuff I know, then that book would be empty. So there¡¯s got to be logical redundancies- Like- Like I don¡¯t think most people actually know how a computer is constructed, or whatever.¡¯


    He handed her an open bottle of water, and she took a long, deep gulp. ¡®But for there to be a logical redundancy, then there has to be some sort of system. So ¨C so the require command is actually a command. It¡¯s a lookup from my brain to correspond against some global system search to give me what I actually want.¡¯


    ¡®Well, yes, you are correct,¡¯ Ryan said gently.


    ¡®And I¡¯m just a recruit. I don¡¯t need any access to anything more advanced than ¡°require: cookie¡± or ¡°require: new clothes cause I forgot to shower¡±. You¨C You need a hell of a lot more than that. Okay, fine, so maybe you can shift cause you know where you¡¯re going, but what about when you don¡¯t know where you¡¯re going? It¡¯s different to picture and teleport to your office than it is to Dorian¡¯s place. Had you ever been there before?¡¯


    He shook his head as he returned to his seat.


    ¡®So, what; am I supposed to believe that you¡¯d shift to somewhere that you did know, then shift closer bit by bit? That¡­that makes sense for like Nightcrawler and people like him, but if you were¨C¡¯ She could feel her argument losing steam. ¡®But ¨C but ¨C but you said you were created. Purpose-built to do-do-do this job. So that- Bamfing closer and closer to a target seems inelegant. And-¡¯ She waved a hand lazily up and down her torso to indicate her suit. ¡®This doesn¡¯t scream inelegant.¡¯


    He steadied the water bottle in her hand as it started to tilt.


    ¡®I¡¯ve been thinking way too much about the magic, and not about the tech. Cause this is tech, isn¡¯t it?¡¯


    ¡®What are your conclusions?¡¯


    She bit the inside of her cheek but stopped before she tasted blood. ¡®You need to be able to target yourself properly. And your luggage, like when you take me somewhere. Second, it¡¯s an assumption, but I¡¯d guess that just staring at Google Maps isn¡¯t enough, so you¡¯d need some system to be able to target. And it needs to be internal, cause I haven¡¯t seen you using a computer or a phone or anything when you¡¯ve been shifting us around.¡¯ She started tapping out Fibonacci on her knee with her free hand. ¡®And if we assume that, then there¡¯s other stuff that comes along with it, like ¨C like exactly how you knew who I was. You¡¯d need some sort of facial recognition or something¨C¡¯


    ¡®And therefore?¡¯ Ryan prompted as she trailed off.


    ¡®You¡¯re ¨C you¡¯re a computer, aren¡¯t you?¡¯


    Ryan stood and moved to the closest bench, where he began to look at some paperwork. ¡®I am an artificial being, and all of my functions are controlled through my HUD.¡¯


    ¡®Holy fuck.¡¯


    He shuffled a few pages. ¡®If this bothers you¨C¡¯


    ¡®The only thing that bothers me is how long it took me to figure it out!¡¯ Stef said as she jumped to her feet. ¡®Do you have any idea how cool this is?¡¯ She sent up a silent prayer to Turing, then rounded the bench so that she was sending opposite him. ¡®Is your HUD on all the time, like a Terminator? Does it change how you see things? Do you have apps? Can you set a different desktop theme?¡¯


    ¡®You truly aren¡¯t bothered?¡¯


    ¡®You have spent more than five minutes with me, right? Why the hell would you think I¡¯d be bothered?¡¯


    Ryan stared at her, his face impassive for a long moment, then he let it drop into something a lot less certain. ¡®Because of our nature, we do get a degree of¨C¡¯ He paused for a moment. ¡®Let¡¯s say ¡°disregard¡± from some fae.¡¯ He slid a piece of paper and a pen in her direction and tapped the signature box. ¡®For your ID,¡¯ he explained. ¡®They find it hard to acknowledge us as real people, due to the fact that we¡¯re not.... ¡°real¡± or real enough by their measure.¡¯


    Stef signed the page, then slid it back across the bench. ¡®Recruits too?¡¯


    ¡®You would be surprised at the number of people I¡¯ve encountered who aren¡¯t comfortable taking orders from a robot. Or somehow misconstrue our function and believe that we¡¯re here to serve humanity; and therefore should take orders and not give them.¡¯


    Stef nervously tapped on the bench, trying to phrase something witty and light. ¡®Did- Did, um- The people who think that, did you use them in the Soylent Green way I asked about last night, and if not, why not?¡¯


    ¡®Miss Mimosa, I can assure you that there are very few circumstances where eating a human would be of any use to an agent.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s not a ¡°no, I¡¯ve definitely never eaten a person¡±,¡¯ she said mildly.


    ¡®Miss Mimosa,¡¯ he said, his voice weary.


    ¡®Can, um, can you show me how you see stuff? Like, is it possible to take a screenshot from in your HUD?


    ¡®Well, of course,¡¯ he said. ¡®My recruits generally aren¡¯t this accepting, so-¡¯ He stopped talking, and a piece of paper appeared in his hand. He held it for a moment, then handed it across to her. ¡®Obviously, this changes from moment to moment, depending on what information we need, but it should serve as an example.¡¯


    Stef accepted the screenshot - the paper was the nice, thick photo paper that didn¡¯t crease as soon as you touched it. On it was a picture of herself - he¡¯d screencapped in the second or so after she¡¯d asked, surrounded by a seemingly comprehensive array of menus, floating bits of information, and app icons.


    The text was thin, and electric blue - a thin line extended out from her face to a label marking her as ¡°Recruit Mimosa, S¡±, with a little down arrow, indicating that there were more options available - contextual menus, probably.


    ¡®It¡¯s worth noting,¡¯ Jones said as he came up beside her, and plucked the screenshot from her hands. ¡®Director Ryan uses a predominantly default loadout.¡¯ Jones tapped the side of his head. ¡®Mine¡¯s a lot more fun.¡¯ He handed the screenshot back. ¡®Director, I do have a meeting in here soon, but if you require more time-¡¯


    ¡®No, no, my apologies,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®Come along, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    ¡®One sec,¡¯ she said and looked up at Jones. ¡®Um, Jonesy? Can recruits-¡¯


    Agent Jones held up a hand to stop her. ¡®Recruit, I¡¯m going to need you to be here more than five minutes before you ask for a HUD, okay? But the answer is...yes, in exceptional circumstances. Some extremely senior aides have a limited HUD if it¡¯s deemed it will help them with their work, and their position and performance warrant it. Noob recruits? No, sorry, sweetie. No way in any of the seven hells.¡¯


    ¡®Miss Mimosa,¡¯ Ryan said from the door.


    ¡®Yep! Sorry!¡¯ She tucked the screenshot into her left pocket and followed Ryan out of the office.


    ¡®There are a few points I need to go over with you,¡¯ Ryan said as they walked towards the elevator. ¡®Requiring does have a few limitations, some are logistical - there are certain things that are just impossible - you can¡¯t require a body back to life; nor require direct harm to someone.¡¯


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said as they stepped into the lift. ¡®It¡¯s not necromancy, that¡¯s reasonable.¡¯


    ¡®I...feel the need to state,¡¯ Ryan said hesitatingly, ¡®that you cannot require weapons of mass destruction, bioweapons, and the like.¡¯ He arched an eyebrow. ¡®No rocket launchers, please, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    ¡®Aww.¡¯


    The lift stopped, and they exited. ¡®Most complex medical requirements are gated to those with specific licencing access, should you need an organ replacement, you¡¯d need to see the doctors, you wouldn¡¯t be able to require a human kidney.¡¯


    Stef looked down at her hands. The specification of ¡°human¡± was-


    ¡®I can see you thinking, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    Ryan stopped in front of a window seat that looked out over the mid-morning street below. She moved to sit, leaning up against the left wall, legs crossed. Ryan stood for a moment, then sat, his feet on the floor like a sensible person.


    She looked at her hands again and tried to find the thought she¡¯d been having. ¡®I mean...could I require a puppy kidney that was the size of a human kidney?¡¯ She winced. ¡®I mean, that¡¯s a bit morbid, and wouldn¡¯t work if you needed a transplant - shit, should have said pig kidney - but if you needed to make a particularly gross point or win a bet or something¡­¡¯ She waved her hands defensively. ¡®Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m not gonna try now, but I assume people have tried to rules-lawyer their way around some of these restrictions. I mean, my first through was pig kidneys, but I¡¯m just a weirdo, I¡¯m sure someone has thought ¡°ooh, if I can¡¯t require the Evil Bioweapon, then I can require the components or the components of the components¡±.¡¯


    ¡®We do try not to recruit people who would be inclined to do such a thing-¡¯


    ¡®I should really stop talking about puppy kidneys, then, right?¡¯


    ¡®But there are also certain checks in place, we¡¯ve been doing this for some time, so we¡¯re not blind to all the tricks that people are capable of.¡¯


    Require: cookie.


    ¡®Most other limitations,¡¯ Ryan continued as she munched on the new cookie. ¡®Come under common sense, but I¡¯ve emailed you a more comprehensive ruleset, and I have no doubt Jones will send you his recruit-compiled welcome package.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®It¡¯s usually reserved for his recruits, but I have the feeling you may be requested by Tech on occasion.¡¯


    ¡®Does that happen a lot?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not uncommon. We like our recruits to use their strengths. One example, Hewitt, under normal circumstances, he would have gone to Tech, but Combat needed the numbers at the time, so they were able to fight for him to be placed in their division. So while he is happy in Combat, many of his elective activities - such as the conferences he¡¯s eligible to attend, focus on his more technical skills.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not gonna lie, nerd shit conferences sound like a lot of fun.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll receive notifications of events. Elective activities have to be worked around your existing schedule, but I¡¯m sure allowances can be made.¡¯ He reached out, a small black object in his hand. ¡®Your security clearance has been activated. This has your security card, your field ID, and your credit card in it. Your ID also acts as a keycard to open any locked doors you have access to.¡¯


    She flipped open the handsome leather ID folder and smiled at the official-if-sparse looking ID. It had a photo of her - the same photo that had been on Jones¡¯ computer when the crystal had been hooked up. There was a silvery hologram of a circle on the white background, but no other branding. It was exactly as anonymous as you¡¯d expect the ID of the real-life MIB to be.


    The credit card was similarly plain - though here, the silvery circle logo had a blue horizontal line that stretched from the centre of the circle to the same distance outside the circle. ¡®Is there a per diem limit on the card?¡¯


    ¡®This is another element that broadly falls under common sense - keep any cash transactions to the realm of ¡°sensible¡±, and there shouldn¡¯t be a problem.¡¯


    She nodded and tucked the ID folder into her right pocket.


    ¡®That covers the basics, I believe. Next...would you like to meet the other recruits?¡¯


    She stared at her cookie and shrugged. ¡®Not really.¡¯

 12 - Objectivity

    For a single moment when she¡¯d first put on the uniform, she¡¯d been a different person. There¡¯d been a rip in spacetime, showing her a world where she was competent, where she wasn¡¯t a total loser.


    In this reality, ¡°total loser¡± was starting to look like an aspirational goal.


    Stef stared into the bathroom mirror and tried to calculate how much longer Ryan would let her hide before he sent someone in after her to enquire if she was experiencing a medical emergency. So far, he¡¯d given her fifteen minutes, twenty would be pushing it.


    For the thirty-eighth time, she looked to the large frosted window, not quite able to convince herself that plummeting however many stories to the ground and the resultant grievous bodily harm was better than interacting with humans.


    Somehow, stupidly, she hadn¡¯t considered interacting with other people. New people. New people that she had to talk to. It was an entirely different proposition to the code monkeys - with them, they¡¯d been operating at least near her wavelength.


    A single goal, a single topic of conversation that arose naturally whenever conversation had to take place.


    Here, there weren¡¯t going to be any parameters. No guidelines. No-


    She leaned her elbows on the sink, and drove both thumbs into her throat, unsure if she was trying to cut off her air or force herself to breathe.


    She couldn¡¯t draw in a breath. And everything hurt.


    Seconds stretched, and self-loathing settled on her shoulders like a familiar jacket.


    She dropped her hands away, then ran the tap and splashed her face.


    ¡®Why the fuck did I think I-¡¯


    I¡¯m so stupid. I¡¯m so stupid.


    So go home.


    Sometimes I can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re trying to help me or goad me.


    What do you need right now, Spyder?


    ¡®God, I wish I knew.¡¯


    You can¡¯t stay in here forever.


    Stef carefully patted her face dry and looked at herself once more to make sure she looked - at least on a first or second glance - normal.


    ¡®You¡¯ll have to do,¡¯ she muttered to her reflection, then walked towards the door, each of the six stalls an invitation to hide, to take shelter in shadow and just breathe until the world ended.


    One slow footstep after another eventually took her out of the room. More slow steps took her the short way down the corridor, to where Ryan was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. She opened her mouth to claim bodily dysfunction, but nothing came out.


    And if she forced the tiniest sound, she knew she¡¯d be screaming.


    ¡®You¡¯re nervous.¡¯


    She managed to keep almost-eye-contact with him for another second, nodded, then dropped her head to look down at her feet. ¡®I just don¡¯t¨C I¡¯m not so good around people.¡¯


    ¡®As I remarked earlier, you seem to be outside of a lot of usual parameters, so maybe we can try something a little outside of the norm. Excuse me for a moment.¡¯


    She nodded, and expected him to walk away, but instead he just went quiet. She looked up, and his eyes had the thousand-yard stare of someone not looking at the objects in front of them.


    Using his HUD?


    A moment later, he stood straight. ¡®We¡¯ll try this instead,¡¯ he said. ¡®Generally, new recruits are given a general introduction to all available, off-shift colleagues, then handed over to their recruit partner for the remainder of their induction. We shall simply skip the general introduction - a new recruit alert has already been emailed, which will suffice.¡¯


    A moment later, a recruit walked around the corner. ¡®Here, sir,¡¯ the recruit announced as he walked up to Ryan. She took a quick look at him - full Field uniform, just like Ryan. He was a plain-looking, brown-haired white guy. Somewhere around her age. Probably a foot taller than her. Another stupidly tall person. Too many people were tall.


    Am I supposed to say hello?


    Many humans do use greetings when meeting someone for the first time.


    Thankfully, Ryan saved her from any embarrassment resulting from a failure to act like a person. ¡®Miss Mimosa, this is Recruit O¡¯Connor. He¡¯s been assigned as your partner, and he¡¯ll continue your tour from here.¡¯ He lifted his hand, as if to place it on her shoulder, but withdrew it before making contact, then smiled. ¡®I¡¯ll check in on you later.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, thanks,¡¯ she said, trying not to stumble over her words as Ryan walked away.


    Recruit O¡¯Connor gave an awkward wave that seemed to be half-greeting, half-getting attention. ¡®Hi. Need to do anything before we continue?¡¯


    She shrugged. ¡®Um. No?¡¯


    He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ¡®Then we¡¯re headed this way.¡¯ He turned and started to walk. ¡®I¡¯m also not going to pretend I haven¡¯t seen your file. Agent Ryan always asks that I read through before I show a new person around. So, forgive me if I go a little one-oh-one on stuff, but it doesn¡¯t seem like you have much exposure to the fae side of the world?¡¯


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    She tried to think and ground the heel of her hand into her right eye. ¡®Um, maybe eighteen hours of knowing magic is real? And a bunch of those were asleep, so I don¡¯t think they count?¡¯


    ¡®No problem, ask for any clarifications you need. Curt, by the way.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®My- My name,¡¯ he said, confusion evident in his voice as he half-turned to look at her. ¡®It¡¯s my name?¡¯ He stopped by a set of emergency stairs. ¡®These exist,¡¯ he said, patting the door, ¡®but mostly they¡¯re used by people who need a place to argue. Some of the best gossip comes from the recruits who stand up near the roof door to smoke and listen to everything that filters up.¡¯


    He looked at her, waiting for a response, but she wasn¡¯t sure what she was supposed to say.


    ¡®Okay, so Field is primarily spread out over two floors. We do have some facilities reserved on other floors - we¡¯ve got a couple of rooms for questioning civilians on two, and we¡¯ve got the use of all common facilities of course. But generally speaking, main operations on this floor, dorm rooms upstairs.¡¯


    ¡®Been there,¡¯ she said slowly and begged her ability to fake conversation to engage. ¡®I mean.¡¯ She swallowed. ¡®I was issued a dorm room when I arrived last night,¡¯ she said, and immediately hated herself for traces of her mother¡¯s accent in her voice.


    Too formal.


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said, ¡®didn¡¯t get a lot of sleep last night.¡¯


    ¡®Shit, yeah, sorry,¡¯ he said. ¡®My Tech operator told me some details, I don¡¯t know everything, but I understand it was bad. They don¡¯t usually go after civilians in large groups like that.¡¯ He stopped walking, turned, then took two steps back from her. ¡®For the sake of transparency, and because I¡¯m not sure if Agent Ryan told you. I¡¯m ex-Solstice. Relocated, rehabilitated, but for obvious reasons, some people don¡¯t like to work with me.¡¯ He leaned against the wall. ¡®Agent Ryan tends to put me with anyone who had an interaction with the Solstice, as I¡¯m better placed to answer any questions they might have.¡¯


    He took a few more steps down the hall and began to tidy a noticeboard. ¡®No one ever removes the old notices,¡¯ he commented. He pulled a piece of paper away, and it disappeared from his hand as it was dismissed, then he replaced the pushpin.


    He needed her to say something.


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    He nodded and continued to clean up the noticeboard. ¡®I...didn¡¯t know there was another choice at the time. Saw a monster, wanted to protect the people I loved. People I thought I could trust told me what seemed to be the truth.¡¯


    He adjusted one last notice, then waved for her to follow as he continued down the hall. ¡®They¡¯re really good at compartmentalising information, Newbie. They get a good read on you, and feed whatever lever they¡¯ve made you pull inside yourself.¡¯


    ¡®What¡¯d you do?¡¯


    She watched as his shoulders lifted up in a big shrug. ¡®I was just a redshirt,¡¯ he said. ¡®Honestly, I spent half my time in one of the call centres chasing down where packages and shipments had ended up.¡¯


    A small group of recruits exited a room ahead of them. One - wearing casual clothes, rather than a uniform, gave a sharp whistle and a wave. ¡®Hey, new girl, you a pommy?¡¯


    ¡®Uuuuuuh.¡¯


    The recruit and his cohorts walked up. ¡®Did you go to one of those Harry-Potter-ass boarding schools?¡¯


    Spyder-sense tingling¡­


    ¡®I- That would be an almost accurate description?¡¯ she said slowly.


    ¡®See, the thing is,¡¯ the recruit said, ¡®whenever there¡¯s someone new, we Google them, so we know if they¡¯re an untrustworthy traitor,¡¯ he said, reaching forward to punch Curt in the shoulder, ¡®some dipshit who was on a singing show,¡¯ he jerked his thumb at the man behind him, ¡®or apparently, some dumb pommy slut.¡¯


    Well, this is me noping out.


    She turned, and walked back down the hall, ignoring the group calling after her, asking for clarifications, and demanding that she explain herself.


    Just breathe.


    It¡¯s so stupid.


    Breathe.


    Her fifteen minutes of fame, of course, it was the first thing that came up in any search on her name. A bunch of paparazzi stories, and half-blurred pictures of a teenage girl in her underwear.


    ¡®Take the left,¡¯ a voice behind her said. She started and turned, and saw Curt power-walking to catch up to her. ¡®I need breakfast, and I assume you need air.¡¯ He jogged around the corner, and when she caught up, he was already holding the lift open.


    ¡®So, that was Brian,¡¯ he said as he angrily punched the button for the ground floor. ¡®I told you my tragic backstory, so let¡¯s just say when I call him a piece of shit, you know it¡¯s a professional opinion. He thinks he¡¯s far more important than he is. And this..this is what he does to everyone. It¡¯s half-hazing, half...seeing if he wants you in his coterie.¡¯ The doors slid open. ¡®He treats himself like he¡¯s an aide, and expects everyone to do the same.¡¯


    ¡®Some human beings just say hello,¡¯ she said, looking up from her shoes long enough to get a look at the lobby.


    Black tile, silver accents and framed abstract art. A high-walled reception desk in the centre. A few potted plants. Perfectly anonymous, perfectly...average. Probably somewhere that had to turn away lost job seekers every day, telling them that their interview was in another building.


    A pretty receptionist stood up. ¡®Good morning, signing out?¡¯


    ¡®Hey Natalie, yes,¡¯ Curt said and pressed his ID wallet to a tablet that the receptionist offered.


    Natalie turned and offered her the tablet. ¡®Hi Stephanie, welcome to the Agency.¡¯


    ¡®Stef,¡¯ she corrected on autopilot, then she fumbled for her ID. The receptionist pointed to a little sensor where a selfie camera would usually be, and the screen briefly flashed with her photo as the ID registered.


    ¡®Have a good time,¡¯ Natalie said as she sat back down in her seat.


    ¡®Come on, Newbie!¡¯ Curt called from the front door.


    Stef blinked as she stepped into the sunlight, then immediately turned to make sure that the building was still there; as magic buildings were wont to hide behind perception filters or switch sides of the street to keep themselves away from normal people.


    The Agency, its potted plants still visible through the tinted glass, remained in place.


    She tried to keep up with Curt, but she kept stopping, looking around, trying to see the city with new eyes, expecting to see things she hadn¡¯t seen before. It was disappointingly normal ¨C maybe all of the differences were more evident at night.


    ¡®Hurry up, Newbie!¡¯ he called as the light flicked from the green walk-now man to the flashing red hurry-the-hell-up man. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. ¡®Stop dawdling.¡¯


    ¡®I wasn¡¯t,¡¯ she muttered after they ran across the street.


    ¡®You¡¯re looking for¡­well, for things you didn¡¯t know existed yesterday, right?¡¯


    She looked past him, and she hoped he interpreted it as politely looking at him. ¡®Um. Maybe.¡¯


    ¡®Here, come, sit.¡¯ He moved to sit at an unoccupied bus stop.


    She sat, wiggled, uncomfortable on the bare metal, then lifted her legs up and sat cross-legged.


    ¡®Knowing this stuff doesn¡¯t lift some sort of curtain off the world, where every other barista has purple skin and half of the businessmen are actually spirits. There are plenty of non-humans walking amongst us, but most of the time, they¡¯re really hard to spot. Seeing one thing isn¡¯t a free pass to seeing everything. It just doesn¡¯t work that way.¡¯


    It just feels-


    ¡®-like it should seem different. Like-¡¯


    -I should be able to see-


    ¡®Sorry, Newbie, didn¡¯t catch all that. It¡¯s kind of loud out here to have a decent conversation. You want to continue, in a place where you¡¯re guaranteed to see some fae?¡¯ She snapped her head up to look at him, and he smiled. ¡®Yeah, I thought that might get your attention, come on, I know a place.¡¯

 13 - The New Real

    Curt¡¯s ¡°I know a place¡± was an ugly, squat six-storey building.


    ¡®If I say this doesn¡¯t look like much,¡¯ Stef said as she touched the sun-faded paint next to the door. ¡®Are you going to get on my case for judging a book by its cover?¡¯


    It was the kind of place you just looked past, the kind of place that didn¡¯t catch the eye at all. Everything about it was...ordinary. The type of cheap office space rented for startups, temporary offices, or project work that didn¡¯t care about looks.


    Or, less charitably, a derelict building for murderers who needed a convenient commute to their kill space.


    ¡®The building is shit,¡¯ Curt agreed as he typed in a code on the keypad next to the door. ¡®But it helps them keep their prices down,¡¯ the door unlocked with a thick chunk noise, and he pulled it open. ¡®Which is important, since I¡¯m shouting you breakfast.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Um. Thanks,¡¯ she said as she followed him inside. ¡®I¡¯ll pay you back-¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯ll take you at least a few weeks until you get any fae currency. I can¡¯t see Agent Ryan sending you off on any missions that need- Hm.¡¯ He paused. ¡®Maybe Local Court work. Sometimes those guys tip.¡¯


    ¡®So is this normal?¡¯ she asked they waited for the lift.


    ¡®What part?¡¯ Curt asked as he tapped at his phone.


    Magic being stuck in buildings, hidden away from where everyone can see it.


    She bit the inside of her cheek. ¡®Meh, never mind.¡¯


    They rode up three floors in the rickety lift, then stepped out into an equally derelict corridor.


    Maybe definitely a place for murderers¡­


    At the end of the hall, there were a broad set of red double doors, which automatically opened as they approached. Inside was a restaurant, with furniture that hadn¡¯t been updated since before she was born, and wallpaper to match.


    At the counter was an old, old fashioned cash register made of brass and wood. Next to the antique were two card readers, one with a standard wifi logo, one that looked like a flower with incremental petals.


    A cute cashier walked behind the counter and smiled at them. ¡®Buffet or menus?¡¯


    ¡®Two for the buffet, Agency pricing, thanks,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®Can we get a booth with a privacy screen?¡¯


    The cashier nodded, and lead them to a table that had a thin purple curtain hanging around it, encircling it like a mosquito net, or a cheap canopy bed.


    Curt touched the curtain as they settled into their seats. ¡®This is thin, but actually blocks most of the sound, so you can geek out or freak out, and it won¡¯t annoy the other patrons. I¡¯ve had a few new recruits get...really excitable, and honestly, it¡¯s just not polite to scream that you want to try and shake someone for some pixie dust.¡¯


    ¡®I hope I¡¯m not giving you the impression that I am that uncouth.¡¯


    Curt wrapped his jacket over the back of his chair, then laid his phone on the table. ¡®Honestly, Newbie, I have no idea what kind of impression I¡¯m getting from you.¡¯ His phone buzzed, and he lifted it, smiled, and tapped it a few times before returning his attention to her. ¡®Do you want to do the first day of school thing where you stand up and introduce yourself?¡¯


    The curtain was pulled aside, and the cashier deposited a wooden cutlery holder, along with a carafe of water and two plastic cups.


    ¡®You said you read my file,¡¯ she said as she poured a glass of water. ¡®I don¡¯t know what¡¯s in that, so I don¡¯t know what you know about me.¡¯


    ¡®I know your name, age, and nothing exciting. You were- Doing some kind of debug work or something? So you work with computers? What¡¯s your day job?¡¯ He waved a hand. ¡®Or, you know, what was your day job before this?¡¯


    The truth of ¡°I¡¯m crazy and unemployable¡± probably wasn¡¯t the best answer to give. There, however, was refuge that could be taken in strict honesty, even if it wasn¡¯t the truth. ¡®I sometimes take on freelance coding jobs. Mostly short term projects.¡¯


    It was true. ¡°Short term¡± covered getting fired for not responding to emails, or writing long screeds about how code should be treated. Dorian¡¯s code work hadn¡¯t been her first job, just the first job that had been interesting enough to keep her from running, or ruining the opportunity.


    ¡®Okay. Cool. Thank you for that,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®Now, I promised you fae, take a look around.¡¯


    She peered through the curtain. ¡®But everyone looks¡­¡¯ She considered the word for a moment. ¡®Normal?¡¯


    Curt rested his chin on folded hands. ¡®Oh, really?¡¯


    She looked around again and took in details that she hadn¡¯t seen on her first, second, or third sweep of the restaurant. More than a few of the patrons had wings ¨C some were small, most were folded flat against their backs. Beautiful, colourful wings ¨C fairy wings that needed to be captured by an artist.


    ¡®¡­Fairies?¡¯


    Curt nodded.


    ¡®I mean ¨C are ¨C are they called fairies, or pixies, or¨C¡¯ She wrapped her hands around the edge of the table.


    Oh my god. This is all real, really real.


    ¡®Fairies,¡¯ he said as he poured a glass of water for himself. ¡®Wings like that, they¡¯re a fairy.¡¯


    The wings were astounding enough. What was more impressive were the customers with leaves. ¡®And those are nymphs?¡¯


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    She watched a little girl in a bright yellow shirt skip her way to the buffet. There was no hair on her head, just a mass of bouncing vines, little red flowers opening and closing as the girl filled her plate.


    Curt drank from his glass of water. ¡®Correct. Any kind of nymph you can imagine, they exist. For all kinds of plants, for all kinds of environments: water, wood, desert ¡ª everything. Same for hobs, really. They¡¯re sort of divergent species ¨C so you can have city hobs just like you can have city nymphs.¡¯


    ¡®The-¡¯ She struggled for a minute to remember if there¡¯d been a proper name for the testing she¡¯d done. ¡®Placement tests? Department deciding thing? There was a hob there, he said he ate garbage and had like-¡¯ she gestured at herself as she recalled the hob¡¯s outfit. ¡®Like glass and stuff sewn into his clothes.¡¯


    Curt nodded. ¡®That wasn¡¯t the test I got, they cycle through about half a dozen options, kind of to prevent a single set of right answers from circulating. I do know the sim you¡¯re talking about though, and that was a city hob.¡¯ A notebook and pen appeared under his hand, and he flipped it open. ¡®That was a pretty low-level sim, so if you want some recommendations for other scenarios to run, I can give you a list. When you¡¯re not on shift, you are expected to do a certain amount of self-guided training. Some recruits take up a certain weapon specialization or a particular material art. If you¡¯ll take my two cents, I¡¯d try and broaden your knowledge base before you get focussed on anything.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ she mumbled into her water glass. ¡®I¡¯ll try and not hyperfocus on something, that¡¯ll happen.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    She put down the glass. ¡®I asked about getting access to like, a wiki or something so I can learn stuff.¡¯


    Curt nodded. ¡®Yeah, there should be links to some databases, as well as pointers were to go on the intranet in your welcome pack.¡¯


    ¡®My what?¡¯


    Curt held his thumb and forefinger about six inches apart. ¡®My first day, I got this much paperwork. Everything is happening a little out of order for you, I assume Director Ryan will get it to you this afternoon.¡¯


    Stef watched as the little nymph girl left the buffet, several of the tiny red flowers in her vine hair falling to the ground. ¡®Is magic always hidden away like this?¡¯ she asked before she could stop herself.


    Curt¡¯s hand came into her field of vision as he lifted the carafe and topped up her glass. ¡®Most fae don¡¯t want to draw attention to themselves if they¡¯re living on Earth. Working for the Agency, you¡¯ll get to see some amazing things. But ninety per cent of the time, fae are just trying to, you know, do the job-work-bills thing that everyone else is doing.¡¯ He picked up his phone and tapped at it for a moment. ¡®But take one step into Fairyland and everything¡¯s different. Maybe not what you¡¯re imagining, it¡¯s not like...mushroom houses and delicate princesses. Still, magic is just...everywhere, it¡¯s integrated into how every aspect of how-¡¯ he stopped talking. ¡®You trying to catch flies, Newbie?¡¯


    She pushed her mouth closed, then every question fought for space in her mouth, resulting in a string of sounds that didn¡¯t even approach English.


    ¡®Try that again, Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Te ¨C H ¨C F ¨C Fa¨C¡¯


    ¡®Once more?¡¯


    She closed her eyes and tried to calm her brain. ¡®Fairyland?¡¯ she asked, carefully shaping the word before opening her eyes again.


    ¡®Yep.¡¯


    For the first time, she managed to focus on Curt¡¯s face. ¡®It¡¯s- It¡¯s called Fairyland?¡¯


    The curtain was pulled back once more, and two large plates were placed on the table by the cashier. ¡®Sorry, there was a bit of a hold up on clean dishes, I¡¯ll discount your bill.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not a problem,¡¯ Curt said, even as the cashier disappeared. He handed one of the plates to her. He picked up his phone again. ¡®Fairyland. Right. It¡¯s a politeness thing. Citizens get to call it one thing, non-citizens call it another thing.¡¯ He shook his phone. ¡®I have to go speak to a contact for a few minutes about a case I¡¯m working on. You go get your first round of food, and I¡¯ll be back.¡¯


    He stood, picked up the empty carafe and ducked out from under the sound-dampening net and walked away. She watched as he dropped the carafe at the counter, then left through the set of double doors.


    I mean, even if he fucks off and doesn¡¯t come back, I know how to get back to the Agency.


    She grabbed the corner of the net, and swayed it back and forth, to listen to the difference in the sound levels on both sides of it - and despite how sheer it was, it really did block most of the sound. There had to be magic in it or some kind of well-disguised tech.


    After another minute, she grabbed the plate and walked towards the buffet. The little nymph girl ran across the restaurant again, this time, her hair was sprouting orange flowers. She followed the little girl, careful not to step on any petals that she shed - just in case there was some kind of connection between the girl and her flowers, even when they were physically separated - she didn¡¯t want to step on a flower, only for the adorable little girl to feel the pain.


    One giant yellow flower started to bloom on the centre of the nymph girl¡¯s head as she spooned a soupy red concoction into a bowl. The petals rippled as the girl emptied an entire container of black croutons into the bowl, then settled against her head.


    Stef sniffed at the red soupy¡­soup, decided against it, and moved along to the next containers ¨C which held small fat discs, about half the size of her palm and as thick as her thumb, in a rainbow of colours.


    ¡®Pancakes?¡¯ she muttered.


    The nymph girl grabbed the tongs and took three of the purple ones and one of the pink-and-white striped ones.


    She swallowed and put her plate on the bench in front of the tiny pancakes. ¡®Wh ¨C what are those?¡¯


    ¡®Fluffins?¡¯ the girl said. ¡®Or do you mean what kinds?¡¯


    ¡®No, um, I can see the kinds,¡¯ Stef said as she read the labels ¨C blackberry, bacon, oat, power, fish, diet, kolk, lava berry, and a dozen more. ¡®Fluffins?¡¯


    ¡®Are you new?¡¯


    ¡®Very new, sorry.¡¯ She took the little girl¡¯s lead and took three of the blackberry and one of the bacon.


    The next trays were easier to grok onto ¨C eggs, with a variety of sauces. She took a small scoop of scrambled eggs, some white sauce and some orange sauce.


    At the end of the buffet was the drinks station - and she waited her turn while the little girl filled a large jug with cold water. The little girl smiled at her, then bounced away, jug and plate in hand.


    Stef stared at the drink selections, and after a moment, pressed a plastic cup to the dispenser and filled it with sparkling apple juice.


    Balancing plate and cup, she slowly walked back to the table, not wanting to spill anything or make too much of a scene staring at the other patrons. The net presented an immediate problem - it would be gauche to set the food and drink down onto the floor to open the curtain, but trying to open it with her hands full would be-


    ¡®Need a hand?¡¯


    Stef turned, and saw a fairy with orange and green wings - and she couldn¡¯t help but stare at her first close-up view of a fairy wing. They immediately put her in mind of a dragonfly, rather than a butterfly - shimmery and see-through, with membranes or veins or something drawing patterns all over the wing.


    She forced herself to blink. ¡®Um. Yeah. Please.¡¯


    The fairy nodded and lifted the curtain for her. She scooted under, and sat heavily into her chair, only slopping a quarter of her sparkling juice onto the table as she set her food down.


    The net dropped, and she was left in the comparative silence of the booth, alone with delicious smells, a face burning with embarrassment and a growing sense of her own incompetence. She hadn¡¯t even managed to get breakfast without fucking up, and she was supposed to-


    She picked up the bacon fluffin and munched on it ¨C discovering that it was basically a tiny fat pancake with filling ¨C and watched the fae eat their breakfasts. The girl¡¯s mother dunked one arm into the jug of water, her fingers splitting into fine white roots, with the other, she took one of the purple fluffins.


    At the table next to the nymphs were two guys holding hands and sharing from a plate laden with green fluffins. A sleepy-looking girl sat at the following table, huge fluffy ears and grey hair possibly marking her as some kind of koala person, lazily picked at a plate of eggs while playing with a phone.


    This is more attention than you¡¯d paid to people in years.


    She quickly wiped at her eyes, at the tiny forming tears, and tried to smile.


    Fae are real. Fairies are real. I just¨C


    She let out a long, shuddering breath and smiled.


    God, I think I¡¯m happy.

 14 - Acquiring Data

    It took twenty minutes for Curt to return - enough time to return twice more to the buffet bar, and get some more fluffin flavours. And three more of the bacon fluffins.


    Curt returned after she¡¯d finished all fluffins and had started on the egg. The white sauce was something like hollandaise but far sweeter; the orange was coconut-almond ¨C a strange choice for eggs, but not one she¡¯d argue with.


    ¡®I¡¯m impressed,¡¯ he said as he put his jacket back on. ¡®Most newbies stick with very human foods.¡¯


    Nothing seemed like it would shrink me down or turn me into a cat.


    She stared at her plate, uncomfortable with being complimented for her food choices. ¡®I didn¡¯t try any of the weird-sounding fluffins.¡¯


    ¡®Still, you did good, newbie.¡¯


    ¡®Was this a test?¡¯


    He smirked. ¡®No, this was breakfast. Test, though ¨C that reminds me.¡¯ An open folder appeared on the table in front of him, and she jumped.


    Requiring, Spyder.


    Oh. Right.


    ¡®You hadn¡¯t done your recruitment tests when Agent Ryan called me this morning, so¡­¡¯ He trailed off, flicked through a couple of pages, then looked at her. ¡®This is kind of weird.¡¯


    ¡®What¡¯s kinda weird?¡¯


    He waved a hand dismissively, and buried himself in her file, flicking from one page to the next, then back again. ¡®You, uh, hiding a superpower or something?¡¯


    Are you a superpower?


    Concentrate.


    She stared down at her plate and drew a circle in the remains of the sweet-not-hollandaise. ¡®I mean, I¡¯m kinda smart, but I don¡¯t think that¡¯s what-¡¯


    At the edge of her field of vision, she saw him look up from the folder. ¡®Yeah, these numbers tell me you¡¯re smart, that¡¯s kind of what I¡¯m having a problem with.¡¯ His hand crossed the table, with a duplicate of the folder he was holding. ¡®Want to follow along with me?¡¯


    She pushed her plate to the side and laid the folder open. She took a quick look to see what page he was on and quickly turned her report to match.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ he said. ¡®There¡¯s three scores there. Combat, field and tech. Each is out of ten, with ten being the best, obviously.¡¯


    At the top of the page was a simple horizontal bar graph, one score in blue, one in red and one in green. The red score dipped back behind the zero marker by quite a margin. ¡®So that¡¯s not good,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®Negative seven,¡¯ he said, sounding amused. ¡®Taylor¡¯s given higher scores to corpses.¡¯


    She looked away, unsure of how she was supposed to react. Ryan hadn¡¯t seemed bothered after she¡¯d done the wall test, so even with the atrocious score, it obviously hadn¡¯t barred her from working for the Agency, but-


    ¡®Combat doesn¡¯t really matter if you¡¯re not working for Taylor. Field is the interesting score ¨C it¡¯s the one that impacts you, no matter what department you work for.¡¯


    She tried to remember what Ryan had said after the hob test. ¡®I need a four, right?¡¯ She looked at the chart again - Field was the blue bar at the top. ¡®Well, it¡¯s bigger than four.¡¯


    ¡®Four-point-two,¡¯ he said. ¡®You got eight-point-six for tech.¡¯ She saw him lift his head to look at her. ¡®I mean, I don¡¯t question what Agent Ryan says, but why the hell aren¡¯t you with Agent Jones?¡¯


    ¡®Is- Is four-two that bad?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m a seven-six for comparison. There¡¯s a few CSI recruits that have ratings in the low fives. It¡¯s sufficient, but...just. That¡¯s why I¡¯m wondering if there¡¯s anything pertinent that¡¯s not directly reflected in the score.¡¯


    The score didn¡¯t make sense, but she allowed herself a tiny smile. Ryan had seemed almost - maybe - happy when handing over her uniform, which was weird, because people didn¡¯t like having her around.


    It meant a lot, because maybe it would be easier to eventually thank him for saving her life. For exactly how much a small scrap of memory had meant over the years.


    She pretended to be interested in her dirty plate. ¡®I guess I¡¯m where Ryan wanted me,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®Agent Ryan.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t call him ¡°Agent¡± or ¡°Director¡±. You just call him Ryan.¡¯


    She forced herself to look up. ¡®Director?¡¯


    Curt gave her an incredulous look. ¡®He¡¯s the director of our agency.¡¯


    ¡®But I thought he was¨C¡¯ She swallowed. ¡®He¡¯s in charge, like in-charge-in-charge?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ he said flatly. ¡®Of our Agency, and because our Agency is a hub, he¡¯s also the boss of the satellites that report to us.¡¯ He held up a hand. ¡®I can give you a map later, not now.¡¯


    ¡®But if he¡¯s field agent,¡¯ she said, finishing her thought. ¡®Is he allowed to do two jobs?¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s just the interim director. Still, you¡¯re not referring to him by rank.¡¯


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡®Should I be?¡¯


    ¡®Probably, Newbie, yeah.¡¯


    She slid lower in her chair. ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    He stared at her for a moment, then played with the pages of the file. ¡®I¡¯m just trying to figure it out.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s nothing to figure out.¡¯


    You¡¯re a stranger, I can¡¯t tell you- I don¡¯t even know what I¡¯d be telling you.


    Maybe a version of the truth?


    ¡®You¡¯re not his kid, are you? Agents tend to keep family in their own department.¡¯


    She shook her head. ¡®N-no. I-¡¯ She swallowed. ¡®I met him when I was a kid. I remembered him. Maybe it¡¯s a novelty. You know- Like, when people catch the same fish twice or whatever.¡¯


    She grabbed the corner of one of the file¡¯s pages and began to twist it back and forth.


    I think I had too many bacon fluffins.


    ¡®And if- If- Fuck. Get- If you want to get all the backstory stuff out of the way. You didn¡¯t-¡¯ she made a vague gesture with her left hand. ¡®You didn¡¯t- You didn¡¯t ask about what that other recruit said.¡¯


    ¡®You mean Brian¡¯s bullshit? I don¡¯t ask people. I¡¯m a Solstice piece of shit, anything you¡¯ve got going on is nothing compared to that.¡¯


    She pressed her thumb and forefinger into her eyes. ¡®When I was at school,¡¯ she said, and hated the trace of accent she heard in her voice. ¡®There was this guy,¡¯ she said, trying to relay the facts as dispassionately as she could. ¡®Prince. Not British royalty. Tiny-ass country you¡¯ve never heard of. Barely bigger than Monaco. He broke up with his girlfriend and then hid out in my room playing my Playstation, eating all my snacks while he waited for his family to arrange a ride home for him. Paps got wind, shot some perfectly innocent photos that they managed to misconstrue. Turned it into a scandal.¡¯ She tore the corner off the page. ¡®That¡¯s the entire thing. It¡¯s not great, because I thought I¡¯d never have to hear about that bullshit again, and-¡¯


    Curt took her glass and filled it with the remains from the pitcher. ¡®Again, if you¡¯re standing next to me, no one is going to give a shit. Ex-Solstice kind of...wins.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ she mumbled.


    ¡®Tell me you at least liked the food.¡¯ He sighed. ¡®Because this was supposed to be the fun thing before we go do your follow up.¡¯


    ¡®My what?¡¯


    ¡®We tend to take recruits back to- If there¡¯s an incident that resulted in recruitment, and there¡¯s the possibility of further details being-¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re going back to Dorian¡¯s,¡¯ she said. ¡®That¡¯s okay, the rest of my shit is, I presume, still there. It would be nice to get my phone and wallet and all my knickers and clothes. And I guess that everything¡¯s been cleaned up.¡¯ She raised a hand to the back of her head, to where the-


    Calm down. Act normal.


    She couldn¡¯t think about the blood. About someone¡¯s brains being all over her hair. About-


    She stole a look at Curt. He was a stranger, she couldn¡¯t- Emotions, real emotions, real screaming-crying-fuck-there-was-blood-on-me emotions might not be safe. He probably expected a normal person. A normal recruit.


    And she wasn¡¯t normal, wasn¡¯t-


    Wasn¡¯t recruit material. Was- Was probably making a mistake.


    And maybe it would have been okay if- If there hadn¡¯t been so much new stuff. New people. Expectations to be normal. To put up a mask for ages when she¡¯d gotten used to being alone, to just putting it up long enough to interact with a clerk during the times she couldn¡¯t do something over the internet. People were hard.


    People were hard, and magic being real had made her forget that for five minutes, and she couldn¡¯t breathe, and-


    ¡®What kind of phone do you have?¡¯


    She stabbed her thumb into her thigh, the pain giving her the focus to breathe. ¡®Huh?¡¯ she asked, looking at the gauzy sound-proofing curtain. Conversation was already hard, adding pretending-to-make-eye-contact to that was just one task too much.


    ¡®A- A Kallis Alpha-Seven.¡¯ Kallis wasn¡¯t her favourite brand. However, one perk of family money invested - and an uncle on the board - meant that she was on the distribution list a free phone whenever they released a new flagship model.


    And since the Alpha-Seven had arrived three months ago, somehow it was a perk she¡¯d managed to retain, even after breaking contact with her family.


    ¡®Particularly sentimental about it?¡¯ he asked. ¡®Like, the phone itself, not the data.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t even get the colour I wanted,¡¯ she said, trying to figure out how they¡¯d gotten onto this conversational path.


    ¡®Require a phone, then look at the specs. Trust me.¡¯ He stood. ¡®And come on, we¡¯re driving. I¡¯m still new, so I take all the opportunities I get to learn the roads better. And yeah, I know GPS is a thing, but you can¡¯t always-¡¯


    He continued to talk as she looked at her hands.


    Require: phone.


    The phone appeared in her hands, a large screen, the body sleek and beautiful. The wallpaper had the same grey circle and blue line logo she¡¯d seen on the corporate credit card Ryan had issued her.


    She dragged a finger along the screen and pulled the top menu down. There were some icons she recognised - wifi and mobile data, others she didn¡¯t, like a plain circle. Her own face stared back at her from a profile picture beside the bank of icons.


    Already loaded with my profile, cool.


    ¡®The circle and the line,¡¯ she said as they walked out of the restaurant. ¡®What-¡¯


    ¡®The circle is the Agency. The logo with the line half-in, half-out is us, Field,¡¯ he said. ¡®Should also be an Agency logo next to the wifi, that tells you if you¡¯re in System territory or not.¡¯


    ¡®System?¡¯ she echoed as they stepped into the lift.


    ¡®Just think of it like your wifi connection. No System connection, no requiring.¡¯ He looked down at her. ¡®But, you know, a bit more serious. Some places naturally have no System connection, like Faerie, though there are some areas of Fairyland that have weak connections, but even with all the signal boosters you can imagine, requiring has a lag and agents can¡¯t shift.¡¯


    She stared at the elevator doors. ¡®So if there¡¯s natural, ergo, there¡¯s unnatural?¡¯


    ¡®Blackout zones,¡¯ he said as they left the elevator. ¡®Usually Solstice. They¡¯ve got bombs that can temporarily knock out an area, so you¡¯ve got to remember the Agency isn¡¯t all-powerful. You get caught in a blackout, you¡¯re on your own, they don¡¯t send agents in after recruits. Hiding is usually your best option, the temporary ones can last as little as twenty minutes.¡¯


    Curt gave a mirthless chuckle as they walked down the street from the ugly building. ¡®Again, sorry, this wasn¡¯t supposed to be the miserable part of the day. I¡¯ll see if there are any packages for the Local Court that need delivering later on, you¡¯ll get to see more fae, and we can hit up the food court.¡¯


    About halfway down a laneway, he stopped, looked from left to right, then flicked his hand and a red sports car appeared.


    ¡®There¡¯s got to be some advantages to requiring, right?¡¯ he asked as he slipped into the driver¡¯s seat.


    She nodded. ¡®And it¡¯s good you¡¯re going for something low-profile,¡¯ she said, ¡®rather than something stupidly ostentatious,¡¯ she said.


    The passenger door was opened for her, and she found him staring at her as she settled into her seat. ¡®I legitimately can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re being sarcastic right now.¡¯


    ¡®This is what, a hundred thousand, maybe?¡¯ she asked as she fastened her belt. ¡®It¡¯s not like you pulled a Bugatti out of your hat.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m starting to think maybe we have very different perceptions about money, Newbie.¡¯


    She stared down at her knees. ¡®My- Um. My family¡¯s rich. So I- I- Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t need to apologise. Belt on?¡¯ He turned the key, and the engine came to life. ¡®This- Well, something like this has always been my dream car.¡¯ He pulled forward, turned into the street, and joined the flow of traffic. ¡®I always wanted something-¡¯ he made a groaning, unsure noise. ¡®You know, something just barely within the realm of possibility. I knew I wasn¡¯t going to get it. Still, I figured if enough of my relatives died, I could probably pool whatever I inherited and get one secondhand.¡¯ They stopped at a red light. ¡®Now I can drive this whenever I want. Not sure I-¡¯ he coughed. ¡®Not sure I like the colour though. That I¡¯ve been thinking of changing to something more subtle.¡¯


    ¡®Racing green always says mature and boring,¡¯ she commented.


    He set his phone into a mount on the dashboard, the GPS already displayed. ¡®This will take us about twenty minutes. Finish getting your phone set up, you¡¯ll need it for later.¡¯

 15 - Profile Updates

    The car ride wasn¡¯t long enough to dig through all the phone¡¯s features and native apps - it was, however, long enough to discover ¡°Vox¡±. The app seemed to the Agency¡¯s own version of Slack or Discord - and invites to a dozen servers waited for her. Along with the invites, there were several long PMs from Jones, pointing her to several ¡°n00b guides¡± and places on the Agency intranet she should check out.


    Curt pulled the car over next to the mansion¡¯s impressive wrought iron gates and turned off the engine. ¡®Gray knows we¡¯re coming, so we don¡¯t need to be discreet, but I wanted to go over a few things first. Learning opportunities, you know. Four-two isn¡¯t going to get you very far, so you¡¯ve got to listen to me until you get a better grip on the world, okay?¡¯ He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ¡®This is real life, Newbie, so if at any point I tell you to do something. If I tell you to stay in the car, or I tell you to run, I want you to do it. I won¡¯t give you any bullshit orders, and in return, you¡¯ll have a better chance at staying alive, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    She stared at the mansion through the bars of the gate, one question forming in her mind. ¡®All¨C¡¯ She shut her mouth.


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®Nothing.¡¯


    The words were too hard to say out loud. Too- She swallowed. She had to know. It was-


    Just tell me all the bodies are gone. Just tell me all the bodies are gone. Just tell me all the¨C


    ¡®¨Cbodies are gone.¡¯ The words slipped out, small and quiet.


    ¡®Yeah, Newbie,¡¯ he said, his voice gentle. ¡®A clean-up team went in after Magnolia¡¯s team cleared out. There¡¯ll be no sign of what happened last night.¡¯


    She wanted to thank him for allaying that worry, but- He¡¯d been one of them. At some point he¡¯d been willing to-


    ¡®Do you promise that you never did anything like that?¡¯


    ¡®I already told you what I did, didn¡¯t I?¡¯


    She dug her nails into her palms. ¡®Yeah, but lying is really easy.¡¯


    He stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel.


    ¡®I freely admit that there¡¯s a disconnect between reality and what the Solstice do,¡¯ he said. ¡®But there¡¯s another whole level of dissociation between¨C¡¯ He paused for a moment, and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. ¡®Hunting down things that look like they crawled out of a nightmare is one thing, but it¡¯s another to gun down a room full of human civilians. That¡¯s extreme, even for the Solstice.¡¯


    ¡®Lucky me,¡¯ she said, trying not to choke on the words. ¡®I got to see something unusual.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re damn lucky,¡¯ he said. ¡®I know we had a quick response last night, but what I read in the report- Either, either you¡¯re naturally lucky, or you just used up all the good luck you¡¯re ever going to have.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s definitely not the first,¡¯ she muttered.


    ¡®I know what I am,¡¯ Curt said after a minute. ¡®I don¡¯t forget it. And Agent Ryan knows what I am. He doesn¡¯t trust me, per se, but he trusts my behaviour, I guess you could say. He trusts me enough to let me shepherd around new recruits, so that should tell you I¡¯m some degree of safe. I never- I hope that¡¯s enough. You seem to hold him in some regard already, so just treat me like he does, and things should be fine. I¡¯m just a resource to be used, Newbie. And even with all that, I am still less of an asshole than Brian.¡¯


    ¡®Should- Should I expect the slut-shaming to continue?¡¯


    ¡®Like I told you at breakfast, I¡¯m a much bigger target. There are perks to having me as a partner. And I¡¯ll try and be gentle where I can. A lot of the other prefer trial by fire, and I¡¯d bet ten bucks you¡¯d be on a dumpster run right now, breathing in-¡¯ He stopped himself. ¡®Really disgusting smells,¡¯ he said after a moment.


    ¡®What the fuck is a dumpster run?¡¯


    ¡®How about we talk about that next week?¡¯ He offered his hand for a handshake. ¡®Are we good, good enough anyway?¡¯


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    She stared at his hand. Touch, on top of conversation, was asking too much. She gave him a wobbly thumbs-up. ¡®I guess? Th-thanks for the honesty. And if Ryan trusts you, or ¡°trusts you enough¡±,¡¯ she said, putting air quotes around the words. ¡®Then I can too.¡¯


    ¡®Okay. Okay. Good. Let¡¯s see what¡¯s next. Okay. Uniform. Good. Phone.¡¯ He pulled a phone from his pocket. A different one to the one he¡¯d been using in the restaurant - this one matched the phone she''d required. He tapped at it, and a push notification appeared - his name next to a profile icon, and the text of the message: a single smiley emoji.


    The profile icon, like the one she¡¯d seen on her own phone, was the boring ID photo - which either meant that he hadn¡¯t bothered to change his, or because these were work phones, you weren¡¯t allowed to change the icon. Something to ask later, or to look for in Jonesy¡¯s n00b guides.


    ¡®You-¡¯ she swallowed. ¡®Your other phone, is that for personal stuff? But- You said you were meeting a contact, shouldn¡¯t that have-¡¯ Maybe it was something she wasn¡¯t supposed to notice. Maybe it wasn¡¯t polite to ask. But- But if he was ex-Solstice than doing things that looked suspicious were- Maybe-


    ¡®That¡¯s kind of observant,¡¯ he said, ¡®I figured you were focused on the food and the fae.¡¯ He leaned towards his window to give himself the angle to pull the other phone from his front pocket. ¡®Technically my personal phone,¡¯ he said, ¡®sometimes I use it for Agency-related communication because the default required phone isn¡¯t on the Fairyland cellular network.¡¯ He flipped over the phone and ran his finger over the logo on the centre of the phone¡¯s back, which ran through a pattern of red, blue and yellow before settling back to silver. ¡®And I don¡¯t do enough work in Faerie to justify getting one of the Agency phones that do have a Fairyland sim.¡¯


    Her gaze followed his hand as he put his fae phone back in his pocket. ¡®I- I don¡¯t- I haven¡¯t had a lot of time to- I¡¯m not sure what I¡¯ve been imagining Fairyland to be like, but I¡¯m guessing- You said-¡¯ She shut her mouth, and tried to form even half of a proper sentence.


    Curt filled the silence after a long moment. ¡®Most recruits get caught a little off-guard when they realise that Faerie has more advanced tech than Earth does. You think of Tinkerbell or whatever, little flying, sparkly, magical things. It¡¯s not going to be your first instinct to know that our broadband speeds may as well be dial-up or telegraph. It¡¯s lasers versus phasers, no comparison.¡¯


    ¡®So,¡¯ she said slowly, ¡®there¡¯s an entire dimension of memes I don¡¯t know about?¡¯


    He gave a snort. ¡®That¡¯s your first concern? Agent Jones will be able to assist you there, I¡¯m sure. Back on topic. You¡¯re in you¡¯re uniform, you¡¯ve got your phone, but you don¡¯t have a headset.¡¯ He turned his head, and a small matte black headset appeared, rectangular and a couple of inches long - small enough not to be obnoxious, but large enough to probably have more functions than a simple earbud.


    ¡®When we¡¯re done here, I¡¯ll set up a meeting room and let you go through the communications training module. The module¡¯s not long and has the added advantage of setting a few default requirements, so don¡¯t worry about it for now, but be aware of it for the future. You¡¯ll also probably get your operator assigned this afternoon.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®Your first couple of days are going to be a lot of this, a lof of just...set up.¡¯


    ¡®Operator?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll get a Tech recruit assigned to you, so that whenever you¡¯re on assignment, you have-¡¯


    ¡®A guy in a chair,¡¯ she said, ¡®like superheroes get.¡¯


    ¡®That, ha,¡¯ he lifted his hand and pointed to his earpiece. ¡®That is exactly the explanation my operator told me to give you. Raz says hi by the way.¡¯ He tilted his head. ¡®This model has a camera, so you can wave if you want.¡¯


    She awkwardly waved towards the headset.


    More people. Definitely at least one more person she was going to have to talk to for more than a couple of sentences. Interaction was...exhausting. Pretending to be normal was already presenting its bill, demanding that she sleep for eighteen to twenty hours to get her energy back.


    Everything was tiring, and there was still so much to do.


    Is it too late to quit?


    Another push notification appeared on her phone - a friend request Raz. Unlike both her and Curt - had customised his profile picture - and the distinctive face of Razputin Aquato stared out from the picture.


    ¡®Pyschonauts,¡¯ she said approvingly, loud enough for Curt¡¯s headset to pick it up. ¡®Excellent.¡¯


    Curt opened his door and stepped out. ¡®Come on, Newbie. I¡¯ll be nice, I won¡¯t make you lead. We get to skip a lot of steps here because we know this is a safe location. If we weren¡¯t sure, we¡¯d get Tech to do drone reconnaissance first. All we have to do is knock.¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said as she followed him towards the gates. ¡®All we have to do is buzz at the gate, wait for Dorian to finish whatever he¡¯s doing, decide if he¡¯s going to use his security app or walk to a monitor. And hope he doesn¡¯t get distracted by something along the way.¡¯ She stopped walking as Curt turned to face her, an incredulous look on his face. ¡®He...doesn¡¯t rush,¡¯ she said. ¡®We¡¯d probably have better luck if some of the staff were here, but given last night, I would think- I mean- He probably gave everyone the day off.¡¯


    Curt buzzed at the gate, then adjusted his jacket as he waited for a response.


    ¡®You¡¯ll learn procedure later,¡¯ he said, ¡®but I¡¯ll ask anyway, just to gauge where your head¡¯s at. If he doesn¡¯t answer in a reasonable amount of time, what do you think we do?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m assuming you want me not to say ¡°we give up and go home¡±.¡¯


    Curt looked down at her. ¡®If you think the right answer is ¡°give up¡±, then tell me, and we work from there.¡¯


    She stared down at her dirty sneakers. ¡®It¡¯s got to be highly contextual, right? Here, we¡¯d, make an appointment or something, because Dorian¡¯s on friendly terms with the Agency. If it¡¯s someone less friendly, or- I dunno. There¡¯s got to be times when we throw our weight around, right?¡¯


    ¡®Not bad for a start, Newbie.¡¯

 16 - Echoes and Silence

    Requiring a chair so I can sit down probably wouldn¡¯t be a good look, would it?


    I¡¯m not going to dignify that with a response.


    ¡®I see Agency at my door. Do you people ever call first?¡¯ Dorian¡¯s voice said through the speaker. ¡®Spyder, delighted to see you, you know the way.¡¯ There was a buzz, and the gates began to slide open.


    ¡®Spyder?¡¯ Curt asked as they started to walk up the drive. ¡®Is that what you¡¯d prefer to be called?¡¯


    She shook her head, then realised that he was in front of her. ¡®No,¡¯ she said, ¡®Stef¡¯s fine. Just- Never the full version of the name, I hate that.¡¯


    ¡®Noted.¡¯


    Dorian opened the door as they approached. ¡®We¡¯ll talk in the parlour if you don¡¯t mind. I¡¯d offer to put some tea on, but perhaps I could just hand you a list and one of you could conjure refreshments.¡¯


    ¡®No problem, sir,¡¯ Curt said, wiping his feet before he stepped over the threshold.


    ¡®Charcuterie on the sideboard?¡¯ she asked. ¡®I¡¯ve probably got an idea of what you¡¯re expecting.¡¯


    ¡®If you wouldn¡¯t mind. And you, young man, I¡¯ve got a few things that need sorting out with the compensation and repair plan your people left behind last night.¡¯


    The parlour was one of the smaller rooms in the mansion. She''d never been in it, only seen when walking around in the wee hours of a few mornings, when she¡¯d been trying to stimulate her brain into working. Sometimes, walking around with a printout of the code had been the only way to jog new ideas.


    The parlour''s curtains were red velvet, the furniture was dark wood, and there were only two chairs - it was the kind of place you sat and thought - or had your portrait painted.


    She walked to the sideboard and closed her eyes. She thought of the afternoon teas that she¡¯d seen her parents host, and required a selection of dainty, nibbly foods. She grabbed a cucumber sandwich, a pasty white square devoid of even its crusts, and placed it into a napkin. Old habits started to rise to the surface. Sandwiches were one of the foods her parents had deemed it acceptable for her to take from a buffet like the one she¡¯d just laid out. No mess, no fuss, there was little trouble she could cause with a couple of inches of bread.


    She settled into one of the chairs - a mug of tea beside the chair closest to the door marked it as Dorian¡¯s - which left Curt to stand.


    Instead of standing beside her though, he moved towards the back corner of the room.


    Why?


    Better view of the room, better access to his gun ¨C and you¡¯re not even armed ¨C defensible in a couple of seconds, whereas you¡¯ll get stuck in the chair.


    How are you so smart?


    You¡¯re a genius, remember?


    ¡®Spyder,¡¯ Dorian said as he made himself a plate. ¡®Plus one.¡¯


    ¡®Recruit O¡¯Connor,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®You had some questions about the cleanup?¡¯


    ¡®Just a few broken items your people missed, if you wouldn¡¯t mind accompanying me on a stroll.¡¯ Dorian sat, placed his plate on a side table, then retrieved a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket. ¡®The compensation paperwork, I¡¯ve made a few notes.¡¯ He turned to look at her. ¡®I hope your people are able to make some use of the code. I hope you know this is not how I wanted any of this to turn out.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll be happy to address your notes,¡¯ Curt said. There were footsteps as Curt approached her chair. ¡®Recruit, why don¡¯t you go collect your stuff?¡¯


    She nodded, pushed herself up, and left the room, cucumber sandwich still in hand.


    ¡®Hm.¡¯


    She dug into her pocket and found the last bacon fluffin - one she¡¯d wrapped up like a hobbit for a second breakfast snack. She paused by one of the hall tables, put the fluffin into the sandwich, then crammed the whole thing into her mouth.


    The bacon made the sandwich a bit more exciting, but the combination wasn¡¯t one to try again.


    Two long hallways brought her to the grand room that had been the heart of the project.


    Her throat went tight as she rested her hands against the closed double doors.


    She had to go in, whatever was in there, she had to see the room one more time.


    But it was so hard to even think about opening the doors. Too hard to- There was always the chance they¡¯d missed something, some little trace. People had died, and there was no way they could clean it so thoroughly that-


    People had died.


    People had died right in front of her.


    I could have died.


    Spyder, breathe for me.


    She sank down onto her knees.


    I can¡¯t.


    Just breathe.


    ¡®I can¡¯t,¡¯ she said, her voice a whisper-scream.


    She hugged her arms around herself.


    It was supposed to be exciting. It was supposed to be¨C I don¡¯t even know.


    An adventure?


    Just a little one?


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    She wiped tears away.


    It was just supposed to be code. It was supposed to be safe. I was supposed to be safe.


    She pressed her head to the closed doors.


    You don¡¯t have to go in there.


    ¡®Yeah, I do,¡¯ she said.


    It was like...going to a test you knew you were going to fail or forcing yourself to look at a body during a funeral. An unpleasantness that had to be passed through like a Herculean trial.


    She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and slowly stood, hoping that maybe, just maybe the doors would be locked - so that she would have made an attempt at closure, but that the universe was preventing her from having to experience it.


    With a deep breath steadying her, she twisted the handle on the right-hand side door. The door opened easily, but the room inside wasn¡¯t one she recognised.


    For the last few weeks, it had been long desks, computers, sideboards with kettles and coffee makers, and the impromptu lecture area with the seats and projector. Perfect for the project work.


    Now there was a pool table, several expensive rugs, and a seating area. Unlike the parlour, this had room for a dozen people to sit, drink, smoke and discuss how good the world was when you were at the top.


    There were no indicators of the massacre, no bullet holes in the lacquered wood, no remains of the puke smell from the poisoned, nothing.


    It was a relief, and she felt able to relax, if only a tiny bit.


    Something buzzed.


    She stepped into the room - hidden behind the door was a large cleaner¡¯s trolley, the kind with the x-frame that was basically a giant, thick bag on wheels. Inside were dozens of plastic evidence bags, each containing a laptop, a phone, a wallet - some vestige of the coders that had shared the room.


    One of the phones close to the top buzzed again, the clear plastic allowing her to see a dozen unread notifications. Whoever the phone had belonged to - and whether or not they were alive - they were being missed. Whoever it belonged to, someone had noticed their disappearance.


    The more she listened, the more buzzes she could hear.


    So many families missing someone. So many friend groups that were going to need to recruit a replacement.


    If her phone was still in her room, the most it was going to have was a discount voucher for pizza.


    She turned, walked into the door, grabbed it, pushed it out of the way and headed for her room.


    The room was tidy - the bed made, her shoulder bag was on the desk, the kettle was full, everything in its place. She grabbed her bag, sat on the bed, and found her phone - its desperately low battery a sign that she was a bad caretaker.


    ¡®Huh. Maybe.¡¯


    Require: full battery.


    The phone screen blinked, and the battery indicator changed to one hundred per cent.


    ¡®Cool.¡¯


    Almost absently, she required a cable, connected her old and new phones, and started to transfer the data.


    She laid the phone aside, adjusted herself so that she was sitting cross-legged, and stared around the room.


    ¡®Think,¡¯ she mumbled. ¡®You can¡¯t just sit on your ass.¡¯


    Inside voice, Spyder.


    Frankie was back at the Agency, her shoulder bag and phone were beside her, that just left her clothes and overnight bag.


    She stood, walked to the wardrobe, stood on tiptoes, then pulled her vandalised Louis Vuitton bag down. She¡¯d need to take a permanent marker to another one of the LV logos, to mark another trip that the bag had made, something she could do once she got home.


    Although maybe for the next sometime - days, weeks, some amount of time - ¡°home¡± meant the Agency. They¡¯d given her a room, but there had been no discussion about how regularly she was supposed to stay there - if she was expected to move in full time, stay there on some kind of rotating shift, or if there was some more casual arrangement.


    She liked her apartment - even though it had been a case of being the only property willing to take her in. Landlords and rental agents had had a lot of trouble with her applications - but admittedly, her situation had been strange.


    She¡¯d been straight out of school, had no history of paying rent - or any bills for that matter; had been offering a bond deposit equivalent to nearly a year¡¯s rent...all while looking at the cheapest places available.


    A scrawny teenager with a posh accent, trying to bribe acceptance with a five-figure deposit, while begging to rent places that had weird stains on the walls. It had seemed way too suspicious for most.


    And so she¡¯d been left dragging her feet back to her five-star hotel each night, eating room service while staring at her bank account, crying because she had no idea how to handle life.


    The ¡°please fuck off forever¡± payment had been arranged as a one-time thing from her family. Enough to start a life, to...set her up in a way that meant they¡¯d never have to deal with her again. But once it was gone, it was gone, so that had meant a radical readjustment in...every aspect of her life.


    Between sessions of staring at the wall, overwhelmed by having to act like an adult, she''d tried to do research, tried to prepare herself for the real world. Hours and hours of staring at websites on moving out of home had given a lot of useless platitudes, and conflicting information, which had led to even more stress. Above all noise though, one truth had floated to the top: it was universally agreed that rent was everyone''s biggest expense, and biggest pain in the arse.


    So scraping the bottom of the barrel was the sensible thing to do. Her room had school had been small - a desk and a bed, her suite at the family estate had barely been bigger, so she knew she didn¡¯t need much space.


    But rejection after rejection had left her spiralling, until she¡¯d applied for an apartment not listed online, one advertised by a crappy piece of cardboard in a window.


    One inspection, one handshake and a few forms later, she¡¯d had a home.


    It had been her space. The first space that was really hers, and not just some space that her family had deigned to give her.


    And now for the first time, there was a reason to wonder if she should give it up.


    Both logic and emotion told her no. The logic was two-pronged - first, it was unlikely that the gig with the Agency was going to last for long. She would - definitely would - do something to screw it up, and then this dream would be over. Or - if by some ritual of science and dark magic, it somehow turned into a long-term thing, then she could just keep her apartment as somewhere to house her stuff, or to retreat to when the world was too much.


    And if she was at the Agency, then she could require food and keep her-


    ¡®Huh.¡¯


    She stared at her hand and pressed her thumb to her forefinger.


    Require: twenty bucks.


    There was a tickle against her skin as the orange twenty dollar note appeared between her pinched fingers.


    ¡®Oh, there is no way that is legal.¡¯


    She stuffed the twenty into her pocket, lifted the Louis from the floor, and threw it onto the bed. She required a fistful of cash, and stuffed it into her makeup bag, before burying the small bag of mostly expired products back into its usual deep corner of the overnight bag.


    The ¡°fuck off forever¡± money had been at once her saviour and her albatross. It had given her the freedom to escape - putting half a world between her crazy and the rest of her family, but it had, in its own way, also been a ticking clock. Even with the majority squirrelled away in decent savings accounts, and a nice chunk invested, it was only ever going to last so long.


    Rent cost money, food cost money, and every container of takeaway Chinese, or upgrade for one of her computers brought that inevitable point closer and closer.


    It was the reason she¡¯d taken on random pieces of coding work - like the one that had led her to Dorian, to this room, and to being so close to dying that-


    ¡®Oh, please, god no.¡¯


    The room looked fine. The room really looked fine. But-


    But there¡¯d been no action in this room. No puking, no gunfire. Anyone doing a clean wouldn¡¯t have had reason to do anything more than the obviously visible.


    ¡®Please, no.¡¯


    She opened the wardrobe - the few things she¡¯d hung up were still there, off to one side.


    And on the other side was a dirty stain, where she¡¯d pressed her bloodied head to the inside wall of the wardrobe. Where she¡¯d ground pieces of someone¡¯s brain into the wood grain. Where she¡¯d waited to die. Where she¡¯d listened to people dying, and been helpless to do anything about it. People who¡¯d mattered. People who had families and friends buzzing phones that were forever going to go unanswered.


    She wiped tears from her eyes, then reached out and touched the stain. Tacky, nearly-dry blood mixed with the remains of the tears on her fingers and coated her fingertips.


    She backed away quickly, barely making to the bed before she collapsed.


    She stared at the blood on her fingers, too many thoughts and no thoughts at all clashing in her brain. Echoes and silence and the crescendo of every noise in the universe.


    She hung her head, stared at her shoes, and wished she could turn into stone.

 17 - Sounds and Meaning

    The world was fog.


    Stef stared at nothing.


    Sometimes there were noises.


    These feelings were too big and too...outside of her wheelhouse. She hadn¡¯t been built to deal with shit like this. She¡¯d barely been built to function as a person. There¡¯d been a reason that staying inside, speaking with no-one and barely existing had been her comfortable speed for years.


    More noise.


    Maybe it was stompy boots back to finish the job.


    Doing things meant experiencing things. Meant dealing with consequences. Meant having to¡­


    She shouldn¡¯t have been the one to survive.


    It should be her brains on someone else¡¯s fingers right now. Except that person would have been smart enough not to touch to bloodstain, not to trigger themselves into a complete shutdown.


    Heavy footsteps, loud enough to cut through the fog.


    She started as a shape entered her field of view. A blurry lump of black and white and-


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯ the lump said.


    She stared, still unable to focus, unable to lift her head.


    Disappointing. Though maybe disappointing an ex-Solstice wasn¡¯t as bad as disappointing someone who didn¡¯t have that in their past. But it was still- Still not acting how a new recruit was supposed to act. Still probably something that would go on a report that would get back to Ryan.


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    Curt knelt in front of her, down on one knee, low enough to get into her line of sight. ¡®Hey, are you able to focus?¡¯ He slowly brought his hand up and pointed at himself. ¡®I¡¯m here, how can I help?¡¯


    Everything was locked too far down, too far away.


    ¡®Gimme a minute.¡¯


    A tablet appeared in his hand, and after a moment, he spun it to face her - a soundboard, with a few large labelled icons.


    There was text, but it shifted and moved as she tried to read it. The icons were easier. A water glass. A hotdog. A hospital. A bed. A house.


    Slowly, he slid it under the hand she had resting on the bed beside her. All she¡¯d have to do was move a finger barely an inch, and she¡¯d get help.


    But- But shutting down in front of someone was- Usually, if her brain broke, she could just flop out of her chair into her bed, cover herself in blankets and sleep until the world made sense again.


    That wasn¡¯t how a recruit should act.


    And Dorian wouldn¡¯t appreciate having an unannounced houseguest.


    Slowly, she slid her finger to the question mark, and the tablet said ¡°Unknown¡±.


    ¡®Hey, there you are,¡¯ he said, sounding relieved. ¡®You¡¯ve started packing, do you want me to grab the rest of the clothes from the wardrobe?¡¯


    She slid her finger onto the bright green tick, and the soundboard said ¡°Yes¡±.


    For a couple of moments, he busied himself with taking ratty T-shirts from hangers, folding them, and placing them into her Louis.


    ¡®I¡¯d suggest requiring this clean,¡¯ he said as he zipped it up. ¡®But you seem to have gone to some effort to graffiti it. Is there anything else I can do to help?¡¯


    She slid her finger onto the red X.


    ¡®Okay, then just chill here for a bit, okay?¡¯


    She barely managed a nod as he left the room.


    Slowly, she looked at the red marks on her fingers, then turned her hand over and scrubbed her fingers against the fabric of her pants.


    Time passed, and a different set of footsteps approached.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    She managed to lift her head and look at Ryan.


    ¡®Would you mind if I sat?¡¯


    She made a tiny affirmative noise and shuffled over so that he had plenty of room to sit. She gripped the tablet for a moment, grateful for its help, then dismissed it.


    ¡®What did you do to your hand?¡¯ Ryan asked. ¡®May I?¡¯ he asked as he reached for it.


    ¡®Not mine,¡¯ she choked as he cleaned her fingers with a wet wipe, filling the air with the scent of artificial vanilla. ¡®There was-¡¯ She made a whimpering noise and jutted her chin towards the wardrobe.


    He walked to the wardrobe and looked inside. ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ he said as he made a gesture inside the wardrobe towards the stain - probably, hopefully, making it clean so no one ever had to see it again. ¡®With the good condition of the rest of the room, there would have been no reason for the clean-up crew to look into the nooks and crannies.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said as he sat down again.


    ¡®It''s not something you have to apologise for.¡¯


    She brought her hands to her face and took in a deep breath. It wouldn¡¯t help like a scream would, but maybe it would be enough to get through the next few minutes.


    She dropped her hands into her lap. ¡®It¡¯s so stupid.¡¯


    ¡®What is?¡¯


    She picked up her new phone and looked at the progress of the data transfer. ¡®I know I¡¯m not- You said there were other people who got out. So I know I¡¯m not the sole survivor, but- But a lot of people did die.¡¯ She looked at her pants, at where she¡¯d wiped the dried blood from her fingers. ¡®It¡¯s just a waste that I was one of the people who lived. And-¡¯ She groaned. ¡®Please don¡¯t tell me it happened for a reason, or-¡¯


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡®Of all the sentiments in the world, Miss Mimosa, I find the concept that ¡°everything happens for a reason¡± to be one of the most disingenuous. All it seems to do is minimise the pain of someone who has experienced a tragedy.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Huh.¡¯ She tried to look at him, but failed. ¡®I thought being an adult meant you had to swallow a certain number of platitudes, with that one at the top of the list.¡¯


    The data transfer window disappeared, and she disconnected the phones, then dismissed the old one, glad to be free of one more reminder of her family. ¡®I just mean- Today there¡¯s probably a whole bunch of people grieving. If I¡¯d traded places with any of them, I would have just been one more corpse for you to chop up into Soylent Green.¡¯


    ¡®You keep mentioning-¡¯ Ryan started. ¡®Are you hoping to fool me into admitting that we use humans for fuel?¡¯


    She tried to smile. ¡®It would be a good use of some people.¡¯ She tucked her phone into her pocket. ¡®It¡¯s not survivor¡¯s guilt. Probably not. This is just more...empirical. Running the numbers, there would be a net gain in happiness if-¡¯ she looked at her fingers, where the dried blood had been. ¡®If I was Soylent.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re not suitable,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®there¡¯s far too much caffeine in your system.¡¯


    She looked up at him and saw him smiling. After a moment, she wiped her eyes and tried to match his smile. ¡®Ha,¡¯ she said dryly.


    ¡®I know it might not mean much, Miss Mimosa, but I¡¯m happy you lived. I¡¯m sorry for the people who suffered loses last night, but your survival wasn¡¯t meaningless.¡¯


    But you don¡¯t even know me.


    She shrugged.


    You don¡¯t know how worthless I am.


    ¡®But I¡¯m nobody.¡¯


    And you don¡¯t know how much I already owe you.


    Ryan said nothing.


    She curled her hands into fists, nails pressing into her palms. He didn¡¯t want to hear her piteous statements. He didn¡¯t need to deal with her bullshit. He didn¡¯t-


    ¡®You remembered me.¡¯ His voice was quiet, like he was saying a secret or something he was ashamed of. ¡®I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve conveyed- Would you mind if I explained?¡¯


    She turned towards him and pulled her legs up to sit cross-legged. ¡®Sure, go ahead.¡¯


    ¡®You made an immediate assumption that we¡¯re the truth behind the rumours of men in black. As I said, there¡¯s truth to that, we¡¯re well-dressed, we deal with things that most people deem strange, and we leave little trace of our existence. Everything about us is designed to be...of little note. Our uniforms, our names, everything is to leave as little impact as possible.¡¯


    ¡®And you can mess with people¡¯s memories.¡¯


    ¡®We can, but it¡¯s most often a last resort. We try to allow the social engineering aspects of our appearance do the heavy lifting. It¡¯s necessary for our work, but it means we make few connections.¡¯


    ¡®And you recruit jerks who somehow don¡¯t think that you being AI is like, the coolest thing on the fucking planet.¡¯


    This earned another smile, and this time, it was easier to match it.


    ¡®Being remembered is special, Stef, it¡¯s a way of knowing your actions had positive consequences. With you- I took a risk in doing what I did, and for that, I¡¯m sorry, but I felt that you deserved a chance at life. And to see you again, to get a chance to see what a remarkable person you¡¯ve become, that¡¯s vanishingly rare for someone like me. And so I¡¯m grateful. So, please, don¡¯t think that it¡¯s inconsequential that you survived.¡¯


    ¡®If- If that¡¯s the case, can you tell me the whole story?¡¯


    ¡®If that¡¯s what you¡¯d like.¡¯


    Not trusting her words, she nodded.


    Slowly, he told her the whole story. The previous night¡¯s half-sentence expanded, becoming the story of chasing a murderer, her baby-self being taken hostage and killed by a stray bullet, then his descent through death and into Limbo to carry her soul home.


    So many tiny things fell into place as he talked - her recurring dream of drowning surely had to be the darkness of Death¡¯s realm. The association of safety with Agency blue had to be him holding her tiny baby soul, protecting it against an endless void that would have turned her into a ghost.


    And Alexandria, her favourite toy, something that had somehow always been more than just a china doll. A doll that sat broken on a bookshelf, the damage so recent that there was probably still shards of the antique doll in her apartment¡¯s carpet.


    ¡®I want to tell you,¡¯ Ryan said, his tone sombre, ¡®before you build this into a heroic act-¡¯


    ¡®A little- A little couple of decades too late for that.¡¯


    ¡®I wasn¡¯t operating at my best that day. I¡¯d just lost someone I loved, so- If I had done a better job, then that man never would have been in a position to threaten you. And when he- I needed to save someone. It was selfish in its own way. I don¡¯t regret saving you, but I hope you can forgive the- The less-than-noble reason behind it.¡¯


    A lump the size of a watermelon stuck in her throat.


    She started to draw a spiral on her knee with her finger. In the beginning, it had been a mantra, a magic spell, a way of keeping her words inside, of stopping herself from talking to herself out loud. It had morphed into a focus, of trying to- Of a way of trying to make the thoughts go. To give order to the barrel of snakes that operated the grey matter in her skull.


    ¡®But it wasn¡¯t just one time,¡¯ she said, barely choking the sentence out.


    ¡®Pardon?¡¯


    She scooted away from him, to give him as much space from the crazy girl as possible.


    No-


    ¡®-it¡¯s-¡¯


    -stupid, I-


    ¡®-can¡¯t tell-¡¯


    She covered her mouth, unwilling to let any more words out.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    Not-


    ¡®-ready-¡¯


    -I¡¯m not ready to-


    ¡®-tell you.¡¯


    She looked at his vest, at the colour that had always meant safety, at the- It was stupid and too personal, and she couldn¡¯t- And it would let him know she was crazy and that she shouldn¡¯t be- Shouldn¡¯t be around him. Shouldn¡¯t be allowed to remember magic, or remember him.


    Everything would be okay, so long as he thought she was normal. Or maybe geeky-weird, but not crazy-weird. As soon as he figured out- But until then, for a couple of days, she¡¯d be allowed a glimpse into a parallel reality where she had a life, where she got to do things.


    So, stories of suicide were definitely off the table.


    ¡®Just-¡¯ she swallowed, her tongue thick, her brain racing to come up with acceptable words. ¡®Because I remembered- Well. You. And mostly the colour blue. It¡¯s always been like a personal hack. If I needed to feel safe, I¡¯d just look for this colour,¡¯ she said, pulling her tie out from her vest. ¡®So. Um. Thanks. It doesn¡¯t matter if it was selfish, or whatever you think, you still helped me. And doing that kept on helping me.¡¯ She wiped tears from her eyes, and hated that she hadn¡¯t been able to lock all of her emotions down. ¡®So. Yeah. Thanks and stuff.¡¯


    She swung her legs off the bed and looked down at her feet. It was no good pretending that she wasn¡¯t crying, but at least she could spare him from having to look at her probably-already-blotchy face.


    Crying was ugly, especially when she did it.


    Her parents had hated it when she¡¯d cried - it hadn¡¯t taken much to annoy her father, and with her mother, it simply wasn¡¯t what was expected of a perfect little doll.


    And now she was crying in front of her boss.


    It was still so strange that he was real, that her dreams had an origin, that- He could have let her stay dead, could have written her off as just another tragedy, but he¡¯d-


    He¡¯d given her her life back.


    And that was a lot to take in.


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said. ¡®It¡¯s probably just- Sorry. I¡¯m still kinda-¡¯


    Ryan stood, then moved to sit beside her, breaking the barrier that would keep him clear of her crazy. He held up his hand, and a handkerchief appeared there. ¡®You don¡¯t need to make excuses for your emotions, Stef.¡¯ His hand hovered in her field of vision for a moment. ¡®Last night, when I touched your shoulder,¡¯ he started. ¡®I don¡¯t want to make you uncomfortable.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m basically a hermit,¡¯ she said, her voice hollow, ¡®I¡¯m- I¡¯m not used to being touched. But- It¡¯d be okay.¡¯


    ¡®All right.¡¯


    He laid his arm across her shoulders and gently pulled her into a one-armed hug. Tight enough for comfort, but not tight enough to make her feel trapped.


    ¡®Blow your nose.¡¯


    She pressed the handkerchief to her face and blew her nose, gunking up the perfect square of linen with snot. She folded it over, and scrubbed at her eyes, trying to scare the tears back into her head.


    ¡®It¡¯s just...a lot,¡¯ she said. ¡®Like, you¡¯re real. You¡¯re fucking real. And- And I don¡¯t want to say stuff and make you think less of me.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s very little that could make me think less of you. Whatever standards-¡¯


    ¡®But you don¡¯t know anything about me,¡¯ she said, staring at the snotty hanky. ¡®I know me, and I know I¡¯m going to disappoint you.¡¯


    ¡®Let me be the judge of that,¡¯ he said gently.


    She barked a harsh, single laugh. ¡®Yeah, that¡¯s kind of the crux of the problem, mister narcy man.¡¯


    He squeezed her shoulder then released her. ¡®Come on, let¡¯s get some fresh air.¡¯

 18 - A Step Towards Things Looking Up

    The river was the first thing she saw as the world became clear again. Stef looked around, and immediately recognised the broad path beneath her feet and the sounds of kids playing: South Bank, a wide stretch of parklands, cafes and touristy spots.


    It was a place people went, so it was somewhere she tended to avoid.


    There were people around, but no one was pointing and shouting at two people appearing as though by teleport.


    ¡®How do people not see that?¡¯ she asked. ¡®Okay, maybe you¡¯re clever and stuff, and usually shift into areas where people wouldn¡¯t look, but-¡¯ She gestured around. ¡®There are people here. And with everyone popping in and popping out all the time, someone would see a suity person disappear or appear.¡¯


    ¡®There are a dozen different explanations,¡¯ he said as they walked in the direction she only knew as ¡°away from the museum¡±. ¡®What it comes down to most of the time, though, is that people don¡¯t want to believe their eyes. They would rather believe that they were mistaken in what they saw.¡¯ He stopped and looked down at her. ¡®Most people, Stef, aren¡¯t looking for magic.¡¯


    ¡®People are stupid.¡¯


    He walked up to the low barrier that stopped people from falling into the river. ¡®Sometimes,¡¯ he agreed, staring down at the water. ¡®Though that does make our job easier.¡¯


    She sat on the low, wide concrete barrier, and looked up at him. ¡®You-¡¯ She swung her feet, scraping them against the ground. She saw smears of dirt on her sneakers and required a new pair. ¡®You can fire me if you want.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re not going to get very far if in every conversation you think I¡¯m trying to get rid of you.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not having a very good first day, I can¡¯t be making a good impression.¡¯


    ¡®This hasn¡¯t been the easiest twenty-four hours for you.¡¯ He sat beside her. ¡®I¡¯m sorry that your follow-up caused further distress. I thought- I thought I could show you that not everything we deal with is so dire.¡¯ He indicated to the river. ¡®I thought I¡¯d also tell you of a relatively rare phenomenon that we have, even if I can¡¯t directly show it to you.¡¯


    ¡®If you¡¯re going to tell me that the river is like, a big sleepy slug or something, I¡¯d believe it. I chucked a rock into it once, and I could see the impression in the surface tension for like five minutes afterwards. That¡¯s got to be weird shit in there.¡¯


    ¡®Would undead mermaids fit that definition?¡¯


    ¡®Would undead mermaids fit that definition?¡¯ she repeated in a flat voice. ¡®Uhhh, please, please explain. Please send screenshots from your HUD. And please forgive me if-¡¯ she looked at the river.


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t suggest diving in,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®They¡¯re quite skittish, and I doubt you could see anything that deep without special equipment.¡¯


    He handed her a screenshot, and like the last one, it was one thick photo paper.


    The photo was of...well, it had obviously started as a dead body - the decaying flesh was evident in the few places it was visible. But around that, over all the limbs, trash had accumulated and integrated, becoming almost like a garbage coral reef. Instead of a perfect princess tail of scales, the legs were bound together with pieces of fishnet and discarded plastic bags. Webbing between the fingers seemed to be equal parts old chip bags and slime.


    ¡®They have other names,¡¯ Ryan said as he handed her another photo. ¡®But they¡¯re affectionately known as trashmaids. They¡¯re what happens when a fungal colony takes over a body that¡¯s fallen into the river. They do become more than the sum of their parts, though they remain largely limited to instinctual behaviours. They tend to stay at the very bottom of the river, feeding on some detritus and using other pieces to adorn themselves.¡¯


    ¡®Do they ever come up?¡¯


    ¡®Sometimes at night, when it¡¯s raining, and very dark, when it¡¯s harder for them to tell where the water ends, and the surface begins. They¡¯re not often a problem for us, but I thought it was the kind of thing you would like to know about.¡¯


    ¡®Fucking cordyceps zombie mermaids, yes!¡¯ She said, bouncing up and down in place. ¡®Tell me everything like that!¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s better.¡¯


    She looked up from the screenshots. ¡®What is?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re smiling. A lot of recruits don¡¯t make it past their first couple of days, and you¡¯ve really only seen the ugly, violent side of the world. As much as you¡¯re worried about disappointing-¡¯ He paused. ¡®-me, I¡¯ve got far more reason to worry that this isn¡¯t what you expected.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to run away because I haven¡¯t learned to grow wings in twelve hours.¡¯ She ground her hand against her knee. ¡®Can I learn how to shoot fireballs though?¡¯


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ he said with a smile, ¡®it¡¯s ¡°require: flamethrower¡±, and I would ask you not to do it in public.¡¯


    ¡®Aww.¡¯ She pouted. ¡®That¡¯s not fair.¡¯


    ¡®Wholesale destruction rather goes against our need to be anonymous, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    ¡®Fine. So what are we doing now?¡¯


    ¡®Something that¡¯s important, but boring.¡¯ He stood and offered her a hand and helped her to her feet. ¡®That is, if you¡¯re okay to keep going?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll be all right,¡¯ she said slowly, ¡®but I¡¯m not all right now, if that¡¯s okay.¡¯


    ¡®Of course it is.¡¯ They started to walk up one of the paths away from the river. ¡®In short, the Agency has a number of dropboxes around the city. A few of them weren¡¯t seen to this morning.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got to see if there¡¯s any of those annoying ¡°go get a parcel from the post office¡± cards inside?¡¯


    ¡®Not quite. We do get some mail through the regular postal service, most deliveries to our dropboxes are done in person. They¡¯re primarily for the fae, though sometimes we get information from Solstice or our other contacts.¡¯


    They stopped by a wall of mailboxes, indistinguishable from any other mass set belonging to a group of shops. He pressed his ID against one that was vaguely in the middle of the group. The box beeped, then popped open - revealing nothing inside.


    ¡®You look like you have a question.¡¯


    ¡®How do we know this stuff isn¡¯t full of face-melting acid or the plague or something?¡¯


    ¡®Do you want to take a guess?¡¯ he asked as he pressed the button to cross the street.


    ¡®Each mailbox has scanning equipment inside?¡¯


    ¡®Correct.¡¯


    ¡®So why can¡¯t we just shift it out instead of playing postman?¡¯


    ¡®Part of the reason for the stable drop-off points is so that the fae have places outside of the agency to approach us. Some may want to talk but don¡¯t want to leave a letter.¡¯


    She bit into a knuckle. ¡®Permission to do a sight gag?¡¯


    He gave her a blank look, and she turned her back to him. A thought had a crudely painted target emblazoned across the back of her vest. ¡®Doesn¡¯t that also, yanno,¡¯ ¨C she pointed at her back ¨C ¡®this?¡¯


    He put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her to start her walking across the street. ¡®It does, but the uniform always makes us a walking target. We do pickup times, and they¡¯re assigned to each recruit on a randomly rotating basis, so that there isn¡¯t a predictable pattern of who will be seen at what time.¡¯


    ¡®And then sometimes people also forget?¡¯


    Ryan sighed, and for a moment, he looked exhausted. ¡®A lot of Field recruits see this job as beneath them, because it is generally uneventful. So, if it¡¯s not done by a certain time of day- If I can get away, I do it myself. Often times, I will assign the work to Curt.¡¯


    ¡®Because the ex-Solstice boy is less likely to complain?¡¯


    ¡®Precisely, though I do try not to take advantage of that attitude. It¡¯s also one of the jobs that can be done with Tech as the second recruit, so any of Jones¡¯ recruits trying to log Field experience will volunteer.¡¯


    ¡®I-¡¯


    ¡®Yes?¡¯


    She stopped walking, then leaned against the closest patch of wall. ¡®Curt- He said you¡¯re the- You¡¯re in charge. The Director. You really shouldn¡¯t have to do low-level shit like this. The house I grew up in, the one you saw when I was a kid? I don¡¯t even know where the letterbox was there, because no one in my family went and got the mail themselves. And you¡¯re more important than that.¡¯


    ¡®I thank you for your assessment, but-¡¯


    ¡®I could do this,¡¯ she said, forcing the words out. ¡®I mean, it involves the outside world, which I hate, and having to talk to new people, which I also hate, but if they¡¯re Techs, maybe we could just flash memes at each other, and we wouldn¡¯t have to do the mouth talking.¡¯


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    She forced herself to look up at him, waiting for him to shout her idea down, to tell her to shut up, that she was being stupid, talking out of turn, being worthless, being-


    ¡®Go on,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®I- I heard what you said. Staggered timing. All that. I could write a schedule that would look random, at least on a rolling six-month basis, longer if you wanted. I could work in with all of Jonesy¡¯s recruits who want to want to be out under the burninating gaze of the sun. I¡¯m with you now, so maybe I get like a plus-two to my Field score from your agenty-aura.¡¯ She paused. ¡®But I¡¯m also guessing that my regular Field score is enough to do this on my own or with a Tech. So long as you don¡¯t always need it done at, like, stupid in the morning, I could do this for you.¡¯


    She dropped her head, unwilling to see disappointment or anger that she was acting above her station, that she was being-


    A hand came down gently on her head. ¡®Write up a proposal, and we¡¯ll see what we can do.¡¯ He ruffled her hair, just a little bit, and she felt like a puppy that had been praised. ¡®It¡¯s a good idea, Stef.¡¯


    She grinned and tried to finish her thought. ¡®If you could ask Jonesy for- For at least some real info about schedules and stuff, that would help me with making the proposal schedule more realistic. That way it¡¯ll need less rework to go from alpha to production.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll have the information emailed to you,¡¯ Ryan said.


    ¡®I¡¯ve got a question unrelated to any of this,¡¯ she said as they started to walk again. ¡®Dorian said something about compensation. Like, for what?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re paying him for your code, since you were working for him, and it was proprietary software. We¡¯re also covering any expenses for things that may have been broken or stolen. The latter is something we do as much as we can, the level of repair and replacement varies depending on what a civilian has seen, but as much as can, we try and minimise the damage and destruction at each crime scene we visit.¡¯


    ¡®By rights, Dorian should pay some of it to me,¡¯ she said, scuffing her shoe against the footpath. ¡®It was a paid gig after all. Don¡¯t get me wrong, that code was so gorgeous I would have done it for free, but I didn¡¯t agree to do it for free.¡¯


    ¡®You can pursue that angle if you wish,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®But I wouldn¡¯t bother. You¡¯re a recruit now, so-¡¯


    She pulled the twenty dollar note from her pocket and waved it lazily. ¡®Yeah, I kind of figured out the Require: money thing, but what¡¯s the limits on it? I function best when I have a framework to, um, work in.¡¯


    ¡®There are certain limits set in stone, but generally it¡¯s a more...fair use policy,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®We don¡¯t designate a salary or a weekly limit commensurate with rank or seniority, you¡¯re just expected to be sensible.¡¯


    ¡®I, um, required ten grand before. Partly just to see if I could, partly just to, you know, bolster my savings.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s not out of the norm for new recruits,¡¯ Ryan said, no judgement in his voice. ¡®But be sensible moving forward. If there is, for any reason, a large transaction you need to do, you can always flag it with us first, and we can process it. For example, a group of Jones¡¯ recruits live off-site in a rather expensive house. We facilitated that transaction, so that the question of the money¡¯s providence didn¡¯t arise, and that all taxes were done correctly.¡¯


    ¡®I guess that¡¯s fair. And- Should I stay in my room? If some of Jonesy¡¯s recruits live elsewhere then¡­¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re not grounded, Stef, you don¡¯t have to stay in your room all the time. If you mean whether or not you live on-site, that¡¯s up to you. Across all areas of our Agency, we have a mix of living arrangements. We¡¯re flexible, so long as you¡¯re able to complete your tasks on time, and show up when you¡¯re rostered.¡¯


    ¡®I think I¡¯ll try it,¡¯ she said, ¡®it¡¯ll make it easier to be on time if I¡¯m, like, metres away from where I¡¯m supposed to be. And- If that¡¯s the case- I¡¯d like to keep my apartment. Is an ongoing expense like that something that I can just pay, or should that get put onto a company credit card higher up the chain?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll admit to losing track of what is classified as average rent over the years, but I assume that will be fine. A general rule of thumb would be...if it¡¯s an expense you¡¯ve been paying already in your civilian life, there¡¯s no need to worry about getting permission for it.¡¯


    He¡¯s lost track of rent over the years¡­


    ¡®How old are you?¡¯


    ¡®Over a century.¡¯


    ¡®A little over, or a lot over?¡¯


    ¡®I was generated on the first of January, 1900. Around the time I was generated, there was a large increase in our numbers, so my age is unremarkable. The oldest of us are around fifty years older than me. For comparison, Taylor is a little younger than I am, Jones is barely older than you.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll forgive you for not keeping track of rent, then.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not the oldest active agent in Queen Street though, the honour, should it be such, goes to Agent Applebaum,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®If you ever find yourself in Lost and Found, you¡¯ll meet him. He¡¯s from the first generation.¡¯ He stopped and pointed to a row of mailboxes. ¡®Number seventeen here, you can go ahead and open this one.¡¯


    ¡®Sure.¡¯


    She pulled her ID wallet from her pocket and tapped it against the box. This one was a lot bigger than the first, standard, mailbox had been ¨C and it had a slot wide enough for small packages.


    That had to be a good thing and a bad thing. More info could get to the Agency, but it also meant more chances for assholes to slide bombs or other dangerous packages through.


    That was something that she could account for in the schedule - danger ratings on each individual box, based on dimensions. She could also vary the evaluation based on past inventory - because surely there had to be an existing database of what had been delivered where and when.


    It would take more work, but it would be more comprehensive. And maybe it would give Ryan another reason to look at her like she wasn¡¯t completely worthless.


    And maybe she wouldn¡¯t feel completely worthless.


    She caught the square door of the mailbox before it fell and lowered it gently.


    Something moved inside, and she took a step back. ¡®Um?¡¯


    She heard a small cheer, and a streak of white came running from the back of the box.


    Ryan stepped forward and bent down to the level of the mailbox. ¡®Are you hurt?¡¯


    She stood on tiptoes to look back at the mailbox. ¡®Is who hurt?¡¯


    Ryan laid his palm flat, and the small white creature stepped out of the mailbox and onto his waiting hand. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ it said in a high-pitched voice, ¡®thank you so much.¡¯


    She stared at the tiny fae. It was about four inches tall, with a sharp face like storybook pictures of pixies. His hands and face were deep brown, and the rest of him was covered in thin white fur. Large ears ¨C each with two points ¨C stood straight up, twitched, then went flat. He wore a small uniform marking him as some sort of nature-and-yay-outdoors scout.


    ¡®I ¨C I don¡¯t mean to be rude, but what kind of fae is that?¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s a misick,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®Are you hurt?¡¯


    The misick shook his head. ¡®No, Agent. I¡¯m not, thank you.¡¯


    Ryan smiled. ¡®Then can I ask why you¡¯re in my dropbox? Are you applying to be a recruit?¡¯


    She heard voices and turned to see two people walking down the street. She turned back to Ryan and grabbed his arm to get his attention. ¡®People are coming!¡¯ she hissed.


    He looked down at her. ¡®Thank you. Close the box,¡¯ he said. He reached down to his coat pocket and popped it open, giving the misick room scamper down and hide. She quickly grabbed the few letters that were inside, closed the mailbox, and stood still as the civilians passed by, none the wiser.


    ¡®This way,¡¯ Ryan said, and she followed him around the corner to a bench out of the way of most of the pedestrian traffic.


    The misick popped out of his pocket and moved to stand between them on the bench. ¡®As you were saying,¡¯ Ryan prompted.


    ¡®I was separated from my troop,¡¯ he said. ¡®We¡¯re on an excursion. A couple of the younger kids were nearly seen. There were humans and traffic, and I just lost where they were. I thought it was safer to hide than to try to make my way to the stairs in broad daylight.¡¯


    ¡®A good idea, but you couldn¡¯t call for help?¡¯ Ryan asked.


    ¡®I lost my phone, too,¡¯ the misick said, ¡®and everyone is out of chitter range. Would you mind giving me a lift to the nearest stairs?¡¯


    ¡®Of course not,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®Will my pocket suffice?¡¯


    The misick shrugged his tiny shoulders. ¡®I¡¯ve got no problem with that.¡¯ On all fours, he ran up Ryan¡¯s leg, across his jacket and down into the open pocket.


    ¡®We¡¯re going to shift,¡¯ Ryan said.


    ¡®Okay.¡¯


    The world blurred, and when it became clear again, they were standing at the bottom of a concrete staircase looking at a plain service door.


    It was unremarkable, cheap beige paint and a few spiderwebs. The kind of door someone opened every six months to...do some kind of non-essential maintenance. The kind of door no-one looked twice at.


    Though that was probably the point.


    Like with the mailbox, Ryan pressed his ID wallet to lock, and it popped open. Inside was a dark stairwell that quickly lit up with fluorescent lights as he stepped inside.


    He nodded to her, and she joined him - seeing that the space inside was far bigger than what the doorway indicated.


    Woohoo for TARDIS technology?


    She quickly closed the door, blocking the view from any random passing civilians, then took a look around. It was a broad concrete landing with a central staircase. To the left was a wall of computer monitors - the styling and branding giving the impression of the public terminals that you could drop a gold coin into for ten minutes of internet.


    On the other side was a high table with four stools, presumably as some kind of makeshift waiting area.


    Ryan walked to the centre of the landing and reached up towards a series of tubes that hung from the roof. The tubes seemed to follow the line of fluorescent lights that followed the stairs down to their destination. ¡®We¡¯re here,¡¯ Ryan said, and the misick popped its head over the top of his pocket.


    His ears twitched for a minute as he looked around, then he ran up Ryan¡¯s jacket, along the length of his upraised arm, then disappeared into the wide-mouthed purple tube.


    ¡®I¡¯d love it,¡¯ she said, staring at the tube, hoping for one last sighting of the misick. ¡®If you could explain at least four of the things that just happened.¡¯


    ¡®These are fairy stairs,¡¯ Ryan said as he opened the door back out into...into what she almost wanted to call the real world, compared to the liminal space behind the service door. ¡®There are several ways of getting into various parts of Faerie, but the one you¡¯ll see the most are variations of this.¡¯


    ¡®You just walk down the stairs, and you¡¯re in...Down one set of stairs?¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®You need the right magic or the right requirement to open the doors, but after you gain access, there¡¯s nothing further involved.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m just thinking,¡¯ she said, trying to order her thoughts. ¡®It can¡¯t always be convenient. Like, if you were carrying groceries or something, it¡¯s easy, sure, but it also seems like a bit of a pain in the ass.¡¯


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t use that phrasing, but I understand where you¡¯re coming from. This set of stairs was simply the closest to the last dropbox. I also happened to know this set of stairs had the small fae transport system.¡¯ He paused, then looked down at her. ¡®Slides, so that smaller people don¡¯t have to navigate the physical steps.¡¯


    ¡®Ah.¡¯


    ¡®To address your point though, the common variant of this is set up in a number of parking garages, where the right access allows one to drive straight into Fairyland.¡¯


    ¡®And now I¡¯m wondering if there¡¯s fae rideshare. And...if you have to pay an extra fee for interdimensional travel, you know, like an airport fee.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, and yes,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®And it¡¯s something I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll experience. It¡¯s cost-prohibitive for the Agency to keep a lot of vehicles in Faerie, so when an assignment calls for a recruit to travel, transport options are generally one of the first things discussed. The lower the priority, the less we tend to allot for travel. Some recruits do use their per diem to upgrade their transport, others are happy simply to take the bus.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s fairy buses?¡¯


    Ryan smiled. ¡®There¡¯s a lot for you to learn.¡¯ He looked down and seemed to notice the letters she was holding for the first time. ¡®You might want to require a bag to hold those, we¡¯ve still got three more boxes to check.¡¯


    ¡®Ryan?¡¯


    He stopped walking and looked down at her. ¡®Yes?¡¯


    Part of her wanted to hug him. But he was a person and hugging a person was a lot different to hugging a pillow, a doll, or even a fridge.


    Not that he¡¯d understand if she told him the fridge story. As sensible as he was, he¡¯d never understand a paranoid miasma that would lead someone to take a baseball bat to a fridge door, on the belief that-


    She reached up and pinched a bit of her his sleeve between thumb and forefinger. It was contact, but easy enough for him to pull away if he wanted - and it was something he should want, no one wanted to be anywhere near her and-


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said, and let her hand drop. ¡®I know I¡¯m asking a million questions. And I¡¯m pretty shit at everything and-¡¯ She stared down at her shoes. ¡®Thank you for being patient.¡¯


    His hand came down on her shoulder again, and this time, she managed not to flinch. ¡®You don¡¯t need to thank me for doing the bare minimum. If this behaviour is out of the ordinary to you, then...you need to spend time with people who treat you better.¡¯ He squeezed her shoulder gently, then let it go. ¡®Do you want me to explain Fairyland public transit on the way to the next dropbox?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, please!¡¯

 19 - Overtime

    Require: cookie.


    Stef nommed on the cookie as she stared at the treasures that surrounded her.


    Her bed had quickly become a tiny nerdy dragon¡¯s hoard. A stack of first-issue comics sat to her right, topped with six copies of Amazing Fantasy #15, each shiny and new and all hers. Spider-Man for Spyder, it was just appropriate. Beneath the wall-crawling menace sat the first outings of Batman, the X-Men, and a dozen more heroes.


    And it was fun to require copies of Giant-Size X-Men #1, and slowly require it to be bigger and bigger, until the size had felt right - maybe not giant, but definitely, pleasingly oversized.


    A hardcover copy of Watchman sat open and ignored across her lap as she thought of requirement after requirement.


    There seemed to be no limit on the kinds of food she could require. Even if they were dishes that she only half-remembered, each tasted exactly as she wanted ¨C which only made sense. Clothing also seemed to have a blank cheque. Each item fit perfectly ¨C bespoke outfits in a thought.


    There was a knock at her door.


    ¡®I-DEN-TI-FY!¡¯ she called out, modulating her voice to the cadence of a Dalek.


    ¡®Just me, Newbie,¡¯ came Curt¡¯s voice.


    She stared at the door, thought hard, then required it unlocked. After a moment, Curt twisted the handle and stepped in, but didn¡¯t close the door all the way.


    ¡®I take it you haven¡¯t been checking your phone?¡¯


    ¡®Well, I already had a pizza coupon. But then I didn¡¯t know the Agency address for delivery. Then I figured I could just require something to eat. And then I got distracted with¡­¡¯ she caught the look on his face. ¡®You meant something else, didn¡¯t you?¡¯


    ¡®I sent you a message, I booked a meeting room, thought you might want to do some of that paperwork stuff before tomorrow?¡¯


    ¡®Oh, yeah!¡¯ she said, and made a path off her bed by pushing all the comics to the side. ¡®Ow, fuck, ow, how do pins and needles hurt so much?¡¯ She stood, and tried to stamp the pain away, before bending into an almost-C-shape as her legs remembered what proper blood flow was.


    ¡®How do you-¡¯ he cut himself off. ¡®Want to bring anything with you?¡¯


    ¡®Probably,¡¯ she said. She turned, grabbed her phone, jammed it into her pocket, then retrieved Frankie from his spot on her desk. ¡®Okay. This is probably all I need.¡¯


    She followed him out of the room, down a few halls, and finally into a small meeting room. The room had a round table with four chairs, a wall of windows looking down onto the street, and a magnetic whiteboard on one of the walls.


    Nothing special, but perfectly serviceable. Corporate, but not unwelcoming, like the rest of the Agency.


    ¡®I¡¯ve got my own work to do,¡¯ Curt said as he started to lay folders down on his side of the table. ¡®But I¡¯ve got a rough order for you to do things in, and I¡¯m here if you get stuck.¡¯ He slid a presentation folder onto her side of the table. The cover bore the grey circle that was the Agency logo, and the words ¡°Module Eighteen¡± in white font. ¡®Comms training,¡¯ he said. ¡®If we get nothing else done tonight, this is going to be of the most use to you.¡¯ He settled into his chair, set both of his phones onto the table, then looked up at her. ¡®You can sit, you don¡¯t need an invitation.¡¯


    ¡®What if I¡¯m a vampire?¡¯ She slammed her hands onto the table. ¡®Are vampires real?¡¯ she asked, her voice an angry squeak. ¡®I don¡¯t want them to be real, they¡¯re annoying!¡¯


    ¡®Er- Then you¡¯re in luck,¡¯ he said. ¡®Some wild fae like to drink blood, but that¡¯s more a side-effect of indulging in cannibalism than it is to mimic the lifestyles of the rich and pasty.¡¯ He smirked. ¡®I mean, are you a vampire? I think if you were in the sun any longer today you would have burst into flames.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m just the regular nerd amount of burny,¡¯ she said as she settled into the surprisingly comfy chair.


    ¡®Speaking of rich,¡¯ he said, and dug into his jacket pocket. He slid a business card across with an elaborate file address on it. ¡®Your bag. Ryan didn¡¯t shift it back, so I had the Techs grab it, it¡¯s ready to be shifted in whenever you want. Your phone will be able to read the address. Just don¡¯t grab it now; otherwise you¡¯re going to have ask me really nicely to carry it back to your room.¡¯


    She looked at the card, then stared at the ceiling, half-expecting the vandalised Louis to drop from the ether. ¡®...where is it now?¡¯


    ¡®Either storage or more likely shift suspension. Just think of it as being stuck in the transporter buffer, except the pattern¡¯s not going to¡­¡¯ he slowly trailed off, as if he¡¯d said nothing wrong.


    ¡®You¡¯re a fucking Trekkie,¡¯ she said, forcing herself to look him in the face. ¡®I didn¡¯t put it together when you did lasers versus phasers, but this- You¡¯re a fucking Trekkie!¡¯ She grinned, and he winced. ¡®And you-¡¯ She half-stood and lunged across the table to press her fingers against the logo of his fae phone, as he¡¯d done to show off the lighting effect.


    Just as when he¡¯d shown her originally, it cycled through a pattern of red, blue and yellow. ¡®Command, science and engineering. You even programmed your phone to do it.¡¯ She slid off the table and back into her chair. ¡®This might make talking to you easier, now that I know you can understand-¡¯


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡®I am barely fluent in nerd,¡¯ he warned. ¡®And I do prefer the original series, the colours are TOS colours, if you care to notice.¡¯


    ¡®So why didn¡¯t you put command gold first?¡¯


    He reached over and tapped the Module Eighteen folder. ¡®Do this, and I may even tell you who my favourite captain is.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®And keep my secret? I¡¯ve got a reputation.¡¯


    She flipped open the module, then booted up Frankie, connected to the intranet and found the associated online component.


    Across the table, Curt quietly worked on a document, occasionally stopping to check something on one of his two phones or to take a bite from a gourmet-looking burger.


    She closed Frankie¡¯s lid and required herself a bowl of pasta. ¡®I¡¯m not an expert,¡¯ she said, ¡®but doesn¡¯t work, like, traditionally end at five or something? You¡¯re literally working through dinner, and today didn¡¯t seem that busy. You had time to fuck around with taking me to breakfast.¡¯ Two plus two suddenly equalled a guilty four. ¡®Or, um,¡¯ she stared at her fork. ¡®Is that why you¡¯re working late now?¡¯


    He waved a hand, then wiped his face with a serviette. ¡®No, it¡¯s not your fault, Newbie. ¡®I-¡¯ He hesitated.


    ¡®If the truth¡¯s too hard,¡¯ she said quietly, ¡®tell me a version of it.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s just one of those things that are weird to say out loud. It¡¯s not a secret, it just feels like one, if you know what I mean.¡¯ He tapped each of the folders in front of him. ¡®I take on extra work for brownie points, it¡¯s as simple as that.¡¯


    He lazily piled the folders on the left side of the table and pulled his burger closer. Conversation, apparently, meant he felt free to take a proper five-minute break. ¡®Agent Ryan has a lot of excess work, because he performs two roles, but more importantly, because he doesn¡¯t have an aide. He¡¯s the reason this Agency doesn¡¯t fall apart, but it¡¯s obviously not easy on him.¡¯ Curt drummed his fingers. ¡®We¡¯re not a hugely important Agency, but most directors have a small admin team. He¡¯s entitled to that, but he just shoulders everything himself. Things would be a little easier if he had an aide, but he refuses to take one on.¡¯


    ¡®I keep hearing- People mentioned- Aide as in aide-de-camp?¡¯


    Curt nodded and cut a chunk of his burger away with a steak knife. ¡®Most Agents have one, but not here, because Brisbane is fucking weird. Depending on the agent, they can be anything from a personal secretary to something more like a second-in-command. Mags is the latter for Agent Taylor, and Agent Jones just seems to network all of his recruits so that work gets done without a specific person being in the role.¡¯


    ¡®I mean what¡¯s the-¡¯ She let her shoulders slump. ¡®That burger smells reeeeally good.¡¯


    ¡®Oh dear god, Newbie,¡¯ he said, exasperated, ¡®all you had to do was ask.¡¯ He put his hand on the table, a duplicate of his burger - on an identical blue plate - appeared, and he pushed it towards her. ¡®What was your question?¡¯


    ¡®First question,¡¯ she said through a mouthful of burger, ¡®have you tried goat¡¯s cheese on this? Because that would just fuckin¡¯-¡¯ she put her free hand to her mouth and did a messy chef¡¯s kiss. She put the burger down, and required a plate of perfect, soft goat¡¯s cheese, then popped the top off the bun and slathered a large portion in. ¡®Try,¡¯ she said as she reassembled the burger, ¡®trust.¡¯


    He raised his eyebrow, then did as he was told. ¡®Your question,¡¯ he prompted as he spread a far more reasonable portion of cheese onto the bun of his current piece of burger.


    ¡®What¡¯s the application process for becoming an aide? If you¡¯re already doing the work, ipso facto, shouldn¡¯t you apply?¡¯


    He very carefully put the cheese knife down, and as he did, his face went blank - or at least, had so little trace of emotion that she couldn¡¯t figure out what he was thinking.


    ¡®I did apply,¡¯ he said, his voice strained and quiet. ¡®About six months ago.¡¯ He held up a hand, and a slim binder appeared for a moment before disappearing back into nothingness. ¡®I¡¯m working on a second application now.¡¯


    ¡®Why¡¯d he reject-¡¯


    ¡®It was my own fault, really,¡¯ he said quickly but looked away - for once being the person who didn¡¯t want to make eye contact. ¡®I¡¯d only been here eight months. I was probably being arrogant to think that was long enough to prove myself.¡¯


    ¡®Hence the extra work?¡¯


    Curt turned back, a smile on his face, but there was something...plastic-y and false about it. ¡®He did me a favour, really, by rejecting the first application. It was just a form rejection to my email, we never discussed it, so it didn¡¯t make things awkward. I took it as a challenge, boned up on all the paperwork and policy I could. There¡¯s Academy stuff I can do, but I don¡¯t-¡¯ he faltered, and the plastic smile disappeared. ¡®Hey, Newbie?¡¯


    She paused at the seriousness of his tone. ¡®Yeah?¡¯


    ¡®Agent Ryan generally partners me up with every new recruit, since I¡¯m good at doing the show-and-tell thing. But most - okay, all of them so far - have dropped me by the end of the week. It feels weird to be bearing my soul to someone who might not be talking to me in three days. I have to look after myself, I can¡¯t-¡¯ He bit into the burger. ¡®Saying stupid shit like this could give you blackmail material to use.¡¯ He reached for the goat¡¯s cheese, then spread it on the bun that covered the remainder of his burger. ¡®You were right by the way. I¡¯ve never had this before, and now I¡¯m never going to live without it.¡¯


    She reached forward, grabbed the cheese plate back, and scooped two fingerfulls of cheese from the remains. ¡®Then you¡¯re going to need to keep me around, so you know what kind to require,¡¯ she said, not able to look him in the face. ¡®You, um-¡¯


    She sucked on her cheesy fingers, then wiped them on her pants leg. ¡®You-¡¯


    She flapped her hands, unable to make the words come out, which was precisely the point.


    A thought had a copy of the soundboard tablet he¡¯d used earlier in the day. ¡®This,¡¯ she said, holding it up like she was doing a presentation to a class. ¡®You did this.¡¯


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ he said quietly. ¡®Well, of course.¡¯


    ¡®I was all-¡¯ she slapped the side of her head. ¡®Yanno trapped up here.¡¯ She stared down at the table. ¡®You didn¡¯t make fun of me.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve been at this Agency gig for over a year now, you¡¯re not the first non-verbal person I¡¯ve had to deal with. I¡¯m sorry I used a basic interface, but I didn¡¯t want to overwhelm you with options.¡¯ He reached across the table, slid the cheese plate to the side, and laid a tablet down. ¡®Dismiss that one,¡¯ he said, pointing to the one in her hands. ¡®Edit this interface, add whatever words or phrases you think you¡¯ll commonly need, and then I can save it as a profile, and set up a macro for the next time you need it.¡¯


    She dismissed the duplicate tablet, then spent a few minutes adding some additional icons. After an internal struggle, she added a ¡°Trekkie!¡± button, for when she felt the need to call him out, even when her thoughts and words weren¡¯t working like they were supposed to.


    ¡®I¡¯d just like Agent Ryan to look at me like I¡¯m slightly more than some shit he stepped in,¡¯ Curt said when she handed the tablet back. ¡®I know what I am, what I¡¯ve done, I also know I¡¯m trying,¡¯ he said, his voice nearly cracking on the last word. ¡®Please don¡¯t tell him I¡¯m getting a second application ready, but if you can, I don¡¯t know, put in a good word or something after your first week, I think that would help.¡¯


    ¡®Sure,¡¯ she said, smiling in his direction, but not quite able to look at him. ¡®I can do that.¡¯


    ¡®Okay.¡¯ He clapped his hands together. ¡®Food. Then finish that module. That¡¯s my goal for tonight, and I¡¯m piking out at nine-forty-five. Training starts at seven tomorrow morning, I¡¯ll come get you, but please be up.¡¯


    ¡®I have to do something at seven in the morning?¡¯ she asked, her voice flat.


    ¡®So that¡¯s why you get an early night,¡¯ he said. ¡®Logical, right? Sooner you finish here, sooner you can go to sleep.¡¯

 20 - Forest for the Trees

    There was an ocean above her head, and she couldn¡¯t breathe.


    -pond, grandfather¡¯s pond, she must have slipped-


    She reached for the surface. It was there. So close she could see the ripples in the-


    So deep, she was going to die-


    -floating, she was-


    She reached up, if only to see her hands, to see anything but the darkness-


    The bottom of the ocean was soft- But there was still so much further to fall- So much more darkness that could-


    She couldn¡¯t stay-


    Stef jolted awake.


    There was darkness, and her heart slammed for a few beats, worrying that for once, she hadn¡¯t escaped from drowning, from-


    This darkness was different.


    There was a banging noise. From further in this darkness, or from the world outside or-


    Wake up, Spyder.


    ¡®Nuuuuuuugh,¡¯ she said, and tasted cotton.


    Push.


    Limbs. She had limbs. Two of them had-


    I just want to go back to sleep.


    There were more banging noises, then a rising hum started, like the energy build-up to something sciency exploding.


    She flexed her hands, then pushed at the blanket covering her head - which barely worked, as she¡¯d managed to burrito herself.


    The hum increased in frequency, but the banging stopped.


    ¡®What the fuck-¡¯ she started, while trying to figure out if she had somehow merged with the blanket during the night.


    She dismissed the blanket and lay gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling, becoming aware that she was just barely on the bed.


    ¡®God¡¯ ¨C pound ¨C ¡®damn¡¯ ¨C pound ¨C ¡®it,¡¯ ¨C pound ¨C ¡®Newbie!¡¯ Pound. ¡®Open up!¡¯


    She rolled over, barely managing to stop herself from falling onto the floor, and flicked a hand at the door to open it. Requiring didn¡¯t need hand movements - not that anyone had told her, but somehow, it made doing magic more real.


    ¡®Magic,¡¯ she whispered, ¡®magic¡¯s real.¡¯


    It was still sinking in. Still so...new, but so right. Right, like it validated every time she¡¯d jumped into a puddle to try and escape into another world, or wished on a star, or-


    ¡®Oh, at least you¡¯re dressed,¡¯ Curt said as he walked in and like last time, only half-closed the door. ¡®But you¡¯re wearing the wrong uniform. Most people don¡¯t train in their-¡¯ He looked down at her. ¡®I have two equally important questions for you right now.¡¯


    ¡®Picard,¡¯ she said. With an effort, she managed to push and pull herself into a seated position. ¡®And...none.¡¯


    ¡®No, and- What¡¯s ¡°none¡±?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t have a favourite series.¡¯


    ¡®My questions were, ¡°did you sleep in your uniform?¡± and ¡°did you sleep at all?¡±.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s an awful accusation to make.¡¯


    He pointed. ¡®That sauce stain is from last night.¡¯ He pointed to the bed beside her. ¡®Do you mind if I sit?¡¯


    ¡®Close the fucking door first, it¡¯s too bright out there.¡¯


    He closed the door, then sat down beside her, leaving a comfortable amount of space between them. He brought his left knee up onto the bed and rested his arm on it. ¡®I thought this might happen,¡¯ he said, and placed a platter down in the space between them, containing a couple of bacon butties and two takeout cups of coffee. ¡®You¡¯ve got half an hour, okay a little less now, to be properly up and ready. If caffeine doesn¡¯t work- Please tell me caffeine will work, I don¡¯t want to have either of the Parkers stab you with adrenaline, though for twenty bucks, Two probably would.¡¯


    She popped the lid on one of the coffees, required a sugar bowl, and poured so much sugar in that the liquid changed colour. ¡®I don¡¯t like- Walking. Moving. Outside. I can¡¯t fight. What am I supposed to do?¡¯


    ¡®What¡¯d I say in the car yesterday?¡¯ he asked as he picked up the other cup of coffee.


    ¡®That¡¯s I¡¯m basically half a step above being killed like a redshirt?¡¯


    He made a face. ¡®I think I was nicer than that.¡¯ He put his coffee down, then began to tick off points on his fingers. ¡®We generally start with a sim.¡¯ He paused. ¡®We run a holodeck training program. It¡¯s either a group activity where we work together to do different tasks, sometimes Mags breaks it up and sends smaller groups in to run the same sim.¡¯


    ¡®And Mags is?¡¯ She downed half the coffee. ¡®I¡¯m trying to keep track of- I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve heard the name.¡¯


    ¡®Agent Taylor¡¯s aide. Combat aide. I¡¯d say ¡°who I¡¯d like to be when I grow up¡±, but I¡¯m not going to aim that high. I¡¯m learning all the forms that aides have to deal with, she¡¯d redesigned some of them.¡¯ He pushed the sandwiches towards her. ¡®Eat. She¡¯s going to know who you are, and what score you have. When we¡¯re done with the group activity, everyone tends to go into more personalised training tracks. Some people treat it like going to the gym, some people do weapons training, others run solo sims. Mags guides, and tries to bring up the group¡¯s efficiency as best as she can.¡¯


    ¡®So me?¡¯


    ¡®Ever been in a fight?¡¯


    ¡®Not really?¡¯


    ¡®If she¡¯s feeling nice, she¡¯ll probably just put you with the flinch-bot.¡¯ He held up a hand to forestall her obvious question. ¡®A lot of people- Taking a punch isn¡¯t an everyday activity for most people, so a fist comes at your face, and your brain short-circuits, you don¡¯t react properly. We¡¯ve got a trainer sim that is just an Agent Bob sim that throws punches. If the punches connect, they''re feather-light, the idea is just to get used to being in that situation, and learning to control how you react. You can-¡¯ he paused, then pulled a blue, cloth-covered book out of one of his pants pockets, and flicked through a couple of pages. ¡®You can grind on the program-¡¯ he winced. ¡®Christ, that sounds wrong. Do not- Baah. You can grind the activity, so it gradually goes up in difficulty.¡¯


    ¡®Is that your dictionary of gamer terms?¡¯


    ¡®If I¡¯m going to be stuck with you, Newbie, I need to know what the hell you¡¯re saying. I had Raz start this for me, I will add to it as we go. Hmm.¡¯ He held up the book, and the words ¡°Stef-to-English¡± embossed themselves on the over in gold, serifed font. He tucked the book back into his pocket. ¡®Mags is good at her job, she might push you, but it would be stupid and a waste of time for her to make you do something you couldn¡¯t handle. So just try, okay?¡¯


    Agreeing to anything felt like- Promises to function like a person were promises that were going to be broken. He¡¯d given one suggestion, to get an early night, so that she¡¯d be functional. Instead of following a relatively simple instruction, her usual combination of insomnia and weird sleeping hours meant that she was functioning on barely three hours of sleep.


    She couldn¡¯t guarantee she¡¯d be able to do more than attempt a walk to the door.


    ¡®So if I¡¯m not supposed to wear my suit?¡¯ she prompted.


    ¡®Require ¡°training uniform¡±,¡¯ he said.


    She processed the requirement, and copy of the training outfit replaced her sleep-crumbled uniform. It was a reasonably basic blue military outfit - a long-sleeved jacket and matching pants with enough pockets to make a Liefeld character happy. The problem was the shiny black boots that would probably weigh her down and make it impossible to lift her feet, let alone walk or run.


    Ew, running.


    Curt stood. ¡®Come on.¡¯


    Once more unto the breach.


    Well, first time unto the breach.


    She followed Curt to a large, high-ceiled room. It was obviously a gym - the exercise equipment gave that away, but it almost seemed like a grown-up version of an indoor play place. There were distinct zones set up: gym equipment, dummies that were probably for some kind of non-gun target practice, a shooting gallery with paper targets, a boxing ring, and a set of bleachers.


    The other recruits were slowly filtering in - some were brush-eyed and bright-tailed, others were-


    She hung her head, required another coffee, and prayed with every gulp that she¡¯d be able to have a teeny six-hour nap when they were done.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Physical effort. Doing stuff. Doing more than just making an effort to walk to Chinatown to pick up dinner, rather than having it delivered.


    You know what to do. It might not be entirely applicable, but it¡¯s better than nothing.


    ¡®Fuck,¡¯ she muttered, then lowered herself to the ground.


    Ballet warm-ups had always begun with prancing around, just to get the blood flowing. The light warm-up gave the class participants excuses to bounce from one friend to another or to run from one side of the room to the other, or back to their mother or nanny for an extra hair ribbon.


    Her mother had always been there, always watching her perfect Stephanie - because of course Stephanie loved ballet. Ballet was perfect, because Mother could watch her little doll dancing with a bunch of other perfect little dolls.


    And she¡¯d hated every minute.


    It hadn¡¯t been like horse riding and dressage, where she could find something to enjoy. Like ballet, any activity revolving around Buttercup had been something Mother had organised for Stephanie - and like ballet, there''d been no consultation beforehand.


    Mother had always had an idea of what a little girl should enjoy, and proceeded with that course of action, never stopping to care or notice whether or not the activity was being appreciated.


    All that mattered was that Stephanie looked good in her outfits, photographed well, and said thank you for the privilege.


    Stephanie had always been a hard mask to wear. The perfect daughter. The beautiful little doll in all of her dresses and pinchy shoes. But Mother had loved Stephanie, even if she¡¯d refused to see her real daughter.


    And...adjacent love, love for someone just a little left of who she really was, was better than nothing.


    Was sometimes better than nothing, was sometimes so much worse.


    James hated her, but at least he hated Stef - he''d never been fooled by the Stephanie mask. He saw the real her, even if he''d detested her with every waking moment.


    Mother...sometimes she tried to show Mother little pieces of Stef, to maybe modulate the Stephanie mask with some truth, but every attempt had just lead to confusion, to...disappointment.


    So she''d always put her real self back into a box, and cried when no one could see her. Survival mechanisms were survival mechanisms, so the mask had stayed until no one had cared who she was, so long as she hadn''t been underfoot.


    And for the first time in a long time, something that belonged firmly in the world of Stephanie was going to be of use to her real self.


    You were never very good at being Stephanie.


    I wish I¡¯d had you back then, things would have been easier.


    She stretched out her legs in front of her, glared at the boots, then replaced them with sneakers. Slowly, she did ankle circles, trying to pull memories of Madame Costeau¡¯s instructions - instructions that had always been peppered with angry asides in French.


    ¡®Point, relax, point, relax,¡¯ she muttered to herself as she extended her feet.


    ¡®The girl walking in now,¡¯ Curt said as he dropped into a basic lunge beside her. ¡®That¡¯s Magnolia.¡¯


    She pulled her legs back and tried to settle into a butterfly stretch, that was probably more like a half-dead-caterpillar stretch, then looked towards the gym¡¯s open doors.


    ¡®Oh, wow.¡¯


    A gorgeous woman stood at the threshold to the gym, wearing something that definitely wasn¡¯t a uniform: a black ruffled skirt and tight-fitting corset over a white shirt with more ruffles.


    The black and white of her attire matched her hair - which was as white as her shirt, except for scattered black feathers. She was too far away to tell if the feathers were growing from Magnolia''s head, or had just been clipped in - either way, they looked cool.


    Magnolia walked forward - each footstep a distinct thud of combat boots - a nice practical element compared to the Lolita outfit.


    Curt waved a hand in front of her face. ¡®Earth to Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®She¡¯s really pretty,¡¯ she whispered. ¡®And I¡¯m pretty sure she could snap my spine by looking at me.¡¯


    ¡®Agent Taylor tends to snap necks, Mags likes to stab people.¡¯ Curt grinned and offered her a hand. ¡®Off the floor, c¡¯mon.¡¯


    She ignored his hand, leaned forward, got to her knees, then stood. She rolled each ankle once more as she righted herself. With a bit of mental effort, she stowed the memories of ballet and Madame Costeau away for later. If this was going to become a regular thing, then for good and ill, they were memories that would have to stay near the surface.


    Fucking wonderful.


    She put a hand to her stomach and tried not to scratch at her scars through her jacket.


    If the recital had run for five more minutes, if her mother had insisted on one more photo, if any one tiny thing had changed, then-


    You need to focus.


    Magnolia shouted at some dawdling newcomers, until all of the Field recruits were in one clump.


    ¡®Identical sims this morning,¡¯ Magnolia said. ¡®Two teams, twelve-PM split. Early birds to the left, late-risers to the right.¡¯


    ¡®Fuck,¡¯ Curt muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear.


    ¡®Get going,¡¯ Magnolia said. ¡®Mimosa, come see me before you start.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll wait near the door, Newbie,¡¯ Curt said as he followed the rest of the recruits, the group slowly splitting into two as they headed for the far left wall, and the large, automatic sliding doors there.


    Up close, Magnolia seemed even taller - everyone was tall when you were short, but Magnolia seemed at least as tall as Curt. ¡®Most of the recruits in your department are shitheads,¡¯ she said without preamble. Magnolia folded her arms, ruffles and lace not able to hide muscles that would make Wonder Woman jealous. ¡®And it¡¯s come to my attention that there¡¯s already trash being said about you.¡¯


    ¡®Fuck,¡¯ she said and dropped her head. So many other things had happened that she¡¯d managed to forget about- ¡®Shit. I¡¯m...sorry?¡¯ she asked, staring at Magnolia¡¯s boots. ¡®I-¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t you apologise for those fucksticks. I¡¯ve got paperwork lodged, so a couple of them will be attending the next harassment seminar that runs, they¡¯re usually bi-weekly, run out of Central. From one slut to another, ignore them, if it gets worse, don¡¯t bother going to Ryan, come to me, and I¡¯ll make sure it¡¯s something more than the seminar.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®Stop fucking apologising.¡¯ Magnolia turned away, her boots moving to face where the recruits had walked to. ¡®Ryan assigned you O¡¯Connor?¡¯


    She lifted her head a little. ¡®Does your shithead opinion extend to him?¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s why I added the qualifier of ¡°most¡±. Go do the sim, and maybe you won¡¯t end up in the shithead pile either.¡¯


    ¡®O-okay, she said, then hesitated, ¡®I feel like I should salute,¡¯ she added quietly.


    ¡®You¡¯re welcome to do so, but it¡¯s not necessary. Go.¡¯


    She nodded quickly, turned and headed towards the half-open door that Curt stood next to.


    It looked like any normal glass door - a thick silver metal frame around the edge, and frosted glass. A standard door that would separate part of an office, or the backroom of a larger store. Nothing out of the ordinary - except that beyond the door was a forest.


    Not a proper forest, not the kind of forest she thought of when the word presented itself. This wasn¡¯t the pine trees in the ever-winter of Narnia, this was something far more Australian. She followed Curt through the door, and when it slid closed behind them, there was no hint, no shimmer in the air to indicate that it had ever been there.


    The sim forest was scrubby, thin trees with leaves falling in preparation for winter. The chill which was strange, considering that outside, in the real world, it was the usual humid, too-hot-for-spring heat that was Brisbane in September. Time and experience had shown that the only way of dealing with springtime here was to stay inside and make sacrifices to the god of air conditioning, while going outside as little as possible.


    A cold wind blew through the forest, shaking leaves loose, and she automatically hugged her arms around herself - but the chill didn¡¯t reach through her jacket.


    Temperature-regulating clothes?


    Entirely plausible.


    A stronger breeze blew, so she popped her collar up to help protect her face, and jammed her hands into her pockets.


    On the path ahead of her, Curt seemed to be taking the breeze in stride.


    Weirdo.


    In theory, all of the white Christmases spent at the family estate should have made her more immune to a tiny chill in the air; all the time spent crunching on fresh snow in the winter-dead gardens should have been a protection against a mild breeze, but she¡¯d never been good at withstanding either the heat or the cold.


    I¡¯m no good at anything.


    The path opened up into a clearing at the top of a small hill, where Brian and a couple of his droogs stood discussing and pointing to various spots further into the forest.


    A tall recruit with violently red hair ran up the hill from the far side, reported something to Brian, then joined the rest of the group.


    ¡®There¡¯s no obvious goal,¡¯ Brian said, ¡®so we need to scout out further.¡¯ He proceeded to point at pairs of recruits and assign them a direction, then dismissed everyone with an instruction to check in every five minutes.


    Her assigned route with Curt took them down the shallow slope on the right side of the hill. ¡®How far does our jurisdiction go?¡¯ she asked when she deemed them safely out of earshot of the rest of the recruits. ¡®Unless the botanical gardens have gone to shit, there¡¯s nothing that looks like this in the city.¡¯


    ¡®I can give you a map later. We mostly look after the city itself and some of the inner suburbs. There¡¯s actually- Careful-¡¯ his arm shot out and stopped her from stepping on a pile of glass shards, half-hidden by leaves. ¡®Take some photos of that,¡¯ he said. ¡®Could be something, could be nothing, but for the moment, it¡¯s not enough reason to stop.¡¯


    She looked at the ground, required her phone, and carefully took a few photos of the glass shards. On closer examination, they seemed to be nothing more than a broken liquor bottle, but possible evidence was possible evidence.


    ¡®Is there a label?¡¯


    ¡®Got both sides,¡¯ she said, then stood.


    ¡®We¡¯ll grab a meeting room later,¡¯ he said. ¡®I can show you our jurisdiction map, give you an idea of our smaller support locations, and I¡¯ve also got these books that work as a better version of the org chart. Photos to go along with the names, at least. They helped me a lot when I started here.¡¯


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said. ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    A larger tree blocked their way - to the left of the tree was a pile of scratchy-looking bushes, to the right was a fallen log.


    ¡®Go first, be careful.¡¯


    She walked along the fallen tree, looking for a bit that wasn¡¯t too rotten-looking, lest it break under her weight, or Curt¡¯s weight as he followed, then grabbed a broken branch for balance, and swung one leg over.


    She sat on the log, swung her other leg up and over, then lowered her right leg, aiming for a stable patch on the leaf-covered ground.


    Her foot came down on something smelly. Something smelly and soft. Something smelly and soft, which felt entirely too much like a person.


    ¡®¡­did I just step on a corpse?¡¯


    Curt leaned over the log, looked for a moment, then hopped himself to the other side. ¡®Looks like it.¡¯


    She carefully lifted her foot away, wiggled down the log a few feet, then jumped down. ¡®I didn¡¯t see him. Don¡¯t bitch at me for disturbing a crime scene.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got tiny feet,¡¯ he said, ¡®I doubt you disturbed that much.¡¯ He put a hand to his headset. ¡®O¡¯Connor here.¡¯ Pause. ¡®We found one body.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Of course.¡¯


    She knelt and looked at the dead man. Casual clothes, covered in dirt and leaves and other bits of the environment.


    ¡®He¡¯s been dead a bit,¡¯ she said as she stared at his skin.


    ¡®I¡¯d agree, but what¡¯s your reasoning?¡¯


    ¡®Corpses only stay pretty for a bit, then there¡¯s rigor and gas and bloating and¨C¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m kinda glad you¡¯re not freaking out.¡¯


    ¡®Meh.¡¯ She shrugged. ¡®It¡¯s only a corpse. The dead have never done anything to hurt me.¡¯


    Besides, it¡¯s solidarity to something. I¡¯ve been a corpse.


    ¡®Most new recruits do freak out at their first few bodies, though.¡¯


    Her legs started to hurt, so she stood. ¡®I¡¯d wager most of them didn¡¯t read Gray¡¯s Anatomy at eight.¡¯


    ¡®Did you want to be a doctor or something?¡¯


    ¡®I was out of astronomy books,¡¯ she said. She looked around, grabbed a thin and relatively straight stick from the ground, then knelt beside the body and wedged the stick under the corpse¡¯s left arm.


    ¡®Don¡¯t do that.¡¯


    She withdrew the stick, then stared at the ground. ¡®Do you think I¡¯m doing this to be random?¡¯


    ¡®Then talk to me.¡¯ He moved to crouch beside her. ¡®Don¡¯t just do random shit and expect not to be questioned. If there¡¯s a logic to what you¡¯re doing, I¡¯m not going to stop you. You listen when I know shit, I listen when you know shit, and we¡¯ll be good, okay?¡¯


    She straightened her back a little, and tried to look half-competent, but kept her gaze forward, unable to look at him. ¡®Okay, so we accept that Mr Body has been out here for¡­a day, maybe a couple of days ¨C exposure to the elements is going to speed some of this up a bit.¡¯


    ¡®Agreed.¡¯


    ¡®And obviously, he was having a disagreement with the ground before he died. Or whoever killed him thought hiding a body with leaves was a good idea. Most of this crap is just stuck to him, and we could brush it off.¡¯


    ¡®With you so far.¡¯


    She pointed at the corpse¡¯s arm with a stick. ¡®A bit of mould I could buy, or some fungi grow really fast. But ¨C but he¡¯s got grass growing out of his elbow,¡¯ she said, letting panic slip into her last few words. ¡®And that¡¯s kinda freaky. And that¡¯s why I was poking him, cause I wanted to make sure it was coming out, not going in.¡¯


    ¡®Put your stick down,¡¯ he said, his tone letting her know it wasn¡¯t a suggestion. ¡®And back away.¡¯


    She dropped the stick, pushed herself to her feet, and walked with him until they were several metres clear of the body.


    ¡®O¡¯Connor here,¡¯ he said to his headset. Pause. ¡®Looks like it might be nymphs.¡¯ Pause. ¡®We¡¯ll keep in contact.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Red?¡¯ Pause. ¡®I think we¡¯re looking for a grove. See if you can find anything? I¡¯m going to see if I can confirm it.¡¯


    He looked back at her. ¡®Your first question is going to be ¡°What¡¯s a grove?¡± And your first question can wait.¡¯


    ¡®Why can it wait?¡¯


    He grimaced. ¡®I¡¯ve got to defile a corpse first.¡¯

 21 - The Grove and the Grave

    Stef stared at him. ¡®Lol. Wut.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯d appreciate some help,¡¯ he said, ¡®since you don¡¯t seem too bothered by corpses.¡¯ Thick rubber gloves appeared on his hands. ¡®But take precautions first.¡¯


    ¡®What precisely are we¨C¡¯ She waved her hands in front of her. ¡®Wait. Wait. Wait. This is a training scenario, right? To prepare us for regular work, right?¡¯


    ¡®Right.¡¯


    She required gloves that matched the ones he¡¯d required. ¡®Do you routinely play with dead bodies? Isn¡¯t that a tech¡¯s job? Or a medical recruit or something?¡¯


    ¡®Ding, ding, ding, the newbie wins a prize.¡¯


    ¡®Ooh.¡¯


    He knelt beside the body. ¡®So if you can just-¡¯ He looked up. ¡®You want a prize, don¡¯t you?¡¯


    She knelt beside him, took a couple of photos of the body, then started to brush away the leaves. ¡®Maybe,¡¯ she said with a pout. ¡®You said I get a prize, so I want a prize.¡¯


    ¡®Give me your hands.¡¯


    She brushed her right hand against her leg, then held it palm-up beside him. He held his hand above hers, then a small green bouncy ball dropped onto her glove.


    ¡®There,¡¯ he said with a wink.


    She closed her hand on the ball, smiled, then stuffed it into her pocket.


    ¡®Now help me with this. You¡¯re right, in an ideal situation, we¡¯d be getting help, but circumstances aren¡¯t always ideal. Sometimes it¡¯s a blackout zone, so communication is hard, or the area is still active and you can¡¯t bring in a CSI recruit.¡¯ He helped her to brush away the rest of the leaves to reveal the body. ¡®Sometimes a sim is about being true to life. Sometimes it¡¯s about learning how to think or how to act.¡¯


    She took a couple more photos of the exposed body, then several more as he cut the body¡¯s shirt open with a short, sharp knife. ¡®What I think we¡¯re dealing with,¡¯ he said, ¡®is a nymph starting their own grove.¡¯ He paused as he held the knife over the corpse¡¯s stomach. ¡®Try not to breathe, this part is probably going to be gross.¡¯


    He ran the knife smoothly across the exposed belly.


    For a moment, nothing happened.


    A thin line of black welled up in the cut, rot, ooze, the remains of¨C


    The stomach twitched.


    ¡®Oh my fucking god.¡¯


    Zombie. Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.


    Calm down!


    The stomach twitched again, and something pressed against the surface from the inside.


    She held up her hands in case the corpse¡¯s guts sprang out of the body and attacked. ¡®What in the fuck is going on?¡¯


    Curt cut a line, perpendicular to the first. ¡®Get a torch; give me some light.¡¯


    She hesitated, then required a torch and shone it at the impromptu, amateur autopsy.


    Curt grabbed one corner of the cut and pulled on it. The dead skin lifted easily, moving and undulating with whatever was pushing on it from the inside. The goo-covered flesh rolled, then began to inflate, a sick mockery of a balloon.


    She pressed the back of her spare hand to her nose as the smell finally hit. ¡®It¡¯s going to explode. It¡¯s going to explode.¡¯


    ¡®Keep the light on it, but back away.¡¯


    It was a bit of a struggle to keep the light steady as she stood, but managed it after a moment.


    ¡®Mind your eyes,¡¯ he said. He lifted his left hand up and shielded his face as he half-turned away, then brought the knife down on the gooey flesh balloon.


    Through the gaps in her fingers, she watched as a sapling shot up and out of the corpse¡¯s stomach, splattering the area with goo and gore.


    First two rows might get wet.


    That¡¯s morbid.


    She let out an all-too-squeaky noise as a chunk of corpse gore landed on her shoulder.


    ¡®Ew, ew, ew!¡¯ she slapped it away, glad of the rubber gloves.


    Curt laughed as he stood, shook his head, and pulled goo from his hair. ¡®Yeah, this was a bit gross.¡¯ He shook his hands, touched his head again, and his hair and uniform became spick-and-span again.


    ¡®Teach me the magic, please,¡¯ she said, looking at her messy self.


    ¡®Refresh uniform, refresh skin, refresh hair.¡¯


    ¡®Oooh, a personal F5!¡¯


    She did the requirements and watched as her uniform became new again.


    The sapling was continuing the grow, but far more slowly - still quickly enough to see the branches growing thicker, and the tiny leaves unfurling on each tip.


    ¡®We¡¯ve got to find the rest.¡¯


    She watched as a long branch extended towards her, and grew a flower in front of her face. The motion of the flower was delicate, something that would have been beautiful if it hadn¡¯t been the result of an exploding corpse. ¡®Rest?¡¯ she echoed.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He beckoned her, and they started down a thin path between the trees. ¡®Okay, so I¡¯m going to throw a lot of information at you. Let me get through the basics, then you can ask questions, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Go for it.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s a few ways that nymphs can procreate,¡¯ he said. ¡®There¡¯s what we can call the normal way ¨C human-style sex ¨C to create a single life. It¡¯s usually half-breeds that go for this method. They can use fairy fruit like everyone else ¨C again, usually a single birth. Plant nymphs like we¡¯re dealing with here can do it, well, plant style, releasing seeds and whatever into the air. Under usual circumstances, this just results in regular plants.¡¯


    ¡®And then there¡¯s this?¡¯ she asked, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, back towards the corpse and its tree.


    ¡®Pop quiz, what did I call it?¡¯


    ¡®Grove,¡¯ she said promptly.


    ¡®Good job, Padawan.¡¯ He lifted a low-hanging branch and indicated for her to pass under it. ¡®They can be great, you know. Like¡­hippie communes or something, a bunch of nymphs getting together to create dozens of kids together. Those are groves done right ¨C a group can create more kids because they can rely on each other, use each other¡¯s strength, utilise each other¡¯s magic. You follow?¡¯


    ¡®So our problem is that we¡¯re dealing with murderous hippies?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. But there¡¯s other ways to do it. With humans, usually. Like the body back there. They can use¨C¡¯ Curt made a face. ¡®I don¡¯t want to say life energy, because you¡¯ll probably start babbling about mana or something. Nymphs can drain the life out of a person, leave them weak or dead, then break down the organs and recycle them too.¡¯


    ¡®Materia.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®Well, if we¡¯re talking about life energy and magic, then my brain goes to materia and¨C¡¯


    He sighed and shook his head. ¡®Newbie, please.¡¯


    She zipped her lips and threw away the key.


    ¡®Plants take energy out of the environment. They¡¯re plants; that¡¯s what they do. Nymphs extend that to people as well as soil. It¡¯s part of the reason having sex with a nymph is such a draining experience.¡¯


    She pressed a hand to the side of her head, a grimace settling onto her face. ¡®Gah.¡¯


    ¡®Good,¡¯ he added, turning to grin, ¡®but draining.¡¯ His grin faded as he took in her expression. ¡®Bad topic?¡¯


    She intertwined her hands. ¡®Sex is all...squishy and-¡¯ She threaded her fingers together, then slapped her palms. ¡®Icky and- May as well be something that happens on Jupiter when it comes to my worldview. I know it happens, but I don¡¯t care to know or talk about it, if possible.¡¯


    He ticked off a two-fingered salute. ¡®Duly noted.¡¯ He waved her on, indicating she should catch up. ¡®Where there¡¯s one body, there¡¯s going to be more, so keep an eye out.¡¯


    ¡®I always thought that phrase was kind of gross.¡¯


    ¡®Focus, Newbie.¡¯


    Sorry.


    ¡®For a sapling to be able to shoot like that,¡¯ he said, ¡®it¡¯s been gestating for a few days at least. Maybe up to a week.¡¯


    She thought about the rigor, and numbers whirled. ¡®But¨C¡¯ She stared at the ground, wondering if she¡¯d ever be able to look at trees the same way again. ¡®But¨C¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯ Curt pushed a branch out of the way and let her pass. ¡®He would have been alive for a couple of days like that.¡¯


    ¡®At least chest bursters kill you pretty quickly,¡¯ she said. ¡®This is just sick.¡¯


    ¡®There are some really beautiful things in the world,¡¯ he said, ¡®but this is the other side of that. I¡¯ve watched nymphs dance and bring an entire park to life. There¡¯s a beauty in that power, in that precision, in being able to summon something as thick as an oak, or as small as a flower. It¡¯s a good way to feel utterly fucking humbled.¡¯


    ¡®Is that, like, performance art or something?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Live nymph performers are pretty common - water¡¯s the most common in clubs and restaurants, but outdoor events bring in the plants. You¡¯ve got a shop opening? You hire a team of performers to provide petals as natural confetti, that kind of thing.¡¯


    She looked back down the thin path towards where the body was. ¡®Question,¡¯ she said. ¡®Why was he by himself?¡¯


    Curt sat on a log - hopefully one without a body hiding on the other side. ¡®Tell me your thought process.¡¯


    She pinched her nose and tried to force scraps of thought together. ¡®He was by himself. I don¡¯t know how groves operate, but couldn¡¯t it have been a random murder by a nymph? What makes you think it¡¯s a grove?¡¯


    ¡®Good questions,¡¯ he said. ¡®And questions you should ask every time you come across something like this. Take every crime scene as a new situation. Things aren¡¯t always what they seem.¡¯


    She crossed her arms. ¡®So what do you know that I don¡¯t?¡¯


    He smiled, slid off the log, and crouched to the ground. ¡®See this path we¡¯ve been following?¡¯ A trowel appeared in his hand, and he carefully scooped away the loose earth above it. Buried in the rich, dark soil was a root thicker than her arm. ¡®I saw this, even before the sapling grew. Always look for what doesn¡¯t fit. Look around, we¡¯re in the middle of fucking nowhere, there¡¯s no reason for there to be a path worn into the ground. But if there¡¯s nymphs drawing everything out of the environment, that can disturb the top layer enough to make it look like a path.¡¯ He shook his head back and forth as if debating to say something. ¡®It¡¯s also a little bit of a trap, humans see a path, they¡¯re going to follow it, and our murderous hippies get some extra nutrients.¡¯


    ¡®And here I was thinking I¡¯d avoided becoming Soylent.¡¯


    ¡®Except we know what we¡¯re walking into.¡¯


    He touched the root, and it shifted like a lazy elephant¡¯s trunk. ¡®The body we saw was a sentinel, there¡¯s always a few. Depends on the size of the grove, of course, but they at least try to have four, for the four winds. When the sapling grows, they...come online, I guess you¡¯d say, and then the grove can perceive things, and get warnings of dangers to their commune.¡¯


    ¡®Same with the root, I¡¯d imagine,¡¯ she said. ¡®I¡¯m guessing you shouldn¡¯t be poking it.¡¯


    ¡®Definitely not, but I¡¯ve given up on getting a good score today, you need the show-and-tell more than you need Mags to give you a good score on your first sim.¡¯


    ¡®So in the real world, we don¡¯t poke it?¡¯


    He stood and brushed his hands against his pants. ¡®Let¡¯s call that a rule. Don¡¯t poke anything until you ask my permission.¡¯


    ¡®What if it¡¯s fluffy?¡¯


    ¡®Especially if it¡¯s fluffy,¡¯ he said.


    She looked down at the slowly pulsing root. ¡®Do you need to report this?¡¯


    He nodded and tapped his headset. ¡®O¡¯Connor here. We¡¯re heading south. It¡¯s a grove.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Okay.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Okay.¡¯ He looked at her. ¡®God, he¡¯s a dick.¡¯ He tapped his headset again. ¡®Red?¡¯ Pause. ¡®Four? That can¡¯t be good. Yeah¨C Wait.¡¯ He turned. ¡®You should be¨C Yeah, I see you.¡¯ He pointed, and Stef saw the tall recruit moving up another path towards them.


    ¡®Come on, Newbie. He¡¯ll catch up.¡¯


    She nodded, and they continued to follow the root path - at several points, it was so close to the surface that the ground almost seemed like it was breathing.


    ¡®Wait,¡¯ she said, then wondered why she¡¯d said it.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    She waved a hand and closed her eyes. She¡¯d noticed something, or barely noticed something. Intuition, or thin slicing or something. Something was wrong.


    What¡¯s out of place?


    She pressed her hands to her hips and tried to stand as still as possible. With her eyes closed, she could focus on a couple of senses first. Something had grabbed her attention, even if it had been as light as a feather. And-


    She lifted her left foot and ran it along the ground in a wide arc - the ground felt normal - or as normal as the rest of the path had felt. There was no shake, nothing but the weird breathing-pulsing-whatever of the root beneath them.


    And there were no noises out of place - in the distance, a kookaburra laughed, and closer a crow cawed. Regular, bushy sounds. As normal as it had been since the start of the sim.


    She took in a deep sniff of air, and alarm bells rang.


    Dead things and rotting compost and churned earth. Fresh cut grass and pepper. Sweet berries and sea salt. All smells just on the very edge of her nose, whispers on the wind, enough to intrigue without actually being where the conscious brain could pick up on them.


    ¡®The air smells wrong,¡¯ she said, then opened her eyes. ¡®I don¡¯t know the outdoors very well, but I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s not supposed to smell like this.¡¯


    Curt stepped up to her and handed her a gas mask. ¡®Thanks. I didn¡¯t notice. They can put toxins into the air, or hallucinatory pollen.¡¯ He slipped a mask over his own face. ¡®This will filter most things, even if this were a real situation, I wouldn¡¯t feel the need to change into full biohazard gear.¡¯


    ¡®Cause you have to have to balance mobility with safety?¡¯


    ¡®Exactly, actually. Watch your step, and keep up.¡¯

 22 - Two Steps Forward

    The trail finally came to an end at the base of a steep hill. The root they¡¯d been following had come up out of the ground and lay on the surface, its slow pulses making it seem like a sleepy snake on a cold morning.


    Curt put his hand to his ear, acknowledged something, then pointed at the other three recruits on the East side of the hill, and they moved to join them.


    One of Brian¡¯s cronies had a bandage around his arm, and bright orange paint had splattered onto his pants.


    ¡®How many?¡¯ Brian asked Curt.


    ¡®One sentinel. Red saw four.¡¯


    ¡®One conscious,¡¯ Red elaborated, ¡®the other three are close though.¡¯


    ¡®You got the bodies; we had the resistance. Half a dozen hobs. We¡¯ll take the hill before they can get back up.¡¯


    ¡®Negotiate or terminate?¡¯ Curt asked.


    ¡®Just follow my lead, O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    Curt didn¡¯t argue.


    ¡®Red,¡¯ Brian said, ¡®you got anything to say?¡¯


    ¡®They¡¯re not making a lot of noise,¡¯ the tall recruit said. ¡®They¡¯ll be weak.¡¯


    ¡®Good,¡¯ Brian said. ¡®We¡¯ll move up as a team. The Brit can take point.¡¯


    The words took a moment to sink in, and as they did, she felt her mind grind to a halt. She looked around, hoping to see someone else waving the Union flag. Still, unfortunately, Brian¡¯s glare was aimed squarely at her.


    ¡®Did you hear me, Mimosa?¡¯


    She opened her mouth to speak, but instead only expelled hot breaths that fogged the shield of her gas mask for a moment. ¡®I¨C Huh?¡¯


    Brian marched forward and grabbed her shoulder, fingers digging into her upper arm as he got a grip on her. She wanted to scream, to fight back, to get away from- All she could feel was his unwanted, unwelcome grip on her arm. It was going to leave a bruise, and she couldn¡¯t even whisper an objection.


    He pulled, dragging her to the front of the group, and she barely stayed upright, stumbling on stiff legs.


    And he hadn¡¯t let her go.


    And she couldn¡¯t hear. And she couldn¡¯t see. And- And there was nothing except the pain in her arm and the fact that he hadn¡¯t let her go, and-


    Breathe.


    She shook her arm feebly, but he wouldn¡¯t release her. Panic turned into pain, jabbing spikes up and down her back. The world was hot, and- Spinning and-


    There were words. In front of her and behind and-


    She wanted to throw up.


    He let her go and grabbed the filter of her gas mask. ¡®Are you listening to me?¡¯ he demanded. He wrenched her head around to look at the hill, where presumably the grove was. ¡®Take point and-¡¯


    A hand grabbed onto Brian¡¯s wrist. ¡®Let - her - the - fuck - go,¡¯ Curt said, enunciating every word.


    Brian released his grip on her mask¡¯s filter. ¡®Get your hand off me, O¡¯Connor, or-¡¯


    ¡®Do you think I could be afraid of you?¡¯ Curt asked, his voice cold and emotionless and- Bad guy voice. Not the trying-to-hide-it Trekkie she¡¯d been dealing with, but a glimpse at-


    One of Brian¡¯s droogs grabbed Curt and pulled him away from their leader.


    ¡®If I give you an order, you follow it,¡¯ Brian said, towering over her. ¡®I tell you to take point; you take point. I tell you to eat shit; you don¡¯t get to ask for sprinkles. Insubordination in the field kills.¡¯ He grabbed the side of her mask. ¡®And take that off, you look like an idiot, and the rest of us are breathing just fine.¡¯ He found the straps and yanked it from her head.


    She punched him.


    The blow was weak, poorly aimed, and not helped by the uneven ground beneath her feet. It missed his nose entirely, almost caressed his cheek, and grazed his ear before hitting empty air.


    You idiot.


    His face was unharmed; his ego wasn¡¯t.


    Move!


    She stumbled back and turned to run as he balled his hand into a fist.


    The punch caught her in the shoulder and propelled her forward faster than her legs could accommodate. She fell forward, landing heavily on her stomach in a patch of sloppy mud.


    Tears, hot and huge, dripped down her nose and onto the ground. There was a scrape in the leaves beside her as Brian knelt. He grabbed her hair and forced her face against the ground.


    Don¡¯t fight him.


    She pressed the tips of her fingers into the ground and tried to pretend she was dead. The dead didn¡¯t cry. The dead didn¡¯t get scared. The dead didn¡¯t feel the need to wet themselves.


    The dead were lucky.


    The tears didn¡¯t stop.


    He took his hand away from her neck and pulled her up onto her knees. Her body shook, and she refused to look at anything but the ground. The ground wasn¡¯t judging her. The ground wasn¡¯t laughing at her.


    ¡®You¡¯re expendable. Now stand up and¨C¡¯


    ¡®What the fuck are you shitheads doing?¡¯ Magnolia¡¯s voice from somewhere behind her. ¡®Your hands off that recruit, now.¡¯


    Brian released her, and she fell back to the ground, this time at least managing to land half-upright.


    ¡®Individual training,¡¯ Magnolia ordered. ¡®All of you, get the fuck out of my sight.¡¯


    Curt¡¯s hand entered her vision. ¡®Come on, Newbie.¡¯


    She stared at his hand for a long moment, unwilling to make more physical contact. His hand stayed, unwavering, but not pushing, just giving her the option if she wanted it, if she needed it.


    She couldn¡¯t stand.


    After a minute or so, the hand retreated, and Curt knelt to get into her field of vision. ¡®Please, let me help you up.¡¯


    She looked at her hands, then lifted her left hand.


    Gently, he took her hand and let her get a grip before hauling her to her feet. As soon as she was steady, he let her go. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said, and she wasn¡¯t sure if he was talking to her or to Magnolia. ¡®Newbie, follow me, okay?¡¯


    She followed him, watching the ground beneath her feet change from the leaf litter of the sim forest, to the lacquered wooden floor of the gym, to the thick linoleum of the halls that lead elsewhere in the Agency.


    She raised her dirty hands to her cheeks and wiped away the drying tears.


    Eventually, his shoes stopped moving, and there was the sound of knocking. His shoes moved again, and she lifted her head enough to see the threshold between the hall and a carpeted room. ¡®Come on,¡¯ he said, and she followed. A pointing finger entered her field of vision, indicating to the left. ¡®Go on, sit.¡¯


    She turned her head slightly and saw the couch. She took tiny steps, then turned and sat on the very edge of the cushion.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡®Recruits?¡¯ Ryan¡¯s voice.


    His voice shook some more tears loose. He¡¯d trusted her to try, to- To not fuck up, and she hadn¡¯t managed to even get through one training session.


    Curt knelt in front of her. ¡®I¡¯m going to book out that conference room we were using last night for the rest of the day. Send me an email when you feel up to it, and we¡¯ll do some more paperwork, okay?¡¯


    She gave a slight nod.


    She heard him mumbling at Ryan, then the sound of the door closing.


    She swallowed and tried to hold her breath. Holding your breath until you die was supposed to be impossible, but it just meant that¨C


    A leaf fell from her knee and slipped onto the ground.


    She stared at it. It wasn¡¯t the ground, it was carpet. And she was dirty. She was covered in mud and wrecking Ryan¡¯s couch. Wrecking his couch and giving him one more reason to hate her. She hunched in on herself, trying to minimise the impact on what had been his pristine office.


    Blood pounded in her ears.


    Aneurysm, please. Please. Please.


    The sound of Ryan¡¯s approaching footsteps finally cut through the miasma, and she pushed herself up from the couch, more leaves and detritus falling to the ground as she did.


    She knelt, aiming her knees at the dirty footprints on the carpet, and began to brush the detritus from the couch. It was leather, which helped. Her hands were muddy, which didn¡¯t help.


    ¡®Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.¡¯ She wiped her hands on her pants and tried again, still leaving muddy smears. ¡®Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,¡¯ she mumbled, tears starting again as she almost got it clean again, before mud dripped from her jacket and onto the black leather. ¡®Shit!¡¯ She tried to wipe it away, but only smeared it further. ¡®Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.¡¯


    Big, strong hands came down on hers and held them still.


    The cushion became clean again in a second, then the dirt on her hands disappeared. The dirt and leaves on her sleeves and skin vanished as she felt the new-but-getting-familiar feeling of a new uniform appearing. A proper, suity uniform, not a doing-things-outdoors uniform.


    There was a pfft of air as Ryan sat on the couch. He lifted her hands away from the cushion and held them gently. ¡®Stef?¡¯


    Words were for people. Words were for people who didn¡¯t fuck up. Conversations were for the worthy.


    Please just¨C Just let me I can¡¯t be here


    ¡®Tell me what happened.¡¯


    I fucked up. I fucked up and¨C-


    Hide. She needed to hide. She needed to hide and¨C She tugged her hands away from his, pressed her head against the edge of the cushion and wrapped her arms around herself. It wasn¡¯t a rational action. It wasn¡¯t the action of a sane person. It felt safe.


    He put a hand on her shoulder. ¡®It¡¯s all right. Everything is all right.¡¯


    Just let me go home; just let me go home. I wanted this, but I¡¯m not good enough. I¡¯m¨C


    ¡®¨Cnot good enough. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry. Just let me go home, and you¡¯ll never have to look at me again. I¡¯m sorry for wasting your time; I¡¯m sorry¨C¡¯


    She shut her mouth and pushed herself to her feet.


    If you won¡¯t tell me to leave, I¡¯ll just go! I¡¯ll-


    ¡®-just go!¡¯


    She turned for the door but was blocked by a wall made of agent.


    He bent to her level and brushed the hair back from her face before slowly wiping at her cheeks with a handkerchief.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry!¡¯ she said again, nearly choking on the words.


    Just let me leave before I screw things up.


    ¡®You don¡¯t have to go. You don¡¯t have to-¡¯


    She flung her arms around him.


    It was almost more of a flail than a hug, and something she shouldn¡¯t have done. Something that- She was stupid and-


    Before she could pull away, one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, then the other around her back, and held her close.


    His arms held her tight, held her together, and slowly started to chase away the scariness of the world, just as he¡¯d chased away the panic back at Dorian¡¯s mansion. Professional-level hugs.


    He was warm and strong and- And it was a real hug. And- And Mother had hugged Stephanie, but-


    She tried to adjust her arms to something more comfortable, unsure of what she was doing, unsure of when she¡¯d last hugged someone. Her father had avoided her after the accident, arranging for her to go to boarding school once she was out of the hospital. Neither set of her grandparents liked to show affection. And-


    I think Mother was the last person to hug you.


    She was eye level with his vest and tie, and it was so familiar, it was safe.


    After a long moment, he let her go and bent down to her eye level. ¡®Do you want to talk about it now?¡¯


    She gave him the tiniest nod, then went back to the couch, unafraid to sit on it now that she was clean.


    He sat on the couch beside her, apparently willing and ready to listen to what was wrong.


    Talking. Getting listened to. Conversing. All strange things. All things that required an adjustment period. He sat, waiting for her to talk, like a dad from a storybook waiting to hear about school bullies. She tensed at the thought, at the presumption of the metaphor. He was just a boss listening to the problems of the newbie, just¨C


    But she¡¯d been thinking about her parents.


    And he¡¯d already shown more love and care than she could ever remember from either of her parents.


    And he was just being nice. Just- Being polite and- And she was reading too much into his actions. But even so, it felt nice to have someone caring for her. Even if it was out of a sense of obligation.


    It was make-believe, and play pretend. Touch starvation, having to think hard about the last time someone had cared enough to give her a hug. Emotional starvation being fed by someone looking kindly at her, when she¡¯d only ever been a burden.


    She had to back away. Had to pull away before boss-being-nice-to-new-employee patience ran out and he looked down on her like everyone else did.


    But part of her wanted to ride this out, to have a couple of wonderful days before running away, to build up a couple of good memories to look back on the next time she-


    He was the reason she was alive, and there was no way she could tell him that.


    Tears started to well up again. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and tried to push away the tears.


    ¡®Simulations aren¡¯t mandatory for agents,¡¯ he said as he gently guided her to sit on the couch. ¡®We don¡¯t have a lot of standardised training. There are certain ones that we are all asked to do in the interests of gathering statistics or comparing regions against each other.¡¯


    She tried to look up at him. ¡®Are you going to tell me that you sucked at your first sim, too?¡¯


    Ryan handed her a glass of water and leaned back. He shook his head. ¡®No, I was efficient with my first. With my fifth. With my tenth. You have to understand that when an agent is generated, it is very hard for them to do any wrong.¡¯


    She slowly moved to lean against the arm of the couch and brought her legs up beneath her. ¡®What do you mean?¡¯


    ¡®When we¡¯re generated, all we are is Duty and policy and the knowledge of how to be an agent. While we¡¯re not at our best because we don¡¯t have experience, we can do no wrong, as we haven¡¯t yet learned to act outside of our initial parameters. So, when I ran my fourteenth simulation, and my actions led to three dozen civilians causalities, my actions were still beyond reproach, because I had followed my Duty to the letter.¡¯


    ¡®So ¨C so it takes a while for you to become people?¡¯ She bit the inside of her cheek. ¡®Wait. That sounds insulting. I didn¡¯t¨C¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not insulting,¡¯ he said. ¡®It¡¯s accurate. Personality is an adaptation to and a product of your circumstances. Everyone deals with things in different ways. Some adaptations take longer than others.¡¯


    She looked up at him and shrugged. She stared down into the water, tapping the glass to make it ripple. ¡®I couldn¡¯t get through one exercise without-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve talked to Recruit Haskell about his behaviour before. As I understand it, you didn¡¯t do anything wrong.¡¯ Ryan sighed. ¡®I don¡¯t-¡¯ He paused for a long moment. ¡®I don¡¯t have as much control over my department or my recruits as I should. I focus more on my directorial duties and keeping this Agency going as a whole, and as such, Field suffers for it.¡¯


    ¡®So why don¡¯t you ask for help? Hire a bunch of temps or something to do the boring shit. Or delegate discipline, that kind of thing.¡¯


    ¡®If I had an aide, a person I could trust, things would be easier. At the moment, I manage as best as I can.¡¯


    ¡®I wish I could help, but I nearly puked my guts out getting up enough fortitude to ask if I could do the fucking mailbox schedule.¡¯


    ¡®I...appreciate the sentiment,¡¯ he said dryly.


    ¡®I feel like I¡¯m completely out of my depth,¡¯ she said after a moment.


    ¡®Do you want me to tell you what I see?¡¯


    She traced a spiral on her knee. ¡®I wasn¡¯t, yanno, fishing for compliments or anything.¡¯


    ¡®You are asking the right questions, and you¡¯re keeping an open mind. That¡¯s all I ask of my recruits. Everything else will come in time.¡¯


    ¡®That can¡¯t be enough. What would happen if I had an argument with someone when I was actually out on a mission or something, and it made something bad go wrong?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to put you into any dangerous situations before you¡¯re ready for them.¡¯


    ¡®Why are you being nice to me?¡¯


    ¡®Do I need a reason?¡¯


    She hunched in on herself. Smaller, she could make herself smaller. Small enough, and she¡¯d collapse in on herself like a black hole, and then¨C


    I¡¯m wasting your time. Just tell me to leave.


    ¡®Forget I said anything. Sorry.¡¯ Smaller. Disappear. Smaller. Hide. ¡®Just, I¡¯m sure you can¡¯t¨C Curt said you¡¯re already doing two jobs, is counsellor a third? I don¡¯t need false courtesy; I don¡¯t want you to pretend to be nice if you really want to tell me that I¡¯m a fuck-up.¡¯


    ¡®You weren¡¯t afraid of Death. You played with Limbo like she was any other child. I had too many things on my mind at the time to think about how extraordinary that was, but with hindsight, it¡¯s easy to see. And I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve become any less amazing with time. I don¡¯t know you, Stef. I have the memories of a little girl, and I have my new recruit, but...I don¡¯t think the world has been too kind to you.¡¯ He reached over and placed his hand on her head. ¡®I want to give you the chances you need to become whatever you want. If it¡¯s never anything more than collecting from the drop boxes and asking me about the minutiae of every Fairyland government service, I¡¯d be happy with that. So long as that makes you happy.¡¯ He ruffled her hair and withdrew his hand.


    ¡®It¡¯s a slogan that belongs on a t-shirt, but I don¡¯t think I know what happy is,¡¯ she said after a long moment.


    ¡®I can understand that sentiment, happiness isn¡¯t always the easiest thing to find.¡¯


    ¡®I like being here, I like learning new things. I just don¡¯t know if that¡¯s ¡°happy¡± like other people would define it.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s your definition to make. On the subject of learning new things, the mirrorfall, there are several stages to it. If we have our timetable right, then there should be something rather spectacular to see tonight. If you don¡¯t have anything booked, I¡¯d love your company, most people never get to see a phoenix. I cannot recommend it highly enough.¡¯


    She looked up and saw him smiling. ¡®I approve of your verbal clickbait,¡¯ she said. ¡®When and where?¡¯


    ¡®Keep your evening free. I¡¯ll send you a message when things seem to be starting. Do you have a phone yet?¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®And a little Bluetooth ear thingy. I did the comms module last night. I¡¯ve got to do the intranet one next, and Curt¡¯s gonna help me through picking a weapon to work on the proficiencies.¡¯


    ¡®No flamethrowers, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    ¡®Yessir,¡¯ she said, then stuck her tongue out.


    ¡®My director used to say that so long as you learn one new thing each day, then the day hasn¡¯t been wasted. It seems minor, but it represents improvement every day, and that is not trivial.¡¯


    She smiled. ¡®I think I can manage that.¡¯

 23 - New Game Plus

    +1 to confidence.


    +1 to giving a crap.


    Debuff: Run home and hide has been dispelled.


    Stef stared at the intersecting halls, then made a left turn.


    Are you ready to admit you¡¯re lost yet?


    Not quite.


    Curt¡¯s text had given her the room number of the meeting room, but navigating by door numbers alone wasn¡¯t working.


    She¡¯d seen the gym twice, the hall with the dorm rooms once, two separate common rooms, and the mess hall. She¡¯d found a large board room, but so far, the small meeting room had eluded detection.


    She held her hands out in front of her, fingers on the home row of an imaginary keyboard, and spammed the ¡°M¡± button, hoping that a map would appear. A map would show her exactly where the fuck she was, and what route she needed to take to get to the meeting room.


    To his credit, Curt hadn¡¯t sent out a rescue party or cancelled the meeting. Those were good signs, probably.


    And it was almost weird that she was taking it as a good sign. That she was seeing the positive, instead of assuming the worst. Definitely weird, definitely out of character, probably a bit of positivity that was going to fade within minutes.


    She pressed the imaginary ¡°M¡± key again, then stopped and leaned against the wall. ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    Admitting it?


    ¡®Yeah, I guess.¡¯


    So what aren¡¯t you thinking of?


    I am not making a fucking phone call.


    I know you better than you know yourself. You would hesitate to make a phone call to save your life.


    ¡®So what-¡¯


    Inside voice, Spyder.


    So what are you asking me to do?


    Think, McFly, think.


    She stared at the imaginary keyboard, at where her hands were, and thought of what she needed. She needed a map. And a basic floor layout shouldn¡¯t be off-limits to a recruit - there would have to be maps available, if just to locate fire exits.


    ¡®Okay, okay.¡¯


    Require: map.


    A map appeared in her hand - a single A4 sheet on thick card - thick enough to be referenced without flopping over.


    ¡®All right,¡¯ she said. She pulled out her phone, looked at the text and double-checked the meeting room number - seventeen.


    She stared at the map, and required the meeting room to be coloured in - a solid block of blue in amongst the lines indicating the halls and rooms and cupboards.


    ¡®And now the coup de grace,¡¯ she mumbled.


    Two more requirements changed the map to show her location - as a spider emoji, just for fun; and the path she had to take to get to the meeting room.


    She took the first two turns, then looked down.


    Require: map update.


    The position of her emoji changed, and the line of dashes showed that she only had a short way to go.


    One more hall and one more turn brought her to the door of seventeen. She hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the door.


    Curt sat at the round table, scribbling onto a piece of paper, a half-empty glass of juice beside him. The table was covered with files and photos, and one wall had been turned into a bank of screens ¨C four rows of three, each with a slowly spinning Agency logo as a screen saver.


    ¡®Close the door,¡¯ he said, the juice disappearing. ¡®Take a seat.¡¯


    She closed the door and slid into the chair opposite him.


    Curt clapped his hands and indicated to the spread of paper. ¡®Okay. Today¡¯s sim was a really poor introduction to everything, but it¡¯s what we got assigned, so it¡¯s what we¡¯re going to work through.¡¯


    She required a coffee and leaned back in the chair.


    ¡®Also,¡¯ he said, ¡®I looked it up, and this had a rating of seven, so it¡¯s not something you¡¯d get assigned to if we had any advance warning of the situation. But it¡¯s still something you might encounter, so it¡¯s worthwhile to go through it.¡¯


    She put her hand up.


    ¡®Don¡¯t do that,¡¯ he said. ¡®And what?¡¯


    ¡®Two things: is it likely to encounter something like that in the city ¨C and you said you¡¯d show me what parts of the city we actually look after?¡¯


    Curt pointed at the bank of monitors, and a map appeared, with some areas shaded blue and some in cross-hatched blue. The blue area lay in a rough, blobby line along the river, with the central business district at, appropriately, the centre.


    He stood and pointed at the map. ¡®See? We¡¯ve got the CBD, Spring Hill, the Valley, South Bank.¡¯ He rattled off a few more suburbs, pointing at each in turn. ¡®But in general, it¡¯s the city and this side of the river through to the airport. The lighter areas¡¯ ¨C he poked at one of the cross-hatched areas ¨C ¡®are the crossover between us and one of the outposts. Outposts tend to cover a lot more area than we do but have less to do.¡¯


    ¡®Can ¨C can I see those, too?¡¯


    Curt was quiet for a moment, then the map changed to show a dozen different coloured blobs overlapping each other. ¡®There you go. Sometimes their agents will come here for meetings, but otherwise, we¡¯ve got fairly little to do with them. We¡¯ve got enough problems in our own territory.¡¯


    She nodded.


    The map disappeared, and he sat back at the table.


    ¡®And the chance of encountering a grove in the city?¡¯


    ¡®Low, but weirder stuff happens on a frequent basis. Think about it: You could have a fungus colony take over a disused factory or groups of vines that can steal people from a much wider radius. It¡¯s also just a way to think about situations, as well ¨C not just nymphs. It¡¯s to make you stop and think about fae that have a much wider area of perception than we do. Sometimes the element of surprise just doesn¡¯t exist.¡¯


    ¡®So lots of things with a massive aggro radius and a tiny hitbox, kay.¡¯ She tried to look at him. ¡®Do I need to add those words to your dictionary?¡¯


    ¡®I have played some video games in my life,¡¯ he said, mock-defensively. ¡®Aggro is when shit comes at you,¡¯ he lifted his hands. ¡®But hitbox?¡¯


    ¡®When you¡¯re attacking an enemy, like, there¡¯s a programmed point where hits actually count. So, like, imagine swinging a sword at an enemy knight,¡¯ she said as he laid the Stef-to-English dictionary on the table. ¡®Its hitbox might be where its heart is, so if you¡¯re off-centre, and only slice their arm, it might not register as doing any damage.¡¯


    He nodded and wrote down some notes.


    ¡®So, with the grove, if I understand it...You could burn down the corpse we saw, but it¡¯s not actually going to damage the- The main body or whatever.¡¯


    He tucked the dictionary away. ¡®Surprisingly accurate metaphor, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®Does that mean I earned your captain?¡¯


    ¡®Kirk.¡¯


    ¡®Clarify.¡¯


    ¡®TOS, not Kelvin.¡¯


    She cupped her hands around her mouth. ¡®Neeeeeeeerd.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll trust you not to hold that against me.¡¯ He indicated to the paper and the screens. ¡®This is the sim we just went through.¡¯ The scrubby forest appeared on the monitors. ¡®We¡¯re going to walk through it, figuratively speaking, without the stress of being graded or being around dickheads.¡¯


    He slid her a folder. ¡®And this is the supplementary material since I¡¯m making a safe inference that you¡¯re a data geek.¡¯


    She opened the folder. ¡®What is it?¡¯


    ¡®Options, outcomes, and statistics from just about every other person who has run this sim. They¡¯ll be good for comparison. You right to start?¡¯


    She required a dead leaf and spun it between her fingers. ¡®Okay, go.¡¯


    ¡®Let¡¯s run with the scenario that we were just called in on the report of a corpse. That¡¯s a reasonable situation. If there¡¯s a body, it¡¯s usually Field recruits go in first ¨C or someone from CSI if their field rating is high enough, but it¡¯s usually up to us to do recon first. Plus witnesses are our responsibility, so we go in, then we bring the techs when we know it¡¯s safe.¡¯


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡®Okay.¡¯


    ¡®So we find the body. We know about it this time, so you don¡¯t step on it. What next?¡¯


    ¡®Make sure it¡¯s dead, I suppose, but it was kind of obvious. Um¡­¡¯


    ¡®Take a second, think about it.¡¯


    She spun her chair side to side. ¡®Have a look around in the immediate area, I guess. That¡¯s probably more relevant if it¡¯s a fresh corpse. It was the bush, so there are no obvious witnesses.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯ll need to take you through a couple of courses on looking for signs of nature fae, but you were right, no obvious witnesses. Next?¡¯


    ¡®Do we set up a perimeter, or is that up to CSI?¡¯


    ¡®Depends on the situation. Something like this, no need to rope off the area before calling them in. If it¡¯s in a crowded area, then yes, we want civilians out of the way as soon as possible.¡¯


    ¡®And we just flash our ID and go ¡°LOL, we¡¯re the Agency, GTFO¡±?¡¯


    ¡®Well, not in those words.¡¯


    ¡®If I had some narc flash an ID at me that said ¡°the Agency¡± I¡¯d think they were bullshitting, or some really, really lost CIA agent.¡¯


    ¡®We do avoid specifics where possible. Plus, it¡¯s basic psychology; people are fairly likely to listen to someone in a suit.¡¯


    ¡®Fair enough.¡¯ She pulled out her ID and looked at it - it looked official, enough so to make most people turn away without arguing. ¡®But if they do think we¡¯re fake?¡¯


    ¡®Worst comes to worst, we arrest the troublemakers or get the local cops to do it if they¡¯re around. They¡¯ll be held for a few hours, then released.¡¯


    She tucked her legs beneath her and required a coffee. ¡®Do the cops know who we are?¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t guarantee that every officer does, but as a whole, yeah. So if you have a problem, get them to call their boss. All you have to do is stay calm, and there won¡¯t be a problem.¡¯


    ¡®And who do they think we are?¡¯


    ¡®Federal agents, federal police, special task force, the people you call to deal with terrorists ¨C you know, the usual bullshit of conspiracy theories. Okay, next?¡¯


    ¡®So we¡¯ve got a body. We don¡¯t have to do anything special with the area. Call for techs?¡¯


    ¡®Correct. You¡¯ll have a tech in your ear anyway, so just tell them that you need a crime scene team. I spoke with Agent Jones just before, just to make sure you were getting assigned someone newbie-friendly. Agent Jones is generally pretty good at assigning operators that can match or complement you. Generally, you get one primary, one backup, and if neither are available, you¡¯ll get someone from the relief pool.¡¯


    ¡®And Raz the Psychonaut is your primary?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, and yes, I know his name is a video game thing. So you don¡¯t have to explain or send me links, we¡¯re good.¡¯


    ¡®Do I wait until I go on a mission to meet my guy in the chair?¡¯


    ¡®Your primary will be a girl in a chair,¡¯ he slid a file over. ¡®Screen. Since she doesn¡¯t have a primary for this time of day, she¡¯s in the relief pool. I¡¯ve asked her to keep the next couple of hours free in case you wanted to meet in person. I thought you might want to look over her file first and make that decision yourself.¡¯


    She tried to smile in thanks. ¡®Can- Is it okay if we see- I¡¯ll see how I do here first, okay?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Moving on. Do we stick around with the techs or investigate further?¡¯


    She stared at her hands. ¡®I feel like this one of those things that could go either way?¡¯


    ¡®CSI teams are usually led by someone whose field rating at least matches yours. So unless we¡¯ve got reason to believe they¡¯re in immediate danger, it¡¯s safe enough to scout ahead. In situations like this where we have a lot of ground to cover, the techs will probably also try to send a drone or two into the area.¡¯


    ¡®Like¡­predator drones?¡¯


    ¡®Semi-autonomous programs that look like birds. They generally fly on preprogrammed paths, and their software is programmed to pick out certain images or words, so when it picks something up, it sends in an alert. Techs can fly them directly if needed, though.¡¯


    Big Brother is watching and he¡¯s a bird? Big Bird is watching?


    That was horrible.


    She nodded. ¡®Did the techs figure out it¡¯s a grove yet, or have we wandered off to let them get splattered by corpse goo?¡¯


    ¡®Let¡¯s say we know, and move on from there.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, so we follow the root-trail, yeah? Isn¡¯t that dangerous, though? Shouldn¡¯t we be doing the nymphy equivalent of walking without rhythm?¡¯


    ¡®Once anyone touched the body, they had warning that we were there ¨C so we¡¯re damned if we do and damned if we don¡¯t ¨C but we¡¯re Agency, so we do wherever possible.¡¯


    ¡®Question?¡¯


    ¡®Shoot.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s kinda my question, actually. Where¡¯s the line drawn between ¡°be sensible and agenty and ask questions¡± and ¡°blow their heads off¡±?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re not going into judgement calls on your second day. It¡¯s a massive grey area that a lot of official policies go out of their way to avoid defining. If you¡¯re in danger, go ahead and do what you need to do to survive. If it¡¯s someone we need to question, then try and bring them in alive, of course. We don¡¯t have a lot of time for murderers.¡¯


    ¡®Are there, um¨C¡¯


    ¡®Ask, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®Do we have to worry about jurisdiction issues or anything? Should we be cuffing people and handing them over to fae cops?¡¯


    ¡®Good question; gold star. Wait.¡¯ Curt pointed to the table. A dish of yellow candy-coated chocolate stars appeared. ¡®Now you don¡¯t have to ask every time. Basically, if a fae commits a crime¡­well, outside of Faerie, it falls under our jurisdiction. If it¡¯s a minor crime, we¡¯ll warn them or hand them over to fairy police¨C¡¯


    ¡®¡°Fairy¡± like with the wings or ¡°fairy¡± as in fae? Are there fairy-winged fairy cops and hob cops and nymph cops? Do they each have different rules, or¨C¡¯


    ¡®Whoa,¡¯ he said. ¡®Take a breath.¡¯


    She took a breath, and the boiling questions settled a little.


    ¡®Okay, even I don¡¯t know the full rundown of how all the different systems work together. Agency law trumps human law ¨C we¡¯re just that good. Agency law works in tandem with fae law when we can. When we go into Fairyland, we¡¯re subject to the local laws. There¡¯s also the Courts, which are an authority unto themselves, which we¡¯re not even trying to get into for the next couple of weeks.¡¯


    ¡®¡­Is there a flow chart or Venn diagram I could look at?¡¯


    ¡®Somewhere, of course.¡¯ He ran his fingers through his hair. ¡®All you need to know for now is when someone says ¡°fairy¡±, they mean the with-the-wings pixie type of fae that we saw at breakfast yesterday, okay? And of the fae races, they¡¯re the most numerous, like over a billion.¡¯


    ¡®Billion with a B?¡¯


    ¡®Billion with a B.¡¯


    ¡®So basically, sometimes we give them to fae cops, sometimes we don¡¯t.¡¯


    He looked relieved. ¡®Exactly. Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ll go into detail, you know, in a few months. Let¡¯s just get you comprehending the basics first.¡¯


    ¡®Okay. So, with the grove, it¡¯s murder, ergo a crime that we¡¯re going to deal with, ergo we can use the ¡°shoot first¡± rule.¡¯


    ¡®Even we don¡¯t usually go for shoot first without contact. Give them a chance to surrender or turn in the equivalent of state¡¯s evidence.¡¯


    ¡®Could we stab the root with a sedative or something, so we have a bit of an advantage?¡¯


    ¡®Grab another gold star.¡¯


    She popped the chocolate into her mouth and crunched on the candy shell.


    ¡®We could do that,¡¯ he said, ¡®but there are caveats and conditions. We have to know specifically what kind of nymph we¡¯re dealing with; there¡¯s not just one fae knockout drug that we keep bottles of. The wrong type or the wrong dose could kill them outright or fuck with their head so they start raging or hallucinating or whatever.¡¯


    ¡®What about¨C¡¯


    ¡®Same problem with anaesthesia. So generally we skip that step unless we¡¯ve got a lot of accurate prior information. Plus we¡¯d need it on hand, or shifted in, or an agent with us, cause we can¡¯t require that kind of stuff.¡¯


    ¡®Why not?¡¯


    ¡®Requiring isn¡¯t an open license to conjure anything in the world, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m trustworthy?¡¯


    ¡®There is a lot of stuff we can¡¯t require. Drugs, specialised weapons, and weapons of mass destruction. For example, you can¡¯t require a nuke.¡¯


    ¡®But there¡¯s one with the hats!¡¯


    ¡®We don¡¯t talk about Billy the Nuke.¡¯


    She stared at him. ¡®Could you please repeat your last sentence?¡¯


    ¡®Sorry. That would be talking about him.¡¯


    ¡®Did you just call¨C Are you trolling me? Why are you trolling me?¡¯


    Curt put a hand over his heart. ¡®I¡¯m not messing with you. The techs call it Billy the Nuke.¡¯


    ¡®I haven¡¯t had a reasonable explanation yet as to why there¡¯s a nuke next to the hats!¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s probably because there isn¡¯t one. It¡¯s probably the focal point of some contingency plan. Don¡¯t fear the nuke.¡¯


    She pressed her fingers to her eyes. ¡®I have totally forgotten what we were talking about.¡¯


    ¡®Poisoning nymphs. Moving on.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, so we do what we did, follow the path till we get to the hill.¡¯ Anxiety started to bubble again. ¡®And¨C¡¯ She thought of Brian looking down at her, of the look of disdain, of feeling like nothing but a piece of shit, and- ¡®And¨C¡¯ she said. ¡®So we get to the bottom of the hill¨C¡¯


    A weight sat in her chest, and she couldn¡¯t breathe.


    He leaned forward and shoved the bowl of stars at her. ¡®Do you want some advice for next time?¡¯


    She flinched. ¡®There¡¯s going to be a next time?¡¯


    ¡®He doesn¡¯t exactly keep his anger in check. So next time-¡¯


    She dug her nails into her knees. ¡®I know! I know, already! I shouldn¡¯t have-¡¯


    ¡®Just go straight for the dick. Go for his nuts. Punch them, knee them, or kick them. At the very least, it¡¯s going to make him stop and think, which gives you time to do it again. And again. And again until they stop bothering you.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t you get kicked out of the guy club for saying that?¡¯


    He shrugged. ¡®So, bottom of the hill with the grove above. What do you do?¡¯


    ¡®Can we run away or call for backup?¡¯


    ¡®Backup is a good option. That¡¯s another advantage of having a tech in your ear: You can get them to organise it. You just tell them you need backup, though if they¡¯re any good it won¡¯t come as a surprise, and they put the request through.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, so we¡¯ve got backup. Require an escalator to get up the hill, then bam, grove, right?¡¯


    He pointed to the monitors, and the screens flicked back to life ¨C first an aerial view taking over all of the monitors, then individual monitors breaking off to show different parts of the grove.


    She got up from her chair to have a closer look at the detail - and was suddenly glad that they hadn¡¯t made it up the hill. One corpse had been...okay, not her first-choice activity, but visible in the drone footage were at least twenty dead bodies, each feeding a new sapling, or a tall grey tree.


    The camera angle changed - the monitors now showed a more close-up view of the nymphs - each of the tall grey trees that ringed the top of the hill - up close, it was easier to see that the trees had human-like features, but each element was distorted in some way.


    Faces in the bark were sized wrong as if they¡¯d initially been to the right scale, but the growth of the tree had distended them in strange ways. Some branches ended in hands - sometimes made of wood, though she spotted a few that had the illusion of flesh, making the whole situation more bizarre.


    She turned from the monitors. ¡®I¡¯d suggest a tactical retreat.¡¯


    ¡®Not quite,¡¯ he said. ¡®We identify ourselves to the grove, tell them to come quietly, blah. Don¡¯t expect it. If they¡¯ve gone this far, then fighting the Agency is pretty much par for the course. Just remember: fire and plants don¡¯t mix.¡¯ He stopped and stared. ¡®Please, don¡¯t-¡¯


    ¡®Ryan already told me I¡¯m not allowed to require a flamethrower.¡¯


    ¡®Newbie, do I even want to know why you¡¯ve already had that conversation with our director?¡¯


    ¡®In all honesty, probably not.¡¯


    ¡®If it eventuates, try for controllable burns if you can. Small-scale stuff. We do enough damage, and generally we get some wanting to surrender. Again, there¡¯s that policy grey area.¡¯ He snapped his fingers. ¡®That¡¯s something else you should probably know. The grey list and the blacklist ¨C grey-listed people are those that have committed a major infraction but were let go for some reason. It¡¯s basically a one-strike policy. They go against us again, and we¡¯re free to kill on sight. You¡¯ll find a lot of our informants and such on the grey list, as well as people we can coerce into doing us favours. Blacklisted people are just kill on sight. Basically, you need a damn, damn good reason to justify not killing one of them.¡¯


    She stared down at her warped reflection in the tabletop. ¡®Am I allowed to ask if you should be on the grey list?¡¯


    ¡®Should be, yes,¡¯ he said, his voice a little strained. ¡®But I¡¯m in an exemption category because I¡¯m a recruit. It¡¯s, obviously, the reason I¡¯m on probation. That will wear off eventually. I¡¯m lucky, I get to earn a clean slate.¡¯


    She nodded and swivelled her chair from side to side. ¡®Okay, so we burn them, then yay, come home and internet?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re already calling this home,¡¯ he said. ¡®You¡¯ve been here a day.¡¯


    She shrugged. ¡®Home is where you hearth to. I¡¯m here; Frankie¡¯s here. I don¡¯t really need much else.¡¯


    Her response earned her a look of confusion. ¡®Who¡¯s Frankie?¡¯


    ¡®A whingey little monster who demands way too much attention and has performance issues. He always comes through when I need him to, though.¡¯


    He still looked confused. ¡®I¡¯m going to need some clarification, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®My laptop?¡¯


    He stole another handful of chocolate and munched on a half-dozen stars while staring at her. ¡®You ¨C you¡¯re very strange, Newbie.¡¯


    She looked at the screens full of nymphs. ¡®So how¡¯d I do?¡¯


    ¡®Like I suspected, better in theory than in practice.¡¯ All but a few files disappeared from the table. ¡®That¡¯s your homework from this: read through at least the high-level stats on choices recruits make and pass rates in comparison to field rating.¡¯ He drummed his fingers against the table for a moment. ¡®You want to impress Agent Ryan, don¡¯t you?¡¯


    She gave a small nod.


    ¡®Okay, so you should plan on doing this every day after training. We¡¯ll run them in practice, like good recruits, but then we can do this, run through the theory behind them, and give you a chance to think about your choices and see if there¡¯s anything you could have done better.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    ¡®Just don¡¯t whine when you get sick of all the homework.¡¯


    She tried to smile. ¡®I won¡¯t.¡¯ She tapped her fingers on the table. ¡®So what¡¯s next?¡¯


    He slid a folder towards her, with the photo of a purple-haired woman clipped to the top. ¡®Meeting the techs, if you¡¯re up to it.¡¯

 24 - Tech Support

    The Tech department seemed so much more full of life than the Field floor.


    Large, flat-panel monitors streamed memes and videos. There were the standard emergency diagrams and such, but they were drowned out by schedules of a dozen different MMOs and P&P RPGs.


    Stef grimaced as she bumped into Curt.


    Warn me before stopping, next time.


    He pushed open a door but made a shushing motion.


    ¡®This is the phone bank,¡¯ he said, stepping aside to let her see a room with seven recruits at large desks, each containing at least three screens. ¡®Some people can call us directly, but we also get a lot of triple-zero calls routed through to us. Things that the regular emergency services can¡¯t deal with.¡¯


    She watched as one recruit constructed miniature siege weaponry. ¡®It doesn¡¯t seem that busy.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t jinx it,¡¯ he said. ¡®It means we¡¯re having a good day.¡¯


    He closed the door, and they continued on. He pointed out four different common rooms, the comics library of awesomeness, and a few unoccupied laboratories.


    ¡®Where¡¯s the CSI stuff?¡¯


    ¡®They have their own floor.¡¯ He pointed at the door to Jones¡¯s lab. ¡®Okay, here we are.¡¯ He knocked, and Jones called for them to come in.


    The lab was the same as the day before ¨C long metal workbenches on all four walls, computers and equipment lined up neatly, and the occasional folder of information lying open, waiting to be worked on.


    Jones wore a heavy-duty headset, and she could hear panicked and dying screams filtering through. On the screen in front of the agent, people flailed and ran, their bodies on fire. Some made it further than others, but one by one, they fell.


    ¡®I swear,¡¯ he said, ¡®if we wipe again, I¡¯m putting you all on corpse duty for a month.¡¯ He dumped the headset onto the desk, quickly typed in a /dance command for his character, then spun to face them. ¡®Recruits, what can I do for you?¡¯


    ¡®Agent,¡¯ Curt said with a nod. ¡®I thought you would make an introduction to Screen.¡¯


    ¡®Sure thing,¡¯ Jones said, straightening his Portal T-shirt. His face took on the thousand-yard stare that meant an agent was using their HUD. ¡®She¡¯s in the library at the moment, I¡¯ve sent her a PM.¡¯


    ¡®We walked past the library, though,¡¯ she said, ¡®there was no one in it.¡¯


    ¡®Not our library,¡¯ Jones said. He fixed his gaze on Curt. ¡®Haven¡¯t you showed her anything fun yet?¡¯


    ¡®I haven¡¯t had that much time to work with, Agent,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®I was trying to get her through the basics first.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll leave you to explain Lost and Found, that¡¯s always fun,¡¯ Jones said, then turned to her. ¡®We have our own library here. Feel free to come up during your free time. But that¡¯s just our little sanctuary. The Agency has a library of its own ¨C one library for all agencies as a whole. You can¡¯t go through to other agencies without permission or an access card, though, so don¡¯t think of trying to walk to Europe. The library itself covers several square miles. Every recruit-accessible file is there, as well as a lot of fae literature.¡¯


    Her jaw dropped. ¡®¡­So basically what you¡¯re saying is there¡¯s a physical manifestation of L-Space through a door just down the hall?¡¯


    Jones leaned closer. ¡®Oook.¡¯


    She spun and took three steps towards the door.


    ¡®Newbie!¡¯


    She turned back towards Curt. ¡®But ¨C but!¡¯


    He tapped his foot. ¡®Work first. Fun later.¡¯


    ¡®But¨C¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not impressive behaviour to run off while an agent is talking to you.¡¯


    Impressive. She had to impress Ryan. She had to prove she was worth taking a chance on. She swallowed and felt the excitement in her brain calm to manageable levels. She pouted and dragged her feet as she walked back to the bench. ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®For my two cents, I prefer mixing work with play.¡¯ Jones jerked a thumb over his shoulder.


    ¡®Screen¡¯s on her way if you want to meet her halfway, Curt knows where the library is.¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, Recruit?¡¯


    ¡®What time does the library close?¡¯


    ¡®What would be the point of a closing time?¡¯


    ¡®Awesome!¡¯


    ¡®Come on, Newbie.¡¯


    She followed Curt from the room. ¡®Why didn¡¯t you expound on the library?¡¯


    He stopped and sighed. ¡®Cause I rightfully assumed you would do this?¡¯


    She pouted. ¡®What other cool stuff are you hiding?¡¯


    ¡®Hold out your hand.¡¯


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    ¡®Do you want to see something cool or not?¡¯


    She gingerly lifted her hand and held it out, palm up.


    He touched a finger lightly against her palm. ¡®This is lost property.¡¯


    The world warped sideways like a shift, but instead of appearing somewhere else in the Agency, there was just darkness.


    Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!


    Calm down!


    When he¡¯d handed her the business card that represented her overnight bag being held in suspension, she¡¯d imagined-


    She¡¯d thought of her bag, floating in a dark space, waiting to be fully integrated back into the world.


    ¡®Is that where I am?¡¯


    Words. She could speak and be heard. That meant wherever she was, she had a mouth, and ears at the least.


    She slowly took an inventory. Feet. Legs. Arms. Hands. Head.


    ¡®Come on, feet.¡¯


    She took a step forward into the darkness, and there was a loud, dull click from somewhere above her. After a moment, rows of lights sprang to life, illuminating the shelves and racks of seemingly endless storage space.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    She took a step forward from the shelves, and more lights came on. Dust swirled as she took tentative steps through the...archive area, or warehouse, or wherever she was.


    ¡®Does that count as cool?¡¯ Curt asked as he stepped up beside her.


    She spun towards him. ¡®What the hell did you do? Where the hell are we?¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯re still in the Agency. This is the Lost and Found for Brisbane and its outposts.¡¯ He clapped his hands to his chest. ¡®This is lost property.¡¯ He disappeared, then reappeared a few feet behind, in a Curt-sized alcove of the storage shelf. ¡®It¡¯s just a building macro, nothing to be scared of. There¡¯s a ton of automated stuff that the building does. This is just one you can purposely invoke.¡¯


    She required a coffee cup and held it aloft. ¡®This is lost property.¡¯


    There was a tingling sensation as the cup disappeared from her hand. He pointed, and she saw it on the shelf.


    ¡®Come on,¡¯ he said. ¡®Now we¡¯ll need to sign out.¡¯


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    ¡®All self-propelled lost property must sign out,¡¯ a man¡¯s voice said, ringing against the half-empty shelves.


    A clipboard was shoved at her before she had time to take in the man¡¯s appearance. She signed her name and looked at him.


    He was old. Old-man old. Barely taller than her, and grey, shortly-cut hair that made her think she was looking at an eighty-year-old accountant.


    ¡®Um, hi,¡¯ she said as she handed the clipboard back.


    He grunted in reply.


    ¡®Come on, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®Um, bye.¡¯


    She followed Curt out of the room, past a tiny office containing a desk, a chair, and a television.


    ¡®Is he an agent, or is that the job you get as an old recruit?¡¯


    ¡®Agent, general staff like Natalie, he doesn¡¯t go on missions.¡¯


    ¡®Why is he old?¡¯


    ¡®Because he is?¡¯ he said as he pressed the button for the lift.


    ¡®Ryan doesn¡¯t look his age.¡¯


    ¡®Applebaum is probably twice as old as Ryan,¡¯ he said as they stepped into the lift, ¡®if what I¡¯ve heard is true. He¡¯s apparently one of the first-generation agents. This is pretty much retirement for him, a job that needs to be done but has very little responsibility.¡¯


    She pulled one of the leftover chocolate stars from her pocket and nommed on it as they stepped back out onto the tech floor.


    ¡®I hope you appreciate this waste of time,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®I do, trust me, I do.¡¯


    She saw stick figures and ground to a halt. She turned towards the screen and stared at the new xkcd update. It faded, segueing into Kate Beaton.


    ¡®Bring it back; bring it back!¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a touchscreen,¡¯ a voice said. ¡®Just swipe it.¡¯


    She looked to the side and saw a cuddly-looking tech recruit in a purple dress, with purple hair. The recruit reached up and swiped on the screen, bringing the comic back.


    ¡®And what about the alt text?¡¯


    ¡®Double tap.¡¯


    She tapped the screen twice, and the text appeared. She snorted, then tapped it again and let it disappear.


    ''So if you''re here,'' the tech said, ''you must have approved of my file.'' She stuck her hand out. ''I''m Screen.''


    She shook the offered hand. ''Stef.''


    Screen gave her an appraising look. ''I''ve got some questions of my own, if that''s okay, I like to know the people I¡¯m working with. ''


    She hesitated. So much of the last few days had been¡­tests had been judging various aspects of her self, her personality, her worth. This should be-


    ''Cookies or pie?''


    The question came out of nowhere, and she mentally replayed the last few seconds to make sure she''d heard Screen right.


    ''Huh?''


    ''Cookies or pie?'' Screen lifted what had to be freshly-required flashcards, each showing an illustration. ''Cookies or pie. We deal a lot with bad days, so we have to know what baked goods to comfort you with, or bribe you with if it comes to that.''


    ''Cookies,'' she said, happy that the first test had been so easy to pass.


    ''Pie myself,'' Screen said. ''And if you need to bribe me, do something fancy with the crust.''


    ¡®Done. Next question.¡¯


    ¡®Are you affiliated with any Courts, Sins or Virtues?¡¯


    Curt cut in and shook his head. ¡®She¡¯s brand new, we haven¡¯t even covered the Court basics.¡¯


    ''Fair. I thought as much from your file,'' Screen said and held up a tablet. Open was the file of ¡°Recruit Mimosa¡±, a person she was still trying to reconcile as being her, and not just someone who existed on paper.


    Screen¡¯s copy of her file had digital notes scrawled with a stylus, laid over in an almost iridescent purple.


    I¡¯m sensing a theme with this recruit.


    ''It''s always good to check,¡¯ Screen continued. ¡®Some people have, say, one fae parent that they get estranged from, then grow up mostly human, but may still have Local Court or Major Court affiliations.''


    She turned slightly towards Curt. ''Is this what we''re going to go over in our teach newbie session tonight? ''


    ''Yeah, we can do that.''


    ''Personal god?'' Screen asked.


    This one, at least, was easy. ''Turing.''


    Screen grinned. ''Excellent.'' She pulled out her phone, typed a few things, then nodded. ''Okay, you should be getting-''


    She felt her phone buzz, and she pulled it from her pocket.


    ''-notifications,'' Screen continued. ''I''ve added you to my friends list, the group chat for the people I operate for, and a couple of other things. Get to it in your own time. You''re going to mostly be Shift A, right?''


    She blinked, then pointed at Curt. ''That seems like a him question.''


    ''Yeah, we do find Agent C to be pretty useful. He''s cool by association. It would be nice if he showed any sort of nerd aptitude though.''


    ''I am,'' Curt said, mock-offended, ''standing right here.''


    ''Agent C?'' she echoed.


    ''When Raz first met him, he thought he was an agent because he'' s so¡­ '' Screen wiped a hand over her face, then pouted the most intensely-trying-to-be-serious face she''d seen outside of an anime. ''So, so, serious.'' She dropped the expression. ¡®But Raz thinks he''s cool, so we allow cool by association.''


    ''Still right here.''


    Screen ignored Curt, and looked her up and down. ''I think you''ll fit in here just fine, new meat.¡¯


    ''I hope so,'' she said, then winced as she realised she''d said it out loud.


    ''I wouldn''t want to be anywhere else,'' Screen said. ''If you find your space here, it''ll be like that for you too. We''re the shit Agency, you¡¯ll hear Clarke say that often enough. If you can ignore how we fare in the metrics compared to other Agencies in our categories, you¡¯ll have a great time.¡¯


    ¡®What¡¯s that line about lies and damned lies?¡¯


    ¡®Exactly,¡¯ Screen said, ¡®and Clarke¡¯s a dickhead anyway.¡¯ Her phone buzzed, and she grinned. ¡®If you two will excuse me, I have to liaise with the Combat Division.¡¯


    She watched the tech walk towards the elevator. ¡®Ryan, I think Ryan, maybe it was Jonesy, said I might get loaned to Tech once in a while cause I have a giant brain. Do other people-¡¯


    Curt snorted, then immediately covered it with a fake cough. ¡®Sorry, sorry, Newbie, yes, that¡¯s an entirely valid question. But Screen is Magnolia¡¯s-¡¯ he paused for a brief second. ¡®Bestie almost seems like too soft of a word to use with Mags, but they¡¯re best friends.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ Apparently spiky and cuddly was sometimes a combination that worked. Opposites attracted, after all.


    Curt stared at his phone for a bit. ¡®You¡¯ve got a few hours to do whatever, then we can pick up with stupid newbie questions again tonight.¡¯


    She slapped her head. ¡®Wait, no, I can¡¯t do tonight. Thing with Ryan. Tomorrow?¡¯ She shuffled her feet. ¡®But yeah, if I¡¯ve got some time off, I need to head home for a bit, I got a rent reminder text, and there are at least three packages that my landlord has signed for that I need to grab.¡¯ She looked down at her suit. ¡®Should I go incognito, so I don¡¯t run into a Solstice on the bus?¡¯


    ¡®Bus?¡¯ he repeated. ¡®From the way you were dissing my car- And aren¡¯t there fancy rideshares that plebs don¡¯t know about that you can use?¡¯ he said, the teasing tone so obvious in his voice that she didn¡¯t have a chance to panic over his words.


    ¡®I grew up rich,¡¯ she said, ¡®I¡¯m not rich now. The bus is cheap. I only take rideshares when I¡¯ve bought too much shit that I can¡¯t carry on my own, and that¡¯s rare because I order most of my crap online. So, like, a convention day when I fail to keep to budget.¡¯


    He ran a hand through his hair. ¡®You don¡¯t have to catch a freaking bus, Newbie, I¡¯ll drive you.¡¯ He turned towards the elevator and waved at her to follow. ¡®Where do you live?¡¯ He handed over his Agency phone. ¡®Program it into the GPS. Save it as a fave if you think you¡¯ll need frequent trips.¡¯


    She carefully typed in the address for her building into the navigation app - the colour and styling telling her that it was another native Agency app, and not just a skin over a standard maps app. She stared at the option to star it, but decided against it - he was being nice because she was new, there was only so many favours she could expect.


    They stepped out of the lift into a parking garage - there were a dozen anonymous black sedans - perfectly men-in-black-ish cars. Several sports cars with various degrees of customisation, a few older classics obviously in the middle of loving, personal restoration, and in the far back, a large, concreted-off section.


    She pointed. ¡®Do I ask?¡¯ Logic kicked in. ¡®Or is it something boring, like the-¡¯ She paused. ¡®Wait, is this building actually on the grid, or are we self-sufficient? Or-¡¯


    ¡®Those are questions for Agent Jones,¡¯ he said as his car appeared, and he started to walk around to the driver¡¯s side. ¡®As for that...that¡¯s Taylor¡¯s not-so-secret-secret-garage.¡¯


    ¡®The Volcano is a car guy?¡¯


    He leaned across and opened her door. ¡®It¡¯s barely more than rumours. Honestly, it could be a secret torture room,¡¯ he said and forced a laugh. ¡®But there are persistent rumours he¡¯s building something in there that could survive an apocalypse. Combat¡¯s all about being prepared, and that has to involve transportation.¡¯ He started the car. ¡®End of the world comes, Newbie, stick with Mags and Agent Taylor, you might end up getting used for food, but until then, you¡¯ll be among the best-supplied and best-prepared people on the planet.¡¯ He slipped his phone into the cradle and started the navigation. ¡®Since you¡¯ll be busy tonight, we can start question time now, if you like.¡¯


    ¡®So if you require a flamethrower for me,¡¯ she said as the car exited the garage, ¡®that¡¯s technically not me doing it, and if you do, do you think Ryan would get mad at me?¡¯

 25 - Bills and Benefits

    Stef leaned forward, grabbed Curt¡¯s phone from the cradle and exited the navigation app. ¡®We¡¯re here,¡¯ she said and set it back into place.


    ¡®Which building?¡¯ Curt asked.


    She leaned against the door and pressed a finger to the window to point at the building they¡¯d just passed. ¡®That one.¡¯


    Curt slowed the car and backed into a spare spot about half a block down from her building. ¡®I¡¯ll just wait here,¡¯ he said. ¡®Go do whatever you need to do.¡¯


    She nodded and pushed on the door of the car, aware that she should probably say ¡°thank you¡±, but unable to form the words. Talking was...still not easy. Maybe starting to get a bit easier, but it was still tiring in every conceivable way. Remembering to make facial expressions, thinking about what to say next, about what was a proper response, what she could say in her own head, and what was safe to say out loud.


    Everything took effort, and that would be impossible to explain to someone so...normal. Trekkie or not, the amount of normal that he exuded was-


    But he gave you the soundboard to use.


    ¡®That¡¯s different.¡¯


    She tripped over a patch of uneven concrete just to the left of the steps that lead up to her building¡¯s front door. She knew about the bumpy patch, it had been there as long as she¡¯d been a tenant, and as long as she¡¯d been a tenant, she¡¯d tripped over it.


    Shutting down due to stress is one thing. Some people can understand the big stress. Unable to do the little things...that¡¯s harder to explain.


    She stared at the front door and realised that she didn¡¯t have her key with her.


    ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    She stared at the lock.


    ¡®Worth a try.¡¯


    She pressed her fingertips to it and required it to unlock. She felt the mechanism move, and then the pressure against her fingers change as the door swung in slightly. She pushed it open, then closed it behind her, quietly, as the handwritten sign suggested.


    The building was old and strange - it had been a rooming house in the old days. It had then changed into a short stay hotel, before finally converting into its current incarnation of small, one-room apartments, managed by a man who was definitely-probably-maybe-certainly committing some kind of tax fraud.


    There were a lot of strange and leftover features from the building''s previous lives. What had been a common room was now a communal laundry. Other areas had been turned into storage - mostly for Mr Jenkins¡¯ seemingly endless supply of dusty junk he couldn¡¯t seem to part with.


    It was weird, it was old, but it had been the only place she¡¯d ever been able to call ¡°home¡± where the word had actually meant something.


    And right now, it felt so strange to be here. The open lobby area always had to feel of a liminal space to it - somewhere that wasn¡¯t really anywhere. A place that existed as a way to get from place to place, but now the feeling was somehow exaggerated.


    Like Recruit Mimosa was maybe a slightly different circle of the Venn diagram to Stef Mimosa, and maybe-


    The door to Mr Jenkins¡¯ ground floor apartment - which was always a little ajar anyway - opened, and the old man stood, teacup in hand. ¡®Thought I heard the front door.¡¯ He waved her over. ¡®Got some of your packages. Shook them a little, nothing...sounded...interesting¡­¡¯ he slowed his speech, then trailed off, then retreated a step into his room to put his cup down. ¡®You¡¯re looking very fancy, Stephanie, working as a ma?tre d are we?¡¯


    ¡°Stephanie¡± always grated really badly whenever someone used it. Still, it was something she took with little complaint from her landlord - he seemed to see using her full name as giving some kind of respect as if calling her ¡°Stef¡± was too informal. And for someone who¡¯d given her a chance at a home, she¡¯d take a couple of awkward, but-well-meaning moments a month when she had to hand over rent.


    ¡°Stephanie¡± was distracting, but not enough to make her miss the completely disproportionate reaction he¡¯d had to-


    Panic spiked at the back of her neck, hot and sharp and-


    She tried to swallow. Only someone who knew what her suit meant would have any kind of reaction to it, and anyone who knew what it was-


    ¡®Agency?¡¯ he asked, his voice cracking a bit.


    She nodded, and hoped that she¡¯d be able to open the door quick enough if she had to run, or scream loud enough for Curt to hear through closed car doors if-


    ¡®Oh, thank god,¡¯ Jenkins said and deflated so much his chin flopped against his chest. ¡®I do know there¡¯s a trend among some Solstice to wear the clothes of their enemy, just to be edgy. And...don¡¯t get me wrong, Stephanie, but you are the kind of disaffected youth that they try and recruit.¡¯


    ¡®And how the fuck do you know about all this?¡¯


    He extended a hand towards her, which slowly turned into a bouquet of daisies, before retreating back into a human-seeming hand. ¡®Born to it, as they say. But you¡¯re brand new, I would say.¡¯


    ¡®This is like my...third day? Second? Time is a...thing,¡¯ she mumbled. ¡®Rent,¡¯ she said, getting her volume back up to normal. ¡®I got your rent text. Sorry it¡¯s late, the last couple of days have been, um, hectic.¡¯


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡®Understandable, of course,¡¯ he said. ¡®Will you be keeping the place, or living on company property?¡¯


    At least this answer was easy. ¡®Keeping it for now.¡¯ She held a hand palm-up and required several thousand dollars in a stack of one-hundred-dollar notes. ¡®Just put this toward whatever, and text me when it runs out.¡¯


    He took it, walked over to his hall table, opened the small drawer and threw it in on top of what had to be envelopes of rent money from other residents.


    He looked up. ¡®I do my bank reconciliations once every couple of months,¡¯ he said, as if he needed to explain himself. ¡®My major expenses are my Court taxes, and those are largely discounted through providing accommodation.¡¯


    She felt her eyebrows raise. ¡®You¡¯re not the only fae in the building?¡¯


    God, I must be oblivious.


    ¡®Only a couple,¡¯ he said. ¡®And it is the nature of those living on Earth to keep a low profile.¡¯


    That made her feel a bit better. A tiny bit. Like everything else about the world, about the truth, the masquerade, the whatever-people-called it, she was far from the only person who had failed to notice that magic was real.


    ¡®Stephanie?¡¯


    She focused on her landlord. ¡®Hmm?¡¯


    ¡®If they have fully engaged your abilities, would you mind-¡¯ he made a gesture towards his TV, which, contrary to every other time she¡¯d had a peek inside his apartment, was dark and silent. ¡®Power surge seems to have broken it. I had been planning on calling in a warranty repair, but-¡¯


    ¡®Uh, sure, you want-¡¯ she took a couple of steps closer to the TV. ¡®Just want it repaired, or do you want an upgrade?¡¯


    ¡®Nothing too ostentatious,¡¯ he said.


    She touched the TV and dismissed it. A requirement conjured a new one - a few sizes larger than his old one, but...a logical upgrade, probably the size he would have chosen the next time he¡¯d bought a new TV anyway.


    ¡®All the bells,¡¯ she said, ¡®and most of the whistles.¡¯


    He stepped forward, grabbed the corner of film and started to peel it away. ¡®This is always my favourite part,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®Ditto, that¡¯s why I included it.¡¯


    He pointed to the corner, where a collection of packages lay. ¡®I think there¡¯s three for you,¡¯ he said. ¡®Just double-check the rest of the pile.¡¯


    She knelt on the floor next to the packages and started to sift through the collection of familiar and unfamiliar boxes and brands.


    Amongst packages from Amazon, department stores, and small packages of stuff bought off eBay, she found her three deliveries.


    She held up one addressed to a neighbour. ¡®Is this a fae postmark?¡¯ she asked, and gently touched the shimmering holographic stamp.


    Jenkins squinted. ¡®Yes, careful with that stamp though, I think Perry is collecting those. It¡¯s a collector¡¯s series for the anniversary of the Tree Wars release.¡¯


    She carefully put the packages down, then stood. ¡®I think that¡¯s everything?¡¯ she said awkwardly.


    He nodded. ¡®I¡¯ll text you if you get more deliveries. Talk to your Technical people if you want to get your stuff redirected, they have ways of scanning to see if anything has been slipped in. You never know if someone in a packing facility has anti-magic leanings.¡¯


    Yikes. Didn¡¯t even think of that. One limited-edition print with a side of anthrax.


    ¡®I think I¡¯ll keep stuff coming here for now.¡¯


    Jenkins nodded, found the remote for his new TV, flicked it on, and began to run through the settings. ¡®Good luck with your new job,¡¯ he said kindly, ¡®and I mean that. Some of those suits are so uptight you could use them as support beams, but they¡¯re usually good people.¡¯


    Packages under one arm, she walked back to the car, where Curt sat playing on his fae phone.


    She threw the boxes into the passenger seat footwell and buckled her seatbelt.


    ¡®Just checking,¡¯ Curt said as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. ¡®You¡¯re not busy now, are you?¡¯


    She shook her head. ¡®Just tonight.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, then there¡¯s a sim I want to run you through. Mags like it as a benchmark when people want to cooperate.¡¯


    The image of the bird-girl rose in her mind. ¡®There are¡­¡¯ she said slowly as Curt started the car. ¡®People who don¡¯t cooperate with her? That combination of pretty and scary¡­¡¯ she threw up her hands. ¡®Why would people argue?¡¯


    ¡®Some people like making life difficult for Combat,¡¯ he said as they pulled up to a red light. ¡®Between Mags and Agent Taylor, you¡¯ve got to be pretty ballsy to do that, but some people still manage it. Others-¡¯ he shrugged, then looked over at her. ¡®Not your favourite subject, but it¡¯s relevant. Mags fucks a lot of people,¡¯ he said matter-of-factly. ''If you¡¯re a decent person, you realise what someone does with other consenting people doesn¡¯t matter. But some people...make a value judgement, and think that she can¡¯t lead, can¡¯t command, just because she doesn¡¯t tie sleeping with someone to dating.¡¯


    She stared out the window. ¡®Yeah, that value judgement can be hard,¡¯ she said, memories of faceless classmates staring at her flooding into her mind. Comments from teachers behind her back. Copies of the paparazzi photos tacked to noticeboards.


    It hadn¡¯t lasted forever, and in hindsight, there was hilarity to be had in being a virgin at the heart of a teen sex scandal. At the time...it had been another layer of stress and shit on top of what had been life¡¯s awful sundae.


    People had looked at her like she was dirty goods. Her grades had never reflected how smart she was. It was hard to scrape anything above passing when you were too busy trying to figure out how to be functionally crazy.


    The past was another country, and it was one she¡¯d happily raze to the ground, with an ark only for the few precious good moments she¡¯d been allowed to accumulate.


    ¡®So, what¡¯s the sim?¡¯ she asked. ¡®I still basically know jack shit, so I¡¯m not sure how useful-¡¯


    He waved his left hand at her. ¡®It¡¯s nothing like the grove,¡¯ he said. ¡®It¡¯s more-¡¯ he took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at her. ¡®Look, I¡¯m going to assume you¡¯re one of those people who walk around the city, figuring out zombie apocalypse disaster scenarios?¡¯


    ¡®Third-floor comic shop in the mall,¡¯ she said automatically, ¡®block the back stairs, they¡¯re steep, so they¡¯d deter most standard types anyway. Access nearby restaurants by using the awnings of the lower stores. Central enough for rescue when the military comes, but easy enough to secure if we need to hold out a few days.¡¯


    She winced and forced herself to look up at him.


    His gaze was focussed on the road, but he was smiling. ¡®You don¡¯t disappoint, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®You?¡¯


    ¡®Bunnings,¡¯ he said. ¡®Hardware. Tools. Furniture. Stuff to kill zombies, outdoor furniture to set up a camp for survivors. Probably not a lot of food supplies, but I¡¯ve found that there¡¯s often a Maccas nearby, so there¡¯ll be options.¡¯


    She tapped on her knees. ¡®Those- Well. You can¡¯t combine those two ideas, but they¡¯re weirdly complementary. I¡¯ve got survival, you¡¯ve got resistance. If we think like that in other areas, maybe I won¡¯t be completely useless as a partner.¡¯ She coughed, and scrambled to form her next sentence, hoping it didn¡¯t look like she was fishing for compliments. ¡®I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s not actually zombies?¡¯


    ¡®No, but there are zombie sims for shits and giggles. Do well for your first week, and we can run one. There¡¯s always Techs doing them as group activities.¡¯ He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ¡®No zombies, but the same kind of...notice and use your environment thinking. Mags likes it as a benchmark, because if you run it when you¡¯re new, then every few months, you get radically different results as you get more used to requiring, more trained, and more used to the world.¡¯


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said, still afraid of everything that could go wrong, ¡®bring it on.¡¯

 26 - Watching the Clock

    There were almost a dozen recruits in the gym - a couple that she recognised, but more that she didn¡¯t. Stef looked around, unable to give much credence to her ability to identify and remember people. Still, most of the recruits around her were people she¡¯d never seen before.


    ¡®Shift B and C people,¡¯ Curt said, noticing her staring. ¡®We¡¯re Shift A, different people tend to use the gym at different times.¡¯


    ¡®Does that get confusing?¡¯ she asked as she followed him towards the sim rooms. ¡®I mean, ¡°shift¡± has quite a different meaning around here. Using it in both senses¡­¡¯ she trailed off and shrugged. ¡®Seems weird.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s ¡°require¡± that tends to get me more than shift, most normal people can go weeks without saying it, so when you hear a civvy say it, it¡¯s strange.¡¯ He pulled a tablet from a dock beside the left sim room door. ¡®Both of these are in use, so I¡¯ll book us for the next slot.¡¯ He tapped in some details, then held up his palm, and a buzzer appeared. ¡®Just like getting stuff at a food court, it¡¯ll ring when it¡¯s our turn.¡¯ He turned and looked out at the gym. ¡®No use in wasting time, come on.¡¯


    She followed him to the far corner of the gym, and an empty space covered by some large, soft mats. He waved a hand, and a table appeared, a small black handgun and a-


    ¡®Is that a magazine or a clip?¡¯ she said. ¡®I legit don¡¯t know the difference.¡¯


    He lifted the metal block that you always saw action heroes slamming into their guns. ¡®This is a magazine,¡¯ he said. ¡®For right now, everything is a dummy. We don¡¯t even need paint rounds for this. You can¡¯t hurt yourself, but start good practice right now, okay? No looking down the barrel or pointing at people you don¡¯t want to kill.¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®Holster placement first,¡¯ he said. He turned towards her and flipped open his jacket, showing a shoulder holster, and a couple of spare magazines. ¡®This is my preferred carry method.¡¯ He kicked out his foot. ¡®If I¡¯m going into a situation where I suspect I might get blacked out, I¡¯ll add an ankle holster.¡¯ He gave her a critical look. ¡®Is this the version of the uniform you¡¯re going to stick with? No jacket, no blazer?¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®I like this.¡¯


    ¡®Then I think something concealed-carry would work. We generally don¡¯t like to get attention, remember, and-¡¯ He winced. ¡®I mean, forgive me for saying this, but if someone¡¯s not looking closely, they might mistake you for a high schooler with a gun.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®Yeah, I can see that.¡¯


    ¡®Roll up your vest.¡¯


    She folded up the bottom eight inches of her vest, and he took a step forward.


    ¡®I¡¯m just gonna touch your belt, okay?¡¯


    She nodded, and a holster appeared, half of the gun tucked into her pants, the handle just above the waistband. ¡®Another dummy,¡¯ he said. ¡®You¡¯re not gonna shoot your hip off. If you like this, update your uniform settings, then it¡¯ll be part of the basic requirement.¡¯ He stepped back. ¡®Okay, how¡¯s that feel?¡¯


    She tidied her vest and was impressed at how little it was visible. ¡®It feels...heavy,¡¯ she said. ¡®But I think I can get used to it.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Leave that one there, we¡¯ll use this dummy,¡¯ he said, gesturing to the table. ¡®Okay, let¡¯s go over some basics.¡¯


    And it was basics - how to stand, how to draw, how to stand. Half an hour of repeating stances, getting foot placement corrected, learning where to place her fingers, knowing what was good trigger discipline. Important minutiae that would hopefully help keep her alive, or at the least, not make her more dangerous to herself or those around her.


    Every lesson and every step was followed by a reminder that they¡¯d have to drill all of this over and over again. Constant reminders that life wasn¡¯t a montage, and that it was the little things that were going to help her more than she could ever imagine.


    In a way, it was a weirdly familiar lesson. It was different coming from a guy teaching her how to be a secret agent than it was coming from an angry ballet instructor. Early in her lessons with Madame, there would be kids who showed up, eager to dance and leap and do the equivalent of run before they¡¯d learned to crawl.


    Some had the kind of enthusiasm that turned them into marvellous students. Others left, bored to tears by learning how to stretch properly.


    And she¡¯d been happy to disappear into the middle of the pack. Good enough so that Madame didn¡¯t feel the need to threaten her with dismissal, but not so good as to ever get leading roles. It hadn¡¯t been the ideal situation for her mother, who likely had dreams of her perfect little doll travelling the world and enthralling legions of fans through a perfect spin and a gossamer costume.


    But after lessons, there¡¯d always been a visit to a cafe. Mother would get a coffee, she¡¯d get a chocolate milkshake, and for a few precious moments, she could steal some of Mother¡¯s love for Stephanie and pretend it was aimed at her.


    She¡¯d always ruin it. Open her dumb Stef mouth, or make some comment that wasn¡¯t consistent with Mother¡¯s expectations of Stephanie and the spell would be broken. The moment would be gone, and they¡¯d just be two disconnected people again.


    Draw. Stance. Aim. Draw. Different stance. Aim. Rinse and repeat, over and over.


    On the little table that had held the dummy gun, the buzzer finally lit up.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®That was actually a lot better than I thought,¡¯ he said, and hit something on the buzzer that made the lights turn green. ¡®What do you think about the stances? They¡¯ve all got their advantages and disadvantages but¡­¡¯


    She shrugged.


    No, give him an answer, this is important.


    She shifted her feet through the stances again. ¡®Weaving,¡¯ she said. ¡®Feels less like I¡¯m going to overbalance. Fits better with how I¡¯m used to centring myself.¡¯


    ¡®Weaver,¡¯ he corrected. ¡®Not Weaving. It¡¯s not the goddamn Agent Smith stance.¡¯ He lifted the buzzer. ¡®Come on.¡¯ He looked over his shoulder. ¡®But we can do one-handed drills once you¡¯ve got the basics down.¡¯


    Two paint-covered recruits stood near the door to the right-hand sim room, giggling and discussing their sim. As they approached, one elbowed the other, jerked their head at Curt, and they walked off without another word.


    ¡®See,¡¯ he said without humour as he fiddled with the control tablet. ¡®I¡¯m always going to be the bigger hate sink than you.¡¯


    The door slid open.


    Inside was a completely black space.


    ¡®What?¡¯ she asked flatly.


    He smiled at her. ¡®Trust me.¡¯


    He stepped over the threshold and into the blackness. Unlike a holodeck, there weren¡¯t any gridlines to indicate the boundaries of the space, it was just...darkness. She followed him, staring at her feet, watching as they made small impressions on the nothingness, small patches of darkness-on-darkness, a thumb pressed to an LCD screen.


    And-


    And it was the darkness of the drowning dream. The space that she now knew was the fall through death¡¯s realm, the darkness at the end of life. An ocean bottom that took an impossible act of will to-


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    And it was the darkness of a handful of sleeping pills. A void brought on by her own actions.


    She scratched at the still-not-quite-healed cut on the back of her wrist.


    ¡®Hey, are you okay?¡¯


    She shook herself and forced a weak laugh. ¡®Maybe a bit of nyctophobia?¡¯ she said, her voice shrill. It was safe to say she was afraid of the dark. Maybe a bit childish, but better than any version of the truth she¡¯d be able to force out.


    ¡®What-phobia?¡¯


    ¡®Fear of the dark.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ he said. ¡®But I thought you would think this was cool to watch.¡¯ He tapped a few times on the control tablet, and a world began to build itself around her. A sky appeared overhead, a weak autumn sun behind clouds. Buildings appeared with no fanfare, and there was a crackle under her feet as concrete and bitumen settled into place.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡®Usually, everything appears at once, or at least it would seem to the human eye, but you can slow the generation speed and that way you-¡¯ he shrugged. ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®You didn¡¯t do anything wrong,¡¯ she said. ¡®Images and associations and brain and-¡¯


    ¡®I get that,¡¯ he said, his voice heavy. He took a couple of steps away. ¡®So, no zombies,¡¯ he said, his voice back to what she was starting to think of as his ¡°teaching stupid newbies¡± voice. ¡®Really. No zombies.¡¯


    She looked down the almost-familiar street - it was definitely part of the city, somewhere she¡¯d seen before, but not somewhere she could immediately name. ¡®So what do we have to do?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s basically cat-and-mouse,¡¯ he said. ¡®Or laser tag, whichever way you¡¯d like to think of it. You¡¯ve got five minutes to hide, then I come after you. Your job is to evade me as long as you can. Use the surroundings to your advantage.¡¯ He pointed. ¡®It¡¯s only this one street, so you can¡¯t just wander away. Blackout conditions will cycle, sometimes you¡¯ll be able to require, sometimes you won¡¯t.¡¯


    She pulled out her phone and looked at the icons - including the one for the System connection. ¡®How¡¯s it- You said it was like wifi, but how¡¯s it controlled, what¡¯s the-¡¯ She wiggled her hands. ¡®It¡¯s obviously-¡¯ She tried to put her thoughts into words. ¡®The System knows where you are, but it¡¯s not like you need the phone to require, cause I was requiring without it¡­¡¯ She looked over at Curt. ¡®Did someone jam a microchip in my head without me noticing?¡¯


    Curt rubbed the back of his neck. ¡®You¡¯re not too far off, actually. Do you- You have to remember I¡¯m not a Tech, so what I¡¯m going to tell you is a very base level explanation, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, of course.¡¯


    ¡®Do you know what agents are? Like, you know they¡¯re not human, right? And not fae?¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®They¡¯re artificial. I don¡¯t know anything further though.¡¯


    He pulled out his own phone, played with it for a moment, then showed her a picture of what looked like a vial of blue cordial or jelly. ¡®Basically, they¡¯re made of a nanite solution, this stuff is the...base form? Undifferentiated, unactivated, whatever you want to call it. Blue. It¡¯s just called blue. Agents are made of the stuff, augments have a higher percentage of it, then recruits just have enough to tie us into the System. Someone probably offered you water or something when you first arrived, that¡¯s usually how it¡¯s delivered to new recruits.¡¯


    ¡®I have so many questions.¡¯


    ¡®Check the intranet, otherwise your Tech can point you in the right direction. For right now, I¡¯m focussed on teaching you how not to die.¡¯


    She tried to lock down all the multiplying questions, and focus on the scenario. A scenario that didn¡¯t quite make sense.


    ¡®What¡¯s the real-world application?¡¯ she asked. ¡®If there¡¯s a System connection, couldn¡¯t the theoretical recruit get shifted to safety?¡¯


    ¡®Good question. It¡¯s a situation without a direct real-world counterpart. It¡¯s another of the ¡°learn how to think¡± variety. Learn how to pay attention, what wake you leave in the world, what signs people can follow, how you can distract, how you can lead, rather than being chased.¡¯


    She stared. ¡®I¡¯ve been here like a day, Trekkie.¡¯


    ¡®If you can go five minutes without me shooting you, you¡¯ll be doing good.¡¯ He pulled his gun, pressed the muzzle to his hand and shot, leaving a blue mess there. ¡®Paint rounds. You¡¯ve got the same. I also turned on-¡¯ he paused for a brief second. ¡®Aimbot for your shots. For this exercise, being in a position to line up and take a shot is more important than actually being able to make the shot. Try and keep in mind all that crap I just drilled into your head though, okay?¡¯


    She nodded, then looked back to the street, completely devoid of people. ¡®Is it going to stay apocalypse-y, or are there going to be NPCs?¡¯


    He tapped the control tablet one more time, and people appeared.


    Curt pointed to the sky, and a digital display appeared, and with a siren sound, the five-minute countdown started.


    ¡®There¡¯s actually a lot of these multiple-win-condition sims,¡¯ Curt said casually. ¡®There¡¯s one that¡¯s done as an annual competition, where you have minutes to hide a flash drive in a house or a room. Of course, you get to hide dozens, so long as no individual placement takes more than five minutes, so like if you¡¯re unscrewing a grate or whatever. Then there¡¯s local and national rankings for-¡¯


    She looked from him to the sky and back again. ¡®I want to know more, but that¡¯s counting down.¡¯


    ¡®-rankings for hiding and finding. All departments can take part in both hiding and finding, and-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re- You¡¯re trying to distract me!¡¯ she spluttered. ¡®Give me less time to hide!¡¯


    He winked.


    ¡®You have the moral fibre of a Tal Shiar operative,¡¯ she muttered.


    ¡®Oh come on, I dress so much better than a Romulan. Those awful-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re doing it again! I¡¯m not going to discuss-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re not? So why are you still standing here?¡¯


    ¡®Because it¡¯s rude to walk away when people are talking to you!¡¯ she exclaimed, frustrated. ¡®It¡¯s rude and- And you¡¯re not supposed to-¡¯ She sucked in a breath. He was trying to distract her. Trying to give her less time. The cat trying to get one over on the mouse. But it was the social contract and- ¡®And it¡¯s-¡¯ her voice was shaky, and she closed her mouth.


    He bent to her eye level. ¡®Sorry,¡¯ he said. ¡®Conflicting programming, right?¡¯


    She sucked in another breath and nodded miserably.


    ¡®Sorry, Newbie.¡¯ He pointed to the sky and the timer reset. ¡®Do-over, five whole minutes. Go. Hide. Good luck.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said, then turned and headed off into the crowd.


    She resisted the urge to look back and see what he was doing, lest she get drawn into the conversation about Romulan shoulder pads.


    Street. Buildings. People on lunch or errands. A shop selling watches. Fashion boutiques. Cars. A bus.


    What are your priorities?


    Survive five minutes without getting shot.


    She leaned against a wall for a moment, pulled out her phone and blinked as the screen came to life.


    The display had two large buttons - one to continue normal function, one to interact with the sim.


    ¡®Ooooh, virtual machine,¡¯ she whispered and hit the sim button. A requirement gave her a set of wired earbuds, which she slipped in.


    She squeezed her phone, closed her eyes, and thought hard about the next requirement.


    When she opened her eyes, there was an app button, its image the basic grey circle logo of the Agency. She hit the button, and it began to play soft music - which would continue until the System connection died.


    It would give her the information she needed, without needing to constantly check her phone, or make test requirements.


    Okay, useful, but that ate up a lot of time.


    She tucked her phone away, and walked down the street, doing her best to weave between the NPC citizenry.


    She got to the end of the street and turned left on the intersection, only to have a forcefield appear, with a display indicating she was trying to operate outside of the intended area.


    She reached up and tapped the forcefield again, looking at the grid of electric blue lines that appeared - and that the NPCs wholly ignored.


    ¡®Oh, oh, this could be good.¡¯


    She walked to the wall of the building that intersected the forcefield and set her shoulders. She lifted a hand and drew a line with her finger along the wall to a spot about a foot back from the barrier, and made a requirement.


    A large, slowly-spinning Sale! arrow appeared, offset so that the longer side would only interact with the forcefield every fifteen seconds or so.


    She turned and quickly walked away, looking for an actual place to hide.


    Behind her, the forcefield appeared again - it was probably cheating, or metagaming or something - but surely he¡¯d give her points for creativity.


    She looked up at the sky above - she was on her final thirty seconds, and she¡¯d done nothing to actually get a hiding spot.


    ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    The music in her headphones cut out.


    ¡®Double-fuck.¡¯


    Use what you know. Use what you have.


    She turned in a slow circle, and her eyes fell back on the watch store. It would do.


    She stepped up to the door, and the security guard inside stared at her with a look that would scare away anyone who didn''t have the necessary personal wealth to enter. She thought of her father and met his stare with a haughty one of her own.


    The guard opened the door with a nod, and she walked in, not acknowledging him - if you were stepping foot in a place like this, you didn¡¯t acknowledge the help, you didn¡¯t thank the plebs, you walked on them, over them, and only talked to people who respected your station.


    The manager was already walking across the small store to greet her.


    ¡®My father is receiving an OBE,¡¯ she said without greeting or preamble, her voice dripping with her mother¡¯s accent. ¡®I¡¯d like something to commemorate the occasion.¡¯


    She walked past the manager, ignoring his outstretched hand. Play the brat. Play the princess. She cast an eye over the small glass display cabinet. ¡®I want to spend about thirty. He likes brass and antiquated design touches.¡¯ She walked towards the small consulting room. ¡®And I¡¯ll take an ice water, and some petit fours, if someone can manage it.¡¯


    She stepped into the consulting room - a comfortable, oak-panelled space where commerce and trade would take place with the same ceremony as an elven king bestowing a magic ring on an adventurer.


    With a sigh of relief, she closed the door, sat on the couch, and laid her phone on the low table.


    After a few minutes, a young man brought ice water and a selection of macarons on a tray and laid them on the table. He lifted the glass from the tray, placed it on a coaster and informed her that the manager would be with her in a moment.


    She gave him a brief nod, enough to let him know that she had heard him and that she didn''t require anything further, and he left her in the safety of the closed consulting room.


    She picked up the ice water, took a sip, then replaced it on the coaster.


    Her phone buzzed - and the home screen indicated that she should switch back to the standard, non-sim configuration, which she accepted, and then it displayed a text from Curt.


    {Not going to lie, thought you¡¯d be in the coffee shop under a bad wig.}


    She stared at the message and tried to figure out if he could track her using it. Or if there was some other way he could metagame the situation, just as she¡¯d done with the forcefield.


    The manager arrived with a selection of three watches, and she spent a few minutes going over the pros and cons of each, before asking him to fetch some engraving samples.


    The next time the door opened, however, it was Curt.


    She lifted the plate in his direction as he sat opposite her. ¡®Macaron? The purple ones have real gold on them, if you¡¯ve ever wanted to shit a precious mineral.¡¯


    He took one, then relaxed back against the couch. ¡®This was an interesting solution,¡¯ he said. ¡®I wouldn¡¯t encourage you to hide behind civilians, though. That could get really unpleasant, really fast.¡¯


    ¡®How¡¯d you get in here?¡¯


    ¡®Flashed my ID.¡¯


    ¡®And is that likely to be something that Solstice could do? Besides, you said this didn¡¯t have a one-to-one relationship with a real scenario.¡¯ She bit into a macaron. ¡®I have very few skills, so I decided to use one.¡¯


    ¡®Fair, and it was a decent plan.¡¯ He picked up one of the watches. ¡®So how much would one of these set me back?¡¯


    ¡®That one¡¯s forty,¡¯ she said. ¡®It¡¯s poor quality for the price though. This shop caters best to the cheap stuff, up to about fifteen, if you¡¯re gonna splash more than that, there are better places to go.¡¯


    Even though it was a sim, Curt carefully put the watch back down. ¡®People spend that on a watch?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a practical way of expressing money, and not every family has enough heirloom pieces to pass around. Other people want to keep up with fashion, or want to give a non-controversial gift.¡¯


    ¡®I got a watch for my high school graduation present,¡¯ he said. ¡®But I still hated my dad, so I sold it and, fuck, I don¡¯t even remember what I bought. Maybe some stuff for-¡¯ He cut himself off and looked nervous.


    ¡®What?¡¯ she asked.


    ¡®Accessories for that subject you don¡¯t like,¡¯ he said, and grabbed the last macaron. ¡®I¡¯ll spare you the details.¡¯


    ¡®Ewwwwww.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s mature, Newbie.¡¯ He grinned. ¡®I thought about running a couple more sessions of this with you, but I¡¯ve gotten a call, there¡¯s a contact I need to chat with. So, do whatever for the rest of your afternoon - but update your uniform requirement, and maybe dig into modules eight and nine, and I¡¯ll come grab you for training in the morning.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®See you then.¡¯

 27 - What Came From The Moon

    The alarm went off at seven.


    The alarm went off at seven-fifteen.


    The alarm went off at seven-thirty.


    ¡®Fuckoff,¡¯ Stef mumbled as the alarm began again. ¡®Fuck offffffff.¡¯


    Get up.


    With an effort, she dragged herself to the bathroom, phone in hand, her fingers operating on automatic to connect to the speaker and start a playlist.


    She placed the phone on the sink, stripped her clothes off and stepped into the shower. The water was warm and perfect immediately, soothing, despite her anxiety. With a sigh, she plonked her head against the tile and let the water run over her back like she was some sort of gangly, oversized duck.


    Be clean. Be presentable. Make an effort.


    In the real world, in her real life - because this still didn¡¯t feel real, it was a dream that would pop like a balloon as soon as she reached for the edges - she could go for days or more without showering. It didn¡¯t matter. There was no one around to smell her. A momentary interaction with a delivery person didn¡¯t count. There had to always be some baseline assumption that someone ordering in food, and answering in a robe was sick, so weird smells were permissible.


    In this dream, in this dream world where she wasn¡¯t a useless hermit, there was the urge, the need, to be something more than she was. There was a reason to try, to claw her way towards being even a tiny bit better.


    She dried and dressed, making sure that every line of her suit was as perfect as she could make it. That her hair was going-to-the-principal proper. That overall, she looked like someone who deserved to be hanging out with a secret agent as awesome as Ryan.


    But for some reason, he¡¯d deemed her worthy. He hadn¡¯t thrown her out yet. He didn¡¯t seem to mind her stupid questions.


    He¡¯d been nicer than any of her family had ever been.


    Her father hadn¡¯t been violent - at least not usually. Cold words and a cruel tone had typically done the job far more thoroughly than hitting her would have done. One time though, he¡¯d slammed her head into the side of his car, leaving her bruised and bloody, just to punctuate the fact that he was unhappy.


    Ryan was a secret agent, he carried a gun, and she had no doubt he¡¯d killed people - but she couldn¡¯t imagine him being cruel.


    It was stupid to make comparisons, but the stark differences drew the thoughts to the fore.


    She knew it wasn¡¯t normal for parents to hate their children. For the best moments of a relationship to be a kind of strained cordiality. She knew that probably most of the people she¡¯d gone to school with had been part of loving families. She knew, and she knew, and she knew.


    And knowing, being cognisant of the extent of your own abuse, did nothing to better the situation. It was one thing to know she¡¯d never make up the parts of herself that should have been developed as a child, it was another thing to try and make peace with it.


    But swap James for Ryan... Trade an emotionally abusive parent for one that smiled when she learned something, and that Stef probably wouldn¡¯t be a useless pile of shit.


    She didn¡¯t get to be the lucky Stef. Whatever dream world was, it was going to end soon, but until it did, she¡¯d try to do enough to earn being worthy of being around Ryan.


    After one last look in the mirror, she tucked her phone and ID into her pockets and left her room.


    Using what was probably all of her allotted luck for the day, she found Ryan¡¯s office without cheating, calling for help, or requiring a map. And with only the slightest hesitation, she knocked.


    Ryan opened the door, then pulled it wide and allowed her in.


    ¡®Sorry if I¡¯m early,¡¯ she said. ¡®But I also didn¡¯t want you waiting around for me.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got good timing,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®I was just about to send you a message.¡¯ He held out his hand. ¡®If you¡¯re ready?¡¯


    She nodded and took his hand. The world lost its focus as they shifted, and when the world became clear again, they were standing on a roof.


    ¡®It started a little while ago,¡¯ he said. ¡®But I¡¯d wager very few people have noticed. Take a moment, listen, and tell me what you hear.¡¯


    She raised her eyebrows. ¡®I mean, you¡¯re missing the mask and the cape if it¡¯s the 1812 Overture.¡¯


    ¡®I promise you won¡¯t be disappointed.¡¯


    Dutifully, she closed her eyes and listened.


    Eyes still closed, she tilted her head up a little and began to process through all the sounds of the night. Her apartment wasn¡¯t right in the middle of the city, but it was still close enough that she was used to ignoring the same level of traffic, of background sirens, of...the noise of the world.


    Sound by sound, she tried to sort through everything she was hearing, looking for the unusual thing that he was surely asking her to hear.


    He squeezed her shoulder. ¡®Can you hear someone singing?¡¯


    As he said the words, something that had been in the background, threaded through all of the other noises, started to become clearer. A single perfect note, a perfect voice, a song so sad it felt like a punch in the chest.


    She opened her eyes as the sounds of the song became louder, and she was able to keep hold of it even with the distraction of being able to see. What this was, it wasn¡¯t reflected noise from a concert at the river stage, this wasn¡¯t...human, that she was sure of, this was magic.


    ¡®Who¡¯s singing?¡¯


    ¡®Death,¡¯ he said. ¡®The mirrorfall has several stages, this is the last, this is the coda for the dying world.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s pretty for a dirge.¡¯


    ¡®I couldn¡¯t begin to tell you what the words mean, only that it is as much a celebration as commiseration. Like any funeral, some time has to be dedicated to happy memories.¡¯


    ¡®What happens now?¡¯


    ¡®Now, now is something few people get to experience. It can be frightening, but I promise that you¡¯re safe. I¡¯d never put you in danger.¡¯


    She met his gaze. ¡®I trust you, Ryan.¡¯


    Ryan took her hand, squeezed it, and smiled. ¡®There are many doors in the world,¡¯ he said. ¡®Some are accessible all the time, like the fairy stairs I showed you, others take you into the spaces held by the major Courts.¡¯ He lifted his spare hand, fingers spread wide, then bent his fingers forward and slowly dragged them through the air. ¡®There are oubliettes that can be opened only when you intend on locking something away forever.¡¯ His fingers seemed to drag on the air itself, as though it were heavier and thicker than what she was seeing. ¡®And there are some doors that are only opened at special times.¡¯


    Silver light spilled around and through his fingers as he brought his hand down to waist height, and a door handle formed in his loose grip, the silver light drawing a doorframe in the air.


    He twisted the handle of the barely-there door and pushed it open, revealing-


    There was darkness inside, and she felt herself grip his hand tighter - it looked like death, like her dreams of drowning, like somewhere she didn¡¯t want to go again.


    ¡®It¡¯s all right,¡¯ he said, and as he spoke, she saw that it wasn¡¯t just an endless void.


    Unlike her memory, her dream, her mishmash of the two, there was colour within the space. The rainbow on a path of oil slowly giving form to a world.


    And above, she saw as they stepped through the door, was a full moon, heavy and bright like a harvest moon. It looked so close, seemingly low enough to touch, far larger in the sky than she¡¯d ever seen, far larger than it ever could be in reality.


    Whatever this place was, it wasn¡¯t reality.


    Oil slick rainbows turned to clouds, turned to wispy, dream-like trees and plants. It was beautiful, but there was nothing about it that invited play - this wasn¡¯t the dead world of Limbo that Ryan had described, but-


    ¡®It feels like a graveyard,¡¯ she said, giving form to her thoughts.


    ¡®That¡¯s a good word to use,¡¯ Ryan said as he led her deeper into the space. ¡®When it needs a name, it¡¯s called the ¡°garden beneath the moon¡±, there are some fae words for it, but the Lady simply calls it her garden, so I follow her lead.¡¯


    The singing, each wordless verse enough to break the heart of a statue, was louder here, without standing to the forefront. It was as much a part of the place as the mist-covered ground and the warm moonlight. A part of the experience, whatever this experience was to be.


    They stopped by a tree that had dangling crystal flowers, and a movement within one of the crystals caught her eye. She let go of Ryan¡¯s hand and moved towards the tree - seeing a multitude of her movements reflected back in the facets. Her steps were mirrored - but there was the occasional facet whose movement didn¡¯t match.


    She grabbed a branch that was level with her shoulder, and stared into the flower at the end of it - it was one of the ones that had been out-of-sync - in it, her reflection blinked, but her eyes had been open the entire time.


    ¡®Uhhhh,¡¯ she said, looking towards Ryan. ¡®I don¡¯t- I know this isn¡¯t the place for stupid questions, but my reflection isn¡¯t working properly.¡¯


    ¡®The answer is simple,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®that¡¯s not your reflection.¡¯


    She pointed, but her reflection was scratching her head, talking to a reflected Ryan. ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said, ¡®I know better to argue when I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on-¡¯ She considered the words, unsure if they were true. ¡®Well, right now I¡¯m not arguing. So, explain, please?¡¯


    ¡®Death touches all realities, not just this one. And sometimes we are allowed glimpses of those other places. There are other ways, too,¡¯ he said as he led her away from the tree, towards a grassy hill that gave an impressive view of the moon. ¡®The Solstice like to lace explosives with Time energy, as it¡¯s something that can nullify System influence. If they set off multiple bombs at the same time, sometimes that¡¯s enough to bend the barrier enough so that you may end up seeing a shadow of yourself. I have seen other versions of myself, some find it novel, I just...worry and hope that I am not the only one that survived that day.¡¯


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    They found a space on the steep hill - many people were by themselves, though there were some clusters of people.


    Down the hill and to their left sat two people, wearing uniforms that seemed strangely familiar, but the vests they wore were red, not blue.


    She pointed to them. ¡®Are they from, like, the evil version of the Agency?¡¯


    Ryan gave her a wry smile. ¡®That would, I suppose, depend on your view of America.¡¯


    ¡®Colour coded by location?¡¯ she asked.


    He nodded. ¡®Every continent has its own feature colour.¡¯


    The volume¡¯s of Death¡¯s song rose over the next few wordless verses and then dropped away, leaving the garden filled with echoing breezes and the murmurs of conversation.


    The texture of the light started to change, giving the world the same strang quality as the strange, vibrant light before a storm.


    ¡®Look,¡¯ Ryan whispered, and she looked at him, then followed his gaze towards the moon.


    ¡®What¡¯s going on?¡¯ she asked.


    All of the moon¡¯s light seemed to be crawling away from its edges. The deeper colour that marked it as something like a harvest moon receded first, leaving almost a gradient, ombre pattern to the too-close moon.


    The light pooled in the centre, coalescing into a rough, swirling oval, a pulsing ball of light and darkness, like some sort of celestial lava.


    When all the light had been drained from the moon, the oval seemed to crystalise, using the last drops of moonlight to coat itself in a thin, shining glaze.


    Ryan squeezed her hand. ¡®I promise,¡¯ he said, quiet, as to not disturb the hush that had fallen over the hill, ¡®that you are in no danger.¡¯


    The oval- No. Oval wasn¡¯t the right word. It was-


    Egg. It¡¯s an egg.


    The egg cracked, light forcefully spilling into the starless sky, then it exploded, twin arcs of fire curling in the air as-


    She gripped Ryan¡¯s hand and shuffled closer so that she could hide behind his arm.


    The arcs of fire rippled and spread, and a head lifted, proud, beautiful and made of fire.


    The phoenix opened its mouth, and let out a bird-of-prey tseer scream, before opening and closing its beak a few times. It flapped its wings, and the heat rolled in waves over the hill.


    She hugged her arms around Ryan¡¯s arm. ¡®I¡¯m scared,¡¯ she whispered. ¡®It¡¯s beautiful, but I¡¯m scared. It¡¯s so-¡¯


    Gorgeous. Incomprehensible. Amazing. It was a force of nature, and she was an ant. Its wings spread the width of the moon¡¯s face, and head to tail, it was nearly as tall.


    Red and gold flames pulsed in time with its audible heartbeat.


    This was a moment she¡¯d remember until her dying day. Even if the inevitable came and she failed so badly that the Agency had to wipe her memory for her sake and the sake of others, she¡¯d remember this. Every fire would burn colder in comparison to the creature in the sky. Every flame would make her think of living wings, of magic beyond anything she could have ever imagined.


    The phoenix slowly descended - either its size changing or it had never been really as large as the moon-


    Or that moon is a tiny illusion.


    When it settled on the ground, on a flat patch of soft grass at the bottom of the hill, it was still massive. It was probably as tall as a double-decker bus, but it was a manageable amount of huge - it was a dragon, rather than a kaiju.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said, finally finding her words again, ¡®explain.¡¯


    ¡®The phoenix is one of Death¡¯s creatures,¡¯ he said. ¡®And the duty of the red phoenix is to cleanse a dying world. It will turn everything to ash, burn everything away so that the mirror can fall.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re the good guys, right? Aren¡¯t we supposed to¨C Can¡¯t we¨C I dunno, do something?¡¯


    He smiled. ¡®I thought you had no interest in saving the world.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t. I¡¯m just trying to understand what¡¯s going on.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s nothing to save, Stef. This is the funeral, and the phoenix is the pyre¡¯s torch.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s always the same,¡¯ he said. ¡®No matter the world, the same ceremonies are observed. Sometimes, worlds bring it on themselves. Others are just victims¡­ In either case, there are always innocents, and every life is always lost. We have to respect the dead, just as we hope that someone will do the same for us.¡¯


    ¡®I couldn¡¯t forget this.¡¯


    ¡®The parade of ghosts is the sister to the coda, the last, strongest memories of a world and its people. One last chance to be remembered, one last impression on the world. All we are, are the memories we leave behind.¡¯ In the sky behind and above the phoenix, wisps of smoke took the shape of people. ¡®And these are the last ghosts. The last ones are usually children. They have such...big emotions. The smallest things can make the biggest impacts. A first step, or a new toy, one last joy writ large for the universe to remember.¡¯


    She felt tears on her cheeks. ¡®This is¨C This is too much,¡¯ she whispered, the words tumbling out before she had a chance to consider them.


    ¡®It¡¯s always too much, the first time.¡¯ He lightly rested his head against hers for a moment. ¡®I was younger than you the first time I saw a phoenix. A few years old, a newborn. I was with my director. He was...everything to me. My father, my brother, my friend. I trusted him implicitly, and I was scared. Maybe for the first time. It was so far beyond anything I had experienced, so, in this case, I can understand what you¡¯re feeling.¡¯ He motioned towards the immense phoenix. ¡®A little fear is natural. It¡¯s a creature that only exists to destroy. It¡¯s easy to feel insignificant when you come face-to-face with something like that.¡¯


    ¡®You could have run away.¡¯


    I could run away.


    ¡®Running away is not good agent behaviour.¡¯


    ¡®Is it okay recruit behaviour?¡¯


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s something else to consider: Agents are always the last beings to die on a world ¨C except for those that take their own lives. They have to stand, watch, and wait, with the knowledge that they failed, that everyone they care about is dead or so far away that they may as well be.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s¨C There¡¯s agents on other worlds? Alien MiBs?¡¯


    ¡®There are,¡¯ he said. ¡®A lot of worlds have agents.¡¯


    A lone, dark-skinned woman approached the phoenix, its fire reflecting on her silver dress. As she got close, the huge bird bowed its head and accepted the woman¡¯s hands to its face. She stood, hands buried in feathers of fire, on a head as large as a car.


    After a moment, she retreated, a flaming feather in her hand.


    With this, some sort of spell broke. Slowly, people on the hill began to stand and make their way down toward the phoenix.


    ¡®I won¡¯t make you go,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®but I am going to pay my respects.¡¯ He stood and offered his hand to her. ¡®It will sound like I am trying to bias the situation, but it may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.¡¯


    ¡®That is kind of a dirty trick,¡¯ she said without any real malice. She looked from agent to phoenix and back again, then took his hand, and followed him down the hill.


    ¡®Your director was your dad?¡¯ she asked as they joined the long line.


    ¡®Because of how we¡¯re created,¡¯ he said, his voice low as to not disturb the funereal atmosphere. ¡®Most agents don¡¯t have biological family. Some do, those that started life as human or fae and were later augmented into being full agents.¡¯


    Humans can become agents?


    A million questions swirled, but this wasn¡¯t the time for any of them. Carefully, she filed away the thoughts for later, when it would be more appropriate to bounce around and wonder how one got code in their blood.


    ¡®Family, structure, it¡¯s healthy.¡¯ He went quiet for a long moment. ¡®We¡¯re not encouraged to know a lot about the history of our kind, to know the details of the herald types before agents. However, as there was a long crossover period between the first agents being generated and the last Duskers being taken out of service, that¡¯s one aspect of our history that¡¯s common knowledge.¡¯


    She filed away more questions, not wanting to interrupt him.


    ¡®Duskers operated as solo entities, and no one has a good word to say about them. Even now, those agents who were templated from Duskers, or otherwise share their traits, are tarred with the same brush as their predecessors.¡¯


    ¡®That bad?¡¯


    ¡®A reputation following someone more than a hundred years should speak for itself. The Agency operates differently. Agents are expected - encouraged - to form themselves into family units. Directors and those with a great deal of seniority taking on parental roles, agents more similar in age being like siblings. Thus, Reynolds was a father to myself and Taylor.¡¯


    ¡®And Reynolds is on, what, vacation?¡¯


    ¡®Secondment,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®His mission has kept him away for a long time. One day, I hope I can introduce you.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said. ¡®For bringing me here. Showing me this.¡¯


    He put a hand on her head and lightly ruffled her hair. ¡®I think it¡¯s something- I think Reynolds would consider it carrying on a tradition. And as for learning one new thing a day, I¡¯m not sure there¡¯s anything more impressive that you could ever experience.¡¯


    They lapsed into silence as they drew closer to the phoenix.


    Each person ahead of them took a minute or so with the great bird, standing in silent contemplation with it, nuzzling it as the first woman had done, or simply stroking its feathers. Each person, without fail, left holding a feather, red and gold flames shining on their faces.


    One of the Americans paused by Ryan, gave him a polite nod, and left, his feather tucked into the pocket of his red vest.


    ¡®What colour does Antarctica get?¡¯ she asked, as the second American passed by.


    ¡®The one individual we have there favours a rainbow aesthetic,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®But I believe that officially, they should feather silver, as Central does.¡¯


    A set of new mothers presented a newborn child to the phoenix.


    It¡¯s gonna eat it.


    Don¡¯t be an idiot.


    Infants are tender and mild...


    The phoenix lowered its head and looked at the baby, then brought its wings around and encircled the small family. When the wings parted, the baby lay under a blanket made of red feathers.


    ¡®That¡¯s a hell of a baptism,¡¯ she muttered.


    After three more groups, they made to the front of the queue. Ryan walked forward, and she allowed him his space.


    He bowed his head for a moment, then stroked the phoenix¡¯s chest like a loving bird owner. Like an old man pampering a parakeet, rather than a collection of nanites and vaguely worried looks touching something so close to a god that it made no difference.


    Ryan pulled a feather from the living fire, signed his name on the air, leaving a brief golden impression of flawless handwriting, then stepped to the side, and motioned her forward.


    The phoenix looked down at her, its eyes the brightest flames she¡¯d ever seen. As she stepped closer, the flames became dark, living rubies, staring at her with a mind beyond comprehension.


    She had expected to feel like an ant, like nothing, a stick of kindling before a forest fire.


    Instead, she felt peace.


    This wasn¡¯t a monster. It might have been the size of a dragon, but it didn¡¯t feel destructive. It didn¡¯t feel dangerous. It was a creature with a grim task, but that didn¡¯t make it evil.


    And if it was of Death, that made sense. The way he spoke of her was with reverence. He acknowledged her role in the universe, without judging her for the connotations people had placed upon her role.


    The grim reaper didn¡¯t murder, and neither did this creature.


    Beneath the rippling fire in front of her, she could see the phoenix¡¯s heart, each beating pounding into her as easily as the song had. She closed her eyes and reached one hand forward, preparing herself for third-degree burns or instant disintegration.


    All mental preparation made, she reached a hand up to the phoenix, expecting pain, expecting heat, expecting¨C


    She only felt soft plumage.


    Running her hand upward, all she felt was soft, warm, feathers.


    It didn¡¯t feel like a volcano, it didn¡¯t feel like a fire that burnt down a forest. It was the warmth of sitting in the sun, of the delight in reading on a balcony in winter, waiting for the coolness to burn away as the sun rose.


    She smoothed the ruffled feathers back down.


    She thought of the world that she knew nothing about, save for the scant few ghostly images in the sky around her.


    ¡®I hope it was painless,¡¯ she whispered, thinking of the dying on the dying world.


    She touched something hard, and she pulled on it, a piece of the fire coming loose. She shook the feather, and as Ryan had done, signed her name on the air.


    Four letters of golden sparkles stayed for a moment, then blew away, leaving a faint taste of ash in her mouth.


    The flame on the feather dulled as she walked towards Ryan, leaving behind a delicate, gold version of itself with a smattering of opals set into the metal. A quill to write the most intricate of thoughts.


    ¡®Hmm.¡¯


    ¡®Can I have a look at yours?¡¯ she asked. He nodded and held it up. As she suspected, red garnet chunks shone in his phoenix feather. ¡®And your birthday is January, right?¡¯ Surety fled a little. ¡®I- They¡¯re our birthstones, but-¡¯ She looked back at the phoenix as they climbed the hill. ¡®Why would it align with a bit of nonsense like that? It¡¯s not even a worldwide thing. It¡¯s just-¡¯


    ¡®The way I¡¯ve described Death to you,¡¯ Ryan said, gently cutting in. ¡®As someone who appears as a human woman with silver hair. That isn¡¯t how she appears to everyone. Every culture has their own death traditions and expectations.¡¯


    ¡®So if you expect Charon¡­¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®So other aspects are also shaped by our beliefs and traditions. You saw fae here. Some will have different birthstones, others will have precious or rare wood in place of the gold, some will have a sacred word rather than a jewel.¡¯


    ¡®What do I do with it?¡¯ she asked. ¡®Or does it disappear by morning like the stories about fairy gold?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not made of flimsy magic, unless you take special pains to destroy it, it will last until the end of the world.¡¯


    They stopped at the top of the hill, and he began to trace his fingers through the air again, looking for the magic door that would allow them to leave to the garden.


    ¡®Um!¡¯ she said quickly.


    He dropped his hand to his side and smiled. ¡®Would you like to take us home?¡¯


    ¡®Unless it¡¯s like, something you can only do if you¡¯re already magic.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s far easier to leave than it is to enter,¡¯ he said. He lifted her left hand and held it with both of his. ¡®Reach into the air, through the air, think of home, think of a door, seek permission to leave, to be excused, and turn the handle when you feel it.¡¯


    He released her hand, and she took a step forward, ready to- This was more than requiring, which was already magic enough on its own. Still, the procedural, almost standardised nature of it was different to this.


    She threw her hand into the air, fingers spread like she was Sailor Moon starting her transformation sequence. She spun in a circle, imagined sparkles in the air around her, then reached forward and...into the air.


    The moment she started feeling for it, the air seemed thicker, the consistency of fog, of viscous static resistance. She began to feel gaps and paths as she slowly lowered her hand, and her hand fell into an invisible groove, and then the feeling of a metal door handle touched her palm.


    As Ryan had instructed, she thought of home.


    She gripped it, and opened her eyes, seeing silver light tracing the shape of a door in front of her.


    Ryan squeezed her shoulder. ¡®I¡¯m proud of you.¡¯


    They stepped back through into the real world, and Ryan closed the door behind them. ¡®What would you like to do next?¡¯ he asked.


    ¡®We¡¯ve done fire,¡¯ she said. ¡®Can we do ice next?¡¯


    ¡®Ice cream?¡¯


    She smiled. ¡®Ice cream would be acceptable.¡¯

 28 - The Pain Scale

    Stef was a cynic, and she knew that.


    Despite that, she knew she found far more moments of beauty in the world than a lot of people.


    It wasn¡¯t hard if your heart wasn¡¯t hardened in every way. Despite the firewalls around the figurative version of her blood pump, several areas been granted exceptions.


    It was easy to see greatness in a perfect line of code or well-done cable management. A perfect moment could exist when a video game glitched in a perfect, absurd way.


    And the transit of the marshmallow down the river of hot fudge was a sight to behold.


    It had begun as two marshmallows - one pink, one white, as was the custom - but the white one had become lodged on an outcropping of dusted nuts, leaving the pink to sally forth on its own.


    And despite the dangers untold, the treacherous areas of melting ice cream under the harsh heat of the fudge, the marshmallow continued its journey towards the glass sundae dish.


    She pushed her spoon forward, scooped up the marshmallow, and swallowed it.


    Beside her, Ryan pressed his own spoon into the tiny scoop of ice-cream that he had agreed to.


    He¡¯d put up a token protest, insisting that he didn¡¯t need to eat. She¡¯d pouted, pointed out that vanilla was a safe, sensible choice, and allowed her to order him a kiddie cup.


    Her own sundae was far more extravagant - multiple scoops of ice cream that were going to be cold goop before she could get through them all, but each flavour had looked more delicious than the last.


    A smile tried to form on her face. Despite the utter, utter strangeness of the situation, there was something - a lot of somethings - strange and wonderful about what was happening.


    Magic was real. Magic was-


    It¡¯s not the magic. Not right now.


    Right now, she was- This was an entirely new experience. She¡¯d had ice-cream with both of her parents. With either parent had been tense, but family trips had meant that her mother and father had been getting ice cream, and she¡¯d been some sort of tagalong goblin third wheel.


    And there¡¯d always been implicit pressure to go with sensible choices - and that was when one of her parents hadn¡¯t simply ordered for her, feeling that they knew best what she would want. Her mother, picking the ice cream that fit the aesthetics of her perfect little doll; her father pointing to whatever was the featured image in the kid¡¯s section of the menu.


    She¡¯d never had ice cream with someone who genuinely seemed to enjoy her presence.


    She¡¯d never had anyone who seemed to genuinely enjoy her presence.


    It was strange not to feel like a burden. Weird not to feel like a piece of shit waiting to be scraped away.


    She watched Ryan take a small, delicate bite of the vanilla ice cream and smiled.


    On the counter between them sat their phoenix feathers, still and golden, residual heat giving off the feel of a morning sun.


    She stared at the opals, then took out her phone and checked the date - there were a few weeks until her birthday - something that she hadn¡¯t bothered to think about in years.


    While she¡¯d been at school, presents had arrived, bought and shipped by one of the estate employees. Employees who had surely used a spreadsheet to figure out exactly how much to spend in each category of present, according to her age and relative importance to the family.


    There was always at least one piece of jewellery, with a propensity to include a birthstone.


    With a few exceptions, she¡¯d sold every piece - a couple had been kept for strategic purposes. Sometimes full-Stephanie-mode required accessories and her family would have questioned if she¡¯d shown up to an event wearing hastily-purposed pound shop jewellery.


    After the presents had stopped, she¡¯d allowed the birthdays to pass by without notice or celebration. Buying herself a cake and celebrating on her own was a brand of pathetic she¡¯d managed to avoid.


    This year, maybe...maybe it could be different. There were reasons to be happy, reasons to celebrate her most recent rotation around the sun.


    Ryan seemed like the person who, even as just a boss, would purchase some kind of perfunctory present. And a perfunctory gift from someone who was just getting to know her would mean more than the presents decided by spreadsheet.


    One came from an obligation, the other from kindness.


    He pointed to the side of the sundae, so she spun the bowl and worked on the melting side that had so far escaped her attention.


    And it wasn¡¯t even about getting a gift. It was about...being thought about. Being cared about.


    She didn¡¯t know how to people. She didn¡¯t know how to be a person, how to interact with society. And somehow, things were okay despite that.


    Words that had been bubbling under the surface of her brain bubbled a little insistently.


    He¡¯d said he was continuing a tradition - and there was a knot of anxiety and- Hope. It might have been hope. Might have just been a different kind of fear. Maybe hope was a kind of fear. Maybe-


    There was the question as to whether he had meant the tradition of director and underling; or parent and child.


    And she was reading too much into every action. Into every small kindness. But- But there was a wealth of reading material.


    Whatever relationship this was, it wasn¡¯t a normal boss and employee dynamic. Normal bosses didn¡¯t take their employees for ice cream. Didn¡¯t pat them on the head and make them feel special. Didn¡¯t start to backfill a lifetime of missing experiences.


    But-


    But it was so stupid. And she was being stupid. And-


    There was a clattering sound.


    Ryan started to move-


    The world went white.


    And there was pain.


    Nothing made sense. She could- Nothing. Everything. Pain. Lots of pain.


    The world was still images. Frames that could barely be interpreted as she blinked - probably blinked - she was probably blinking. It hurt to blink. It-


    There was light above her. Shaking and- The fluorescent light. Above. She was on her back. Pain in her head from hitting the floor. Pain in her face from something. Weight-


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Ryan was crouching over her, shielding her. ¡®Move.¡¯


    The word wasn¡¯t shouted. Wasn¡¯t screamed. But it was a command, as fundamental as ¡°breathe¡± or ¡°circulate blood¡±. It meant ¡°move or die¡±, it meant-


    Ryan hauled on her shoulder, half-lifting her as he turned her over, his hand moving to the middle of her back as he pushed her towards the back of the store.


    She scrambled to get her feet under her, and his hand didn¡¯t let her go until they had caught. He hadn¡¯t let her fall. And he was still behind her. Guarding her. Shielding her from whatever had happened.


    She crashed into the ice-cream freezer and grabbed for the counter, still not taking in a lot of detail. Everything was- Whatever had made the pain- Brain wasn¡¯t working yet. And she could feel blood.


    Sound and noise and pain and blood and a car crushed by a truck. Not being able to see because her pain couldn¡¯t process. Blood pooling on her lap, so warm it had felt like a blanket until her leg had twitched.


    There was an explosion to her left, and she looked down to see the register with a hole in it.


    MOVE!


    She stared at the register. The cash drawer slowly opened, exposing silver and gold coins, which caught the frantic light of the swinging fluorescent tube.


    Move or die, Spyder. Move or die. Move or die.


    There was warmth on her hands, and she looked down to see blood. Drips. Drops. Dripping blood. Coming from- She raised a hand to her face and felt a bloody cheek, and the twitch of sharp pain as she felt something embedded there. Glass. From the window.


    The window had been the pain and- And that meant- Someone had attacked them.


    Move or die.


    She looked back towards the window, and- And Ryan. He was moving, but it seemed to be slow motion. Or that was her own brain. And everything was-


    Focus.


    Sounds of thunder. And Ryan stopped moving for a moment.


    And the world seemed to speed back up to real-time as her brain started to cooperate again.


    Ryan turned, and there was another sou- Another gunshot, and his time, he went down onto his knees, and slipped sideways without grace, without ceremony, just dea-


    I will not think that word!


    With a movement that would have impressed Madame Costeau - if her old ballet teacher could have ever been impressed by anyone ever - she dropped and pushed her through the hole under the counter - if nothing else, it put the freezer between herself and whoever was out there causing pain and making Ryan-


    He is not. He¡¯s not. He¡¯s not dead.


    She wasn¡¯t armed. She had no resources except what the staff of some tiny ice cream store decided to have laying about. It was going to be slim pickings - she very much doubted that numbered amongst the ice cream scoops and thermometers were any cannons or howitzers.


    Know your limitations.


    That¡¯s not the problem.


    She could hurt someone - rather, she had no compunctions against hurting someone. This was life or death, and Ryan was- Ryan was in no condition to help. And she had a decade of paranoid and intrusive thoughts preparing her for every scenario.


    What she would do if the creak in her hall was a burglar or axe murderer. And the answer had always been simple: grab the nearest sharp or heavy object and make them not a threat any longer.


    But that lack of a prohibition against hurting humans had to be weighed against a tiny hacker body that was comprised mostly of coffee and Doritos. A tiny hacker body with the added debuff of being hurt, and probably still not operating at one hundred per cent brain.


    She half-couched behind the freezer, the cold at odds with the hot blood on her hands.


    Blood didn¡¯t look like strawberry syrup, not even a little.


    There was a crunch on glass. Footsteps. Someone moving that wasn¡¯t her or Ryan.


    She slowly lifted her head towards the oncoming death, terrified, but some part of her wasn¡¯t content to go to her death staring at her hands.


    Staring at her hands and a pair of scissors, abandoned next to a box of straws.


    Slowly, so that the movement was subtle, she lifted the scissors, and let her hand drop down to her side. Not much of a weapon. But it was a chance. One chance.


    It was the smallest things that made a difference.


    A second, a bare second either way and the truck wouldn¡¯t have smashed into her mother¡¯s car. A million small choices and the man who had taken her hostage would have never come into her house. One less request of ice cream and the person she owed so much to wouldn¡¯t be lying on the floor, still not moving.


    A man. White man. Stylish hair. Leather jacket. The expensive kind, the kind her cousins wore when they were trying to look cool - a different kind of cool to the vibe put off by their Maseratis, anyway.


    And he was bloodless, at least literally, as compared to seemingly everything else in the store. As compared to her. Compared to Ryan, who still hadn¡¯t moved.


    Please don¡¯t be dead.


    The Solstice took another step towards Ryan, his gun moving slowly, looking for the perfect shot to finish off the agent.


    No.


    ¡®Hey!¡¯ she screamed as she stood to her full height. ¡®Leave him alone!¡¯ The words tore themselves out, movement and sound, even while the rest of her was frozen. He couldn¡¯t kill Ryan. She wouldn¡¯t let-


    A shot shattered the curved glass of the freezer, and she scrambled sideways, further away from Ryan, if only to buy him a few more seconds. He had to live. It didn¡¯t matter what happened to her. He had to live and-


    She dropped the scissors as a shot grazed her arm.


    After another step, she ran out of room behind the counter to run. The clerk wasn''t there - presumably, there was some back door that she wasn''t seeing or some place to hide. In this space, there was no place to hide, nothing to defend herself with, nothing but a small, empty square of hip-higher countertop between her and the man with the gun.


    Without a word, the man levelled his gun at her. Black. Compact. Nothing showy. Nothing fancy. Not one of Lara Croft¡¯s gigantic Desert Eagles. Just a small piece of engineering, designed for killing.


    He twisted his head once more to look back at Ryan, to make sure that he wasn¡¯t a threat, then brought his focus back to her.


    She couldn¡¯t- Anything. He wasn¡¯t even a person anymore, just a blobby mess holding a far-too-real gun.


    He was going to kill her, and she couldn¡¯t move.


    There was a flash.


    New wetness on her shirt.


    She touched her fingers to the spreading stain, then stared at her fingers.


    He¡¯d-


    Gunshot.


    He¡¯d-


    He was back in focus now. Hyperreal. The world caught in a breath. She could see every detail of him. Of the jacket. The little patch of dried blood on his chin, like he¡¯d cut himself shaving.


    Close your eyes, you don¡¯t have to be brave.


    A second slug slammed into her. A punch that pushed all the breath from her body.


    Make it quick. Please make it quick.


    There was the sound of another shot, but this time, there was no pain.


    ¡®Stef!¡¯


    Ryan¡¯s voice. Thick and choking, but alive.


    She opened her eyes and saw the Solstice slump and fall, blood on the side of his face.


    ¡®Stef!¡¯


    ¡®Here,¡¯ she called, oddly feeling like she was responding to roll call. Oddly like- Like-


    Her head spun.


    She looked down at herself, the two- There was no hope for her shirt. And the pants were probably-


    Her legs tried to give out, but she grabbed onto the counter for balance.


    Just a minute more. Give me one more minute, dammit.


    It was like the accident all over again. So much pain that her body had given up on trying to feel any of it. Every second one more waltz step towards never waking up again. And that was okay. But- But she had to help-


    Help-


    Fingers slick with blood, she fumbled her phone from her pocket. She tried to unlock it, but it refused to respond to her touch.


    Oh come on, please-


    She scrubbed left hand against her pant leg to make her fingers clean enough for the screen to recognise her as human. As soon as the home screen appeared, she pressed her thumb to the emergency button, just as Curt had shown her when she¡¯d been setting up her phone.


    Three seconds later, the screen went green, and the visualization of a soundwave appeared. ¡®Situation?¡¯ a voice asked.


    ¡®Ryan¡¯s hurt,¡¯ she whispered, words hurting, ¡®save him.¡¯


    The Tech said something, but sound- Sound was no good, all making no sense, all bye-bye and-


    If they came, they needed to come quickly. Quick would be a rescue, slow would be a clean-up operation.


    Tears slid down her cheeks.


    She wanted-


    She took a step back towards Ryan, marvelling at how bright her blood was. So bright. Pretty. Roses and fires and-


    She wanted to see him one more time before all the red had vacated her body.


    Enough of her brain knew what pain was to know that it wasn¡¯t going to last much longer.


    Unable to bend, she fumbled with the latch that held the little gate to the front of the store closed and made her way to Ryan. With whatever strength he had left, he''d had managed to sit up, his back against the faux-wood panelling that ran beneath the freezer.


    He was pale, bleeding, and in worse shape than she was, which was definitely an achievement.


    Ryan looked up at her, only moving his eyes. ¡®I thought-¡¯ He sighed, then his eyes moved. ¡®You¡¯re hurt.¡¯


    ¡®I called for help.¡¯ She took a step, to line herself to fall next to him. ¡®I need to sit.¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯ Ryan¡¯s hand moved, his fingers making weak shooing motions. ¡®Don¡¯t touch me,¡¯ he said, the words sad, not harsh. ¡®If you touch me- Your blue-¡¯ He coughed, and a fresh spot of blood joined the pool on the ground. ¡®Will prioritise me.¡¯


    That would be okay.


    It didn¡¯t really matter if she died.


    And if she could help-


    ¡®Stef-¡¯


    She looked at the floor, grit her teeth, and aimed her knees down, barely keeping the scream inside as she hit the ground.


    ¡®Ryan?¡¯ her voice was thin, scared.


    ¡®Everything will be all right-¡¯ he started, a smile forming on lips that been coughing up blood.


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    She laid a hand on his.


    Her head whirled like she¡¯d been on a Nightmare Mode carousel. She pitched forward, the glass fragments in her cheek driving further in as her head slumped into his chest.


    There was pain.


    The pain went away.

 29 - The First Note, The Last Thought

    ¡®And she was the turtle all along!¡¯


    Ryan stared at his director. ¡®Sir?¡¯


    There was a look on Director Reynolds¡¯ face. It matched specific facial profiles that he saw on Reynolds¡¯ face throughout the day. A microsecond later, he deduced that Reynolds was expectant. He expected something of Ryan, though he was unsure what.


    He kept his eyes on Reynolds and looped the audio from the last section of their conversation. It seemed unrelated to the as-yet-unstated reasons for them standing on the Agency roof.


    Something was wrong.


    It was inconsistent behaviour. A rooftop was sometimes a location to meet with fae or to get a view of the area immediately surrounding the Agency; however, it was predominantly for show. The roof was as much a part of the Agency as any other room. It was all System territory; the same rules applied on every square inch.


    ¡®Ryan?¡¯


    ¡®Sir?¡¯


    The expression Reynolds wore changed ¨C expectation became disappointment. ¡®It¡¯s a joke, Ryan,¡¯ Reynolds said, gently slapping his arm. ¡®You¡¯re supposed to laugh.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t see the humour, sir. I apologise for¨C¡¯


    ¡®I have to keep reminding myself you aren¡¯t a newborn, but you certainly act like one, Agent.¡¯


    ¡®Sir, can I ask what we¡¯re doing up here?¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s something you need to see. Can¡¯t you feel it? Can¡¯t you hear it?¡¯


    He concentrated and listened, fixing his eyes on the shadowed brick of the building next to the Agency. There were the usual night sounds ¨C all within typical parameters. Everything was in order.


    ¡®Nothing, Ryan?¡¯ Reynolds asked after forty seconds.


    ¡®Nothing out of the ordinary, sir.¡¯


    Reynolds gave a small laugh and leaned his forearms on the safety wall of the roof. ¡®I¡¯ve heard it said among the fae that if you can¡¯t feel this, it means you have no soul¡­because you need a soul to hear it. It¡¯s nonsense, of course, but people do find their ways to be cruel.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re agents, sir. We don¡¯t have souls.¡¯


    Reynolds stood straight, brushed brick dust from the arms of his suit, then placed his hands on Ryan¡¯s shoulders. ¡®Listen to me, newborn ¨C really listen, because this is important. Souls are inertia, and they are self. We don¡¯t have the inertia ¨C we get that from the System ¨C but the self, the important part? Of course we have that. We are reasonable, thinking, people. We have thoughts. We have feelings, wants, needs, and fears, so by every measure that counts and by every damned god, we have souls, Ryan, and I won¡¯t let you think otherwise.¡¯


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    A question formed. An opinion. An impertinent response to what his director had said.


    Impertinence was against the spirit of Duty. It was against the System to question authority, to argue with those in power above you, but Reynolds thrived on chaos and discourse.


    He gave the thought voice. ¡®If you recognise what we have, sir, is there a need to call it by name? We do not have souls in the technical sense, and that would be what a lot of people gauge¨C¡¯


    Reynolds grabbed his hand and held it like human parents did with their children. ¡®This isn¡¯t a fight you¡¯re going to win, Agent, so give up now. Close your eyes and listen. You¡¯ll hear it. I promise.¡¯


    ¡®I gain no extra auditory benefit from¨C¡¯


    ¡®Shut your damn eyes, Ryan.¡¯


    There was no need to argue with a direct order, even if it wasn¡¯t a standard instruction.


    He closed his eyes and listened.


    Reynolds squeezed his hand. ¡®You¡¯ll understand in a moment. Listen. What do you hear?¡¯


    Horseshoes striking the street and the sound of wheels. The faint sounds of a man drunkenly singing. Noises so familiar and ordinary that he was able to quickly filter them. There was nothing that needed his attention. Nothing that warranted the disruption to their schedule.


    A woman was singing.


    He pulled away from Reynolds and gripped the safety wall. Long, perfect notes came through the night, so loud and beautiful that it was impossible to think that he hadn¡¯t heard them earlier.


    Beautiful. A subjective term. He considered the descriptor and allowed it. His ears tingled, and he drew in a sharp breath as the music seemed to sink into his chest.


    Background thoughts considered the use of a sonic weapon. More immediate thoughts recognised the sensation as benign, even if it was overpowering.


    ¡®Who?¡¯


    ¡®Death,¡¯ Reynolds answered. ¡®She¡¯s singing for a world about to die.¡¯ Reynolds reached down to him. ¡®Come on, son, there¡¯s so much more to see.¡¯


    Ryan suppressed a cry of pain as Stef¡¯s head crashed into his chest. That pain was bad, but secondary to what was happening with their hands.


    He tried to flex his hand, tried to pull it away from hers, tried to do anything to break the connection, but-


    He couldn¡¯t even move a single finger. Emergency protocols had stripped control away. His system had found a source of blue, and it was going to drain every nanite to keep a Director alive.


    The protocols didn¡¯t care that he wanted to scream, that he¡¯d do anything to stop it from draining Stef and take away her own chance at surviving until rescue came.


    All the protocol cared about was the hierarchy. Directors were far more critical than recruits. For the code, it was a simple equation.


    His HUD - a mess of error messages, injury reports, and a countdown timer - showed the emergency connection, the estimated volume of blue that could be extracted. After the anticipated amount appeared, a calculation appeared, showing him how many seconds it would buy him.


    All recruits had a small amount of blue in their bodies - it connected them to the System, allowed them to be tracked, allowed them to require, to be easily targeted for shifting, for their vitals to be assessed. All small, necessary actions that were an everyday part of the Agency life.


    Blue also helped stabilise an injured recruit - and she was giving that up for him. Giving up precious seconds of her life. Moments where a rescue team could get to her before she went to Death again.


    And she¡¯d-


    Without hesitation. Without asking for anything in return.


    Her hand twitched, and her grip went slack, the emergency programming deeming her as drained of all usefulness.


    In his HUD, the countdown timer recalculated based on the actual volume. She¡¯d bought him just over thirty seconds of life, pushing his countdown time to just over a minute.


    She was so still. So quiet. So cold.


    Unconscious and dying without a fight.


    Bleeding, without a chance to- To cry, to pray, to do the hundred tiny things that you had to do whilst your last seconds were ticking away.


    He was so numb, he couldn¡¯t even feel if she was breathing.


    He felt tears on his cheeks. ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    He lifted his bloody hand and brushed the hair back from her face and laid his hand on her cheek. Four seconds disappeared with the action, but if it was the last kind thing he could do, he had to.


    His timer dropped under a minute.


    Sorry. He was so sorry. And he didn¡¯t have the breath to say it the hundred times it needed to be repeated.


    He lifted his other arm, wrapped it around her shoulders, and held her close.


    Seconds disappeared.


    It hurt to cough. It hurt to breathe. Everything hurt.


    He stared down at his recruit, trying to ignore the countdown timer in his HUD.


    The number was already too low, ticking away only seconds until his predicted death. He tried not to breathe, tried not to aggravate wounds that would worsen with the slightest provocation.


    But...there was nothing to save the seconds for.


    There was no point in ten more seconds of life if those ten seconds were spent in silence, without hope or prayer, regrets building faster than he was losing blood.


    ¡®On the smallest farm in the world,¡¯ he began. Words hurt. Breathing hurt. And she was unconscious- But if there was any chance that she could hear him, any chance that she could slip away while listening to a fairy tale, any-


    He coughed and sprayed red droplets into her hair.


    He¡¯d been stupid. Selfish. This was all his fault.


    He¡¯d been responsible for her death, and the last words she had said were ¡®thank you¡±.


    The words to the story started to-


    He couldn¡¯t remember anything.


    The story. The first story that had come to mind. A farmer wishing for family, for a child, for-


    The pain didn¡¯t-


    All he could taste was blood.


    In his HUD, the countdown timer flashed, indicating he was out of calculable time. Any second beyond this was something stolen from Chaos with chance and luck and-


    She was so cold.


    The next line. He had to remember the next line. The story was-


    ¡®It all began with a flower.¡¯


    He couldn¡¯t breathe.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯

 30 - Hierarchy

    The combat knife was the only thing in the world.


    Magnolia stared, her body relaxed - something that came from long years of training.


    If she was tense, her reactions would be off. There was danger, even in training sessions, but it to be a factor that she accepted so that she could perform at her best.


    Taylor wasn¡¯t the kind of soldier who did fancy things with his knives. No unnecessary spinning. Changes to the grip were done swiftly but in a perfunctory manner.


    The blade rested in his hand, and if she didn¡¯t move at the right way at the right moment, in three seconds, it would sink into her flesh.


    He gave a small nod, her only warning - as this was a test of how she reacted, not how quickly. The warning was a pleasantry, and one she appreciated.


    The blade flew, and she dodged it.


    She looked to her commander, but the look in his eyes told her that he was no longer present - his attention was entirely in his HUD.


    He¡¯d be able to see her through the overlay, but unless there was something of extreme importance, it was best not to interrupt him.


    There was the feeling of fuzz in her hand - a warning that something was being required there. She tipped her palm so that the object didn¡¯t fall when it materialised, then slammed the earpiece into place as soon as it was real.


    ¡®Situation?¡¯ she demanded. Low-or-no-priority calls didn¡¯t get her attention this way. Only emergency and end-of-the-fucking-world calls summoned her earpiece to get her immediately clued into the situation.


    ¡®It¡¯s Ryan,¡¯ Merlin¡¯s little voice, and there was enough...far-away-ness in the two words to let her know he was casting an eye over the situation in a way no one else could. Insight she could use but would have to manage. ¡®He¡¯s hurt, but he¡¯ll be okay if you get there- Now.¡¯


    ¡®Shit.¡¯


    She looked up at Taylor, who was probably receiving the same information from Jones - that wasn¡¯t the usual protocol, but it also wasn¡¯t normal to get an emergency call about Ryan.


    And whether or not she respected him, he was probably the best Director for their Agency. Other Directors might not be so- Taylor wasn¡¯t the easiest to work with, and other Directors might do something about that.


    Her commander caught her eye and nodded. There wasn¡¯t a need for words. Even something so simple as ¡°do it¡± was unnecessary, and she never wanted to pull words out of him when they weren¡¯t needed.


    Too many people already expected too much from him.


    With one macro requirement, her tablet was in her hand, and her current go team were being roused in several different ways. And ready or not, in forty-five seconds they¡¯d be shifted out.


    Taylor had moved to the side of the gym, and two large panels of blonde wood had been opened. His go-to weapons cache behind one panel, and commonly-used field and emergency equipment behind the other.


    He went for weapons. She went for equipment.


    The macro was set to bring enough supplies to protect herself, her commander and her team through a firefight or a hostage negotiation.


    Whatever her recruits had been wearing when the forty-five second counter started, they¡¯d appear on location in full tactical gear, surrounded by equipment they could use.


    The equipment, of course, included ways to heal recruits and agents. Still, Merlin¡¯s warning had made it sound like Ryan was seconds from kicking the bucket, so being proactive was going to be the right move.


    If she¡¯d needed to go in, knife at the ready, he would have told her that. Probably would have told her that. His reader powers were always reliable, but not always in the most useful of ways. Sometimes what he could see of the future was either scrambled. Sometimes his warnings only made sense in retrospect or came so garbled that it only amounted to a gut feeling that you could rely on.


    Ryan couldn¡¯t die, it would be too disruptive.


    She pulled a bottle from the shelf - the design always put her in mind of a particularly sturdy bottle of laundry detergent, although one whose mouth was as round as a soft drink can.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Liquid blue - as soon as she saw Ryan, she could soak him with the contents - it wasn¡¯t pretty or elegant, but it would be a good foot in the door to keep him from dying.


    She dismissed the bottle¡¯s cap, ready to pour as soon as she saw the dying agent.


    Her earpiece beeped a five-second countdown, and the world twisted.


    The street where they appeared was dark - the only shop that showed any sign that it was open was the one that no longer had any front windows.


    There were spray paint marks on the ground - a jagged line of blue, overlaid with grey circles. That was Tech¡¯s work - warning of a blackout zone, something automated that their drones could do. There were sure to be drones about, disguised as birds - they were often the only thing to get to an emergency site faster than her go team.


    Proof that there were drones only backed up the fact that Merlin had been right in not giving her a personal warning - unless it was something undetectable by both technology and a kid so powerful that-


    She snapped her fingers, and two of her recruits flanked her as she made her way into the remains of the shop.


    The store was a mess. Glass was everywhere, as was blood. There were a few obvious patches - on the floor near what had been a window; smeared on a freezer, and the pools around the three bodies. Two bodies together in the centre of the store, one by itself to the right.


    Nothing moved - and as this ostensibly a rescue mission, that wasn¡¯t good.


    Hewitt - the scent of lavender and sandalwood identified him, even while the tactical gear hid his face; went left. The other recruit, probably Rachel judging by her Amazonian build and height, swept right.


    Ryan was on the floor, back against the counter, his new recruit in his arms. There was blood on his mouth - an immediate sign that he was dealing with internal injuries. She crouched beside him, as her recruits called that their sections were safe.


    ¡®Director.¡¯


    No response.


    Magnolia grabbed the placed the container of blue on the ground, grabbed Ryan¡¯s unresisting hands, pulled them away from his recruit. She adjusted her grip on Mimosa and shoved the girl aside, the dead-or-nearly-dead recruit falling onto cracked tiles and glass.


    ¡®No.¡¯ Ryan¡¯s voice was a dusty whisper in a dead building.


    ¡®Brace yourself,¡¯ she said as she poured the blue over his chest, emptying three-quarters of the bottle where it would do the most good, before pressing the bottle to his lips. She slipped her free hand behind his head, grabbed a handful of his hair and tipped his head back so that drinking the blue would be easier.


    He coughed, spluttering blue and blood all over her, but after a moment, brought one hand up to brace against the bottle, holding in place until the bottle was empty.


    ¡®Magnolia.¡¯


    Taylor. He¡¯d entered a blackout zone - something he shouldn¡¯t have done, but something he wouldn¡¯t be rebuked for, given that the Director was involved.


    You could sacrifice recruits to save agents, agents to save Directors, and Directors to save members of Central. It was a hierarchy whose only purpose was to let you know who you were expected to die for.


    She¡¯d die for her commander, the rest of the world could go fuck itself.


    She stood and quickly moved out of Taylor¡¯s way. There were so many unnecessary words. So many words that would be exchanged between people who didn¡¯t know how to operate in silence. ¡°Take him to Jones¡± would be wasted words - there was nowhere else for injured to go. ¡°He¡¯s alive¡± - anyone with eyes could see their Director struggling to breathe. Corpses usually didn¡¯t try to breathe.


    ¡®Quickly,¡¯ was the only thing she said she allowed herself to say. That would convey the urgency and the care that needed to be taken.


    Taylor knelt, glass crunching under his knees, then scooped up Ryan like a man about to carry his spouse over the threshold, and carried the bleeding agent towards the safety of system territory.


    Part of her felt relief as she heard Taylor¡¯s boots leave the shop. Their number one priority was being dealt with - now to move onto the bonus points of the rescue operation.


    She looked to Rachel first. ¡®Dead,¡¯ the recruit reported. ¡®Half his head¡¯s gone, Mags.¡¯


    Magnolia nodded and turned to Hewitt, who was over the body of the recruit. ¡®Yours?¡¯


    ¡®Barely, I think,¡¯ Hewitt said. In one hand, he had a small mirror that he¡¯d used to check her breath, in the other was a medical tablet.


    A wireless electrode was on the not-quite-dead recruit¡¯s forehead, but half the usual readings on the tablet were missing. ¡®Either this isn¡¯t syncing properly, or she¡¯s got no blue. That¡¯s going to fuck things for the Parkers.¡¯ He tucked the tablet and the mirror away. ¡®I say we just move her, it literally can¡¯t any worse, and there¡¯s nothing I can do to stabilise her right now.¡¯


    ¡®Your call. Need a stretcher?¡¯


    Hewitt shook his head. ¡®Quicker just to do this,¡¯ he said. He picked up the recruit as though she weighed nothing. She was thin, but the worrying kind of thin that made you think ¡°sickly¡± more than anything else. It would likely be worth a quiet word to the Parkers if she lived.


    Even with all of the magic and science at their fingertips, whether the recruit lived was probably still in question.


    ¡®Anthony,¡¯ Hewitt said, talking to his operator, as he adjusted his grip on Mimosa. ¡®If you can spare a prayer, I¡¯ve got someone who would appreciate it.¡¯


    He moved quickly, the recruit as floppy and still as a sack of potatoes. Bleeding potatoes. Bleeding was a good sign, it meant there was a heart still actively pumping blood.


    One living agent, one provisionally alive recruit, one dead unknown. It was as good as it was going to get.


    She looked at Rachel. ¡®Interface with Tech, I want their quickest CSI and their best clean up.¡¯ She turned to Collins, who stood just inside the door, grinding a piece of glass under their boot. ¡®Jones. Drones. Find out where the staff went.¡¯ She walked out of the shop and looked to the rest of her team. ¡®One. Perimeter. Two. Report on the blackout, tell me what I¡¯m dealing with and how long it¡¯s going to be a thorn in my ass. Three. Parked cars. Check and erase dashcams. Four. Get this cleared quickly and you¡¯ve all got tomorrow off. Five. I don¡¯t need to tell you your jobs. If you¡¯re here, you know what you¡¯re doing.¡¯


    There was a chorus of acknowledgments from her team, and she smiled as they split to contain the situation, and to keep the world safe from assholes who would bomb an ice-cream store.

 31 - Recovery.exe

    Ryan¡¯s body hit the blue like a corpse.


    Despite himself, despite the numerous windows - both in his HUD and on the screens around him - telling him that the Director was still alive, Jones held his breath.


    The recovery tank was large - seven feet on each side and seven feet tall. Large enough for every standard agent to lay horizontal and spread their arms, taking in the peace and fulfilment that always came when fully submerged in blue.


    Blood spiralled away from Ryan¡¯s body, riding the eddies towards the surface, before disappearing as the cleaning systems filtered it out.


    Unique amongst the agents in Queen Street, he was the only one to have only known Ryan as Director. The others still tended to think ¡°Reynolds¡± when the title ¡°Director¡± was brought up. And while Reynolds, by all accounts, had been a good man, Jones didn¡¯t feel cheated for not knowing the original man in charge.


    Ryan wasn¡¯t perfect, but in many ways, that was probably for the best.


    He saw Ryan move his hand, fingers flexing as the Director slowly brought his hand to his mouth. Deliberate action. Always a good sign. Jones released a breath he¡¯d been holding since Taylor left the room, BDU jacket still covered in Ryan¡¯s blood.


    He sighed - there were sadly apparent reasons why the rumours continued to circulate that Taylor subsisted on raw meat. Or recruits too slow to escape his grasp.


    In the tank, Ryan spasmed with silent coughs, causing bubbles of and more spirals of blood in the blue.


    The damage was extensive, but his job would come after automatic systems had stabilised Ryan. It took time - and given the extent of the corrupted blue that his screens were reporting, it would take a while until he would feel safe bringing the Director out for more direct action.


    He placed his hand on the closest glass wall of the recovery tank. [Just rest, sir.]


    Ryan rolled slightly in the thick liquid, met his gaze, then closed his eyes and sank towards the bottom of the tank, heading into the rest that was somewhere between sleep and a coma.


    There wouldn¡¯t be dreams, there were never be dreams, but there would be peace.


    He let his hand rest against the cold glass for another moment, then set up a ping to alert him when the Director was ready for direct assistance. After one more moment, he moved from the backroom that contained the recovery tank and the associated equipment, to the larger lab that was for all purposes, his office.


    He had a moment of quiet before being set upon by a wraith, the creature¡¯s long floppy white arms spinning and twirling, obscuring its real shape before it tripped and fell to the floor.


    Jones smiled, bent, and scooped up his son and his oversized lab coat. ¡®You need to tie your shoelaces, darling,¡¯ he said and required the laces into perfect double-knotted bows.


    Merlin crawled into his lap as Jones settled at his main computer, the boy¡¯s messy hair bumping against his chin as he began to go through the Director¡¯s scans. There was a set way recovery had to run - analyses programs and stability protocols, a barrage of tests and tweaks that Ryan would need to make a full recovery.


    He tried to order his thoughts - Merlin¡¯s mind-reading was something that they had yet to find an off-switch for, and disorganisation could stress out his son.


    Merlin picked up surface thoughts and emotions as quickly as someone could pick out broadly-sketched emotions on a face. He wasn¡¯t prying, he just couldn¡¯t help it.


    But the fact that his son was in full happy-arms-flapping mode meant that he was having a good day. Albeit a day that had been tempered with a few tense moments while the rescue operation had been in progress. Their people were home, so Merlin was free to go back to the carefree joy that was an all-too-rare experience.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    People who didn¡¯t know Merlin saw a weird, but happy child. The recruits in his department saw deeper, as they spent more time around Merlin, seeing that he could often be melancholy. Only he - and, he had to admit to his chagrin, Magnolia - saw the utter depths of despair that the boy could spiral into.


    Merlin¡¯s biological progenitors - people unfit to ever wear any title approaching that of ¡°parent¡± had created the child through a mix of magics - old and new; and along with experimentation and augmentation during the pregnancy, and in the moments just after his birth.


    He still didn¡¯t know the extent of exactly what his son was, or what he could do. The mind-reading was dangerous enough, as it was a rare gift amongst the fae - something that was slowly going extinct. The Agency tended to dissociate from anyone who had such power - for fear of security leaks, or it being used against them.


    Other abilities, such as Merlin¡¯s tendency to walk through walls, were gifts to keep quiet at all costs.


    As loyal as he was, as well as he followed his Duty, he still knew the Agency would rip Merlin from his arms to dig deeper and understand every strange quirk of the child.


    And that was something he¡¯d never allow.


    It was an inevitability, he was sure of it, but every moment that he could delay it was a moment he treasured.


    And all of that was the crux of the issue with Magnolia.


    Magnolia had been in the team that had saved Merlin from his parents. Though, to this day, he was still unsure how much luck they''d had with the rescue had been carelessness on the part of Merlin¡¯s progenitors; and how much had been them allowing the Agency to take him.


    Magnolia had been the first face Merlin had seen that had belonged to someone who didn¡¯t want to hurt him. And that had grown into a fierce kind of hero-worship. They treated each other as siblings - Merlin bringing out that gentle side of Mags that only seemed to be present around Techs.


    But Magnolia¡¯s loyalty was to Taylor. And he had no doubt that if Taylor knew that they had a ¡°threat¡± like Merlin under their roof, that agents from Central would appear and revoke Merlin¡¯s ward status. They''d take his son, and lock him away forever.


    Merlin twisted and blew a cool breath into his face. ¡®Bad thoughts away, mama.¡¯


    Mama. The title still made his heart crack a little each time it was used.


    Children had never seemed to be on the board for him - despite them being a common-enough occurrence for agents - something backed up by his own Agency and its associated Outposts. Ryan had fathered a child while married. Applebaum had a collection of children, stating that when you neared two hundred, it was impossible not to. Darren had seven children. And countless others in their network had also procured children in one way or another.


    He was young, with a demanding job, so children had been put on a To-Do list and forgotten about, until an orphaned child had crawled into his lap and wept for a day, feeling safe for the first time in his life.


    People could believe in love at first sight - in knowing with a single glance that you wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with the object of your affection.


    What people found harder to fathom was the same could be true of paternal love - that sometimes you looked at an abandoned child and knew, deep in your code, deep in your soul, that they were yours. You found yourself wanting to plan what to get for their birthday, how to decorate their room, and what silly shapes you would cut their sandwiches into.


    He¡¯d become a parent overnight - even if the paperwork had taken considerably longer.


    And now, he was ¡°mama¡± - a title he wore with pride, no matter what gender he was presenting as. It was a title borne of love, and luckily outside of the very few things that triggered his dysphoria.


    Merlin pointed towards the live feed of the recovery tank. ¡®He¡¯s thinking about stories.¡¯


    Two clicks switched the feed to his central monitor and maximised it.


    ¡®What kind of stories, little one?¡¯


    ¡®The kind you tell me.¡¯


    Jones looked from his son, to his Director, and smiled.


    In a perfect world, in an ideal Agency, Ryan should have played a paternal role for him - that was how it went. Older agents became parents to younger ones. Reynolds had been a father to both Ryan and Taylor, and according to stories from people who¡¯d been there, Ryan and Taylor had been as close as brothers once.


    And now they barely exchanged ten words a week.


    Reynolds¡¯ absence had been the beginning of the breakdown of the family structure in their Agency. Reynolds was gone. Samuels - his predecessor - had either been murdered or fallen in such a way that left no tracks. Taylor had died, and what had been resurrected was nothing like the man they¡¯d lost.


    The expected, built-in, family structure had never been there for him. Instead, he had built a family with his recruits - albeit one mostly at arm¡¯s length, but there were few things that he wouldn¡¯t do for his recruits.


    For Merlin though - well, there was nothing a parent wouldn¡¯t do for a child.


    And now it seemed that he wasn¡¯t the only one who might have accidentally found a stray that needed to become family.


    He dove into a menu on his HUD, and looked up the status for Ryan¡¯s new recruit - the small icon beside her name indicated the surgery was still ongoing. Ongoing was better than nothing - but as good as the Parkers were, sometimes they lost patients. With Ryan unconscious, there was no way to get permission to augment if her injuries warranted such drastic action.


    There were more subtle ways to ensure a happy ending.


    Jones rested his head against Merlin¡¯s. ¡®If the Parkers need some luck,¡¯ he said, couching his words carefully, ¡®send some their way. We want to make sure he can finish telling the story.¡¯

 32 - Subscript

    There was a knock.


    Ryan opened his eyes, saw nothing but blue, and closed them again.


    There was peace. Weightlessness. Calm. Safety.


    Another knock.


    Thoughts started to become more clear. He breathed in and felt liquid blue rush across his tongue. He was in a tank - that meant he¡¯d been injured. That meant-


    The feeling of serenity dropped away as recent memories crashed into his consciousness. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling for where one of the exit wounds had been, and felt nothing but smooth skin.


    He was safe. He was-


    He wasn¡¯t the only one who¡¯d been injured.


    He focussed on his HUD, brought up a list of recent contacts, and expanded Stef¡¯s profile. Active. She was still listed as active. She was alive. He breathed a sigh of relief, a thin stream of bubbles flowing through the blue.


    The next tab that showed her vitals and health status. An overlay showed that she was done with surgery and in recovery, with links should he want to view the progress or bother the doctors - neither was an option he wanted.


    There was also an option to see a replay of the surgery, something which twisted his stomach.


    There was no block on the recovery ward - meaning visitors were welcome, within reason. Relieved that she was all right, and horrified that he¡¯d slept through her surgery, he closed the window. With the overlay closed, he was left staring at the undifferentiated list of recent contacts.


    Stef¡¯s name sat there, no different to any of his other recruits. None of his recruits had been prioritised, some naturally cycled to the top more regularly - like O¡¯Connor - due to the frequency of contact, but-


    But she wasn¡¯t just another recruit.


    He selected the dull circle beside her name, which changed to a bright, electric blue. The standard priority/favourite icon was a simple circle, but normal didn¡¯t seem right for her. For a recruit so counter to his expectations, so far outside of any usual parameters.


    If she even wanted to stay a recruit after tonight.


    There was another knock, and he finally turned to look at the closest wall of the tank - Jones stood there, tablet in hand. The tech¡¯s face appeared in his HUD. [You¡¯ve stabilised, sir. Mind if I deal with the damage?]


    He closed the window, unwilling to make any changes while his mind was still...fuzzy.


    Jones was still waiting for an answer. He forced himself upright, his bare toes just touching the bottom of the tank, and shifted out of the tank, setting a requirement to appear in a set of scrubs when he reintegrated.


    He followed Jones to the examination chair - a large, padded affair that bore some likeness to a high-end dentist chair, and settled himself into it as Jones found a stool, and wheeled over, tablet in hand.


    ¡®Everything looks good, sir.¡¯


    He listened as Jones gave him a clean bill of health. Jones cautioned that several deep-level scans were still running, but that their integrity checks were expected to come up clean.


    He caught Jones¡¯ arm as the tech stood. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said. He didn¡¯t thank Jones often enough for his good, careful work. There was more to say, more gratitude, and more apologies, but all of them so overdue that another day wouldn¡¯t matter.


    There was another, far more immediate apology that needed to be said.


    ¡®You¡¯re welcome, sir,¡¯ Jones said, patted his hand, then busied himself in another part of the lab.


    He stood and shifted to his office. When the room registered his presence, gentle illumination brightened the dark room, enough to complement the city lights pouring in through the wall of windows.


    The city below was beautiful at night, and that was a thought, an attitude, he sincerely hoped was his. Rhys had always had a deep connection to the city, that was something Reynolds had felt safe in complimenting about the monster. Instinctual knowledge of the city, of its streets, of what the man had known, was one of the primary reasons they had used a Dusker template to create him.


    He required his uniform, his pants, shoes and shirt appeared on his body; his tie, vest and jacket appeared on the desk beside him. It was a tradition Reynolds had passed onto him - something his Director had always done. It was simple in principle - take a moment after an injury to set one¡¯s clothing straight, to take a few minutes to button a waistcoat and tie a tie. Reynolds had felt it was a way of taking back control after an extreme incident.


    And he¡¯d always been eager to please Reynolds, had wanted to do what the man expected of him.


    He was introspective, he always was after an injury or a close call. The quiet moment after recovery were always thoughts of family, of wanting to reconnect with lost and failed relationships. Of wishing his son had some good feelings towards him.


    But Alexander was finding no traction in his mind.


    He¡¯d been dying, and he¡¯d only been able to think of the child in his arms.


    Stef had almost died, and he had been helpless to do anything. Unable to stop protocols as old as the Directorial position from pulling away her blue, draining her ability to keep her own wounds stabilised in favour of saving his life.


    She¡¯d been so cold, so still. She¡¯d felt dead. And it would have been such a waste, a small, precious life traded for his.


    He kept failing her.


    The child that had died in his arms. The recruit that had nearly repeated the performance.


    She had remembered him, and that was amazing. A gift beyond worth. If he had been rational, had been- Sensible. If he had been sensible, she¡¯d be working for Jones.


    But he¡¯d been selfish, and it had nearly cost her life.


    He¡¯d failed her again.


    He truly was a useless parent.


    His fingers paused, his tie halfway done, as the word became the only thought in his mind.


    Parent. He couldn¡¯t argue with his own word choice. For good or ill, he hadn¡¯t been solely acting as an agent, as a superior officer. The way she lit up when he spoke of magic, when she realised how intertwined magic and technology were, everything about her spoke to the father inside him. A skill-set long disused, but one he had always hoped to dust off.


    Jones had expressed - in his own way - what he was sure was the same feeling, when there had been the discussion of what to do with Merlin: ¡°Sometimes, the universe hands you someone, and you just know ¡®yep, this is mine now¡¯.¡±


    It was presumptuous; worse, perhaps insulting. Just because he was seeking a child didn¡¯t mean she was seeking a parent. But- Family - the family of your own making, as most agent families were, could be the most marvellous thing.


    First though, before anything else, he had to beg her forgiveness. To know if she even wanted to remain part of the Agency.


    He shifted to the infirmary - the main area was empty, but he could see one of the twins through the glass wall of the office. He walked through and found Parker-2 sitting at the desk, his white coat covered in blood, drinking a beer. The doctor put his feet up on the desk and grinned. ¡®Here to check on your recruit? My better half is adjusting her IV.¡¯


    He stared at a point beyond Parker-2, so that he didn¡¯t have to take in the sight of Stef¡¯s blood. ¡®And?¡¯


    Parker-2 tipped the beer back, then tossed the bottle over his head to land perfectly in the bin. ¡®She¡¯ll have a scar, but I don¡¯t think she¡¯ll notice. What the hell is up with your recruit, Ryan? She¡¯s got more scar tissue than half of the combat recruits we treat.¡¯


    Parker-1 walked into this office. ¡®What he means to say, sir, is that it was a clean enough injury. It-¡¯ Of the twins, Parker-1 was universally acknowledged to have the better bedside manner - for both patients and their guests. ¡®It was serious,¡¯ he continued, ¡®but she pulled through, and that¡¯s what matters.¡¯


    ¡®Bit more challenging than the flesh wound from her first visit.¡¯ Parker-2 opened another beer, with a caduceus-themed bottle opener. ¡®It¡¯s not often we have a twenty-year gap between treating patients.¡¯ He offered a beer to his twin, who declined. ¡®I don¡¯t like babies, except on paper, they¡¯re efficient little organ bags.¡¯ Parker-2 smiled at his twin. ¡®I¡¯m glad we never had any, darling.¡¯


    He accepted the chart that Parker-1 proffered, and wondered, for a brief second, how things would have played out if it had been the Parkers that had stuck in her memory, rather than him. The Parkers, like all sets of agent twins, tended to be...rather singular and tended to take some getting used to. The simple explanation given to recruits - especially those who had no interest in the more technical aspects of how agents operated - was that agent twins were one person, split over two bodies.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    It was an explanation close enough to the truth that it sufficed for most, without explaining how extraordinary the origin of the twinning glitch was.


    Parker-2 pulled the lid from another beer. ¡®Want one?¡¯ he asked, proffering the bottle.


    He shook his head. ¡®No, thank you.¡¯


    Parker-1 gave him a sympathetic look as he handed back the chart. ¡®She¡¯ll be awake in a few hours. She¡¯s in bed four if you want to check on her.¡¯


    Bed four of the recovery room was the only one in use - with the efficacy of Agency medicine, recovery was - with few exceptions - a quick process. Allowing a recruit to sleep afterwards was generally the best decision though - there were few things that a few hours rest didn¡¯t improve.


    He stepped through the curtain that surrounded bed four and stopped. He wasn¡¯t afraid for her - she was fine, the vitals and the chart both showed that. In a few hours, she¡¯d open her eyes, and-


    And she looked dead.


    His heart locked in place, releasing only when he saw the minuscule movement of her chest as she drew a breath.


    In the low, soft lights of the infirmary, she looked more like a corpse than the toddler he¡¯d held. He looked to her vitals in his HUD, then to the machines that surrounded her. Every device, every piece of data confirmed that she was going to be okay.


    He sat in the visitor chair and held her hand anyway.


    It was almost comforting how familiar the worry felt. The strange, contradictory feeling of knowing everything was fine, but needing it confirmed by a smile.


    The worry that had come with seeing Alexander fall from a tree and being a second too slow to do anything about it. The fear that came with the inhuman scream of a child with a greenstick fracture. The relief of seeing his son, arm in a sling, playing awkwardly with the new toys he¡¯d had required to make the boy happy.


    The worry that had come with any number of falls from a bike, from a tree, with colds and chickenpox and other ailments.


    A parent¡¯s worry.


    The anguish of hearing a shot aimed at his recruit. The horror that had filled the silence that followed.


    He looked at his hand holding hers. It would be easy enough to let it go, to shift away and focus on paperwork. It would be easy to distance himself from her, to treat her like his other recruits.


    She wasn¡¯t like his other recruits.


    She was his recruit, but that almost seemed incidental. She was the toddler he¡¯d saved; she was the girl who remembered him. She was excited by magic, and he was able to show it to her ¨C something he¡¯d never been able to do with his son.


    Eilise had wanted their son raised as human as possible. He¡¯d never been able to take Alexander to cloud-painting festivals. Never walked with him down fairy stairs. Never taken him flying in a kite rig. Never breathed a word about something so awe-inspiring and wondrous as a phoenix.


    And even when Alexander had been let in on the truth of the world, it hadn¡¯t seemed to spark any interest or curiosity in his son. It had been something to downplay, to accept for its utility without fully embracing it.


    And Alexander had always hated that his father wasn¡¯t...real. Wasn¡¯t human. That he was somehow less because he was part-agent.


    Stef¡¯s hand twitched a little, and her fingers curled into his.


    ¡®On the smallest farm in the world.¡¯


    He could recite the story now, but he was sure that she would cry foul, that she¡¯d been robbed of the chance to hear a fairy tale by real fairies. And it was one of the stranger stories, more recent stories that had come to be considered a modern classic.


    It wasn¡¯t an old morality tale or an adaptation of a warning, it wasn¡¯t from the time when fairies were food, it was far more recent. The new way that fairies created children was story enough by itself, heroic and sad, full of sacrifice and mirror magic. A choice made for an entire race by its queens.


    The farmer on the smallest farm was a far more personal story.


    One lonely man wishing for a family, pouring his hopes and dreams into a dying flower. Pastoral and small, it had also become a favoured story for adoptive families in Fairyland. The story had also gained popularity amongst agents - as pure agent children were impossible, adoption was the only choice for agents who had fallen in love with their own kind.


    It would cheat her if he told the story to her sleeping form. And every line of the story that he managed to get out would spur at least a dozen questions, half of which would likely be interrupted with another, more important question.


    For the experience to be proper, he¡¯d need a copy of the Clover collection, or perhaps-


    ¡®That would work,¡¯ he said quietly.


    He gently pulled his hand from hers, and stood, making an effort not to move the chair as he did so, for fear the noise would wake her. He looked down at her, and after a moment, smoothed the hair back from her face and kissed her forehead.


    It was something that Alexander had always insisted had helped him get better. A bit of ¡°dad magic¡±, something he was happy to provide, if only for the placebo effect.


    ¡®Sleep well,¡¯ he said, ¡®heal.¡¯


    He shifted to the hall with no doors. A small, dead piece of the Agency, no longer connected to the rest of the building. It was always cold here, colder than the rest of the Agency ¨C the hall felt like a mausoleum, and the association wasn¡¯t entirely inaccurate.


    He moved along the hall and touched a hand to where a doorknob should have been.


    A security prompt appeared in his HUD, and he manually entered the long password string ¨C one that was unable to authenticate automatically. Another step. Another delay. Another chance to turn around and leave.


    It was almost an oubliette, in its own way.


    A place to hide someone away from the world. To be forgotten by all, except by those who truly cared.


    The code was accepted, and a door appeared in the wall. He twisted the doorknob and walked in, closing and locking the door behind him.


    The office never changed. Nothing ever changed. And nothing ever would change.


    The office was the same size as his and had the same large set of windows at the back ¨C though these were hidden behind sheer curtains, projecting a recorded image of the outside world.


    And at the large desk, made of dark wood, sat Director Reynolds.


    Reynolds lay slumped across his desk, lifeless as a corpse, looking as uncomfortable as could be. As with every time he visited, a thin layer of dust covered Reynolds'' sleeping form, from dust that seemed to permeate, even in this dead section of the Agency.


    He was sleeping, dreaming, and saving the world by being locked away from it.


    Ryan removed his jacket, and laid it on the cracked leather of the couch, then moved to clean up his director, as he always did.


    He pulled on Reynolds¡¯ shoulders and made him sit up in the chair. He required his hair to be tidy, his suit to be refreshed, and the thin layer of dust to be dismissed.


    Reynolds was breathing, his heart was beating, and his vitals were the same steady pulse as they had been since the night he¡¯d collapsed in the street.


    Ryan gently laid Reynolds back on the desk, ensuring that the chair was close enough so that he wasn¡¯t stretched out too far.


    It would have been more humane to put him in a bed, or in a tank in the basement. It would have been easier to let the Central scientists take him and monitor him.


    Easier, but not better.


    Here, in his office, Reynolds was home ¨C and Ryan had to believe that some part of him knew that, that some part of him appreciated that, even if he never woke up again.


    In Central, they might dissect him.


    In Central, they might try to figure out the method by which Sol had stolen their dreams.


    In Central, they might anger the monster that had already threatened the world once.


    Ryan moved to the couch, sat, and required a drink.


    Agents could become alcoholics. There were fae alcohols that could impair them, as much as any human. Standard liquor was just for the taste ¨C but it still felt like a crutch to drink in order to think.


    But it had been what Reynolds had suggested, so it was a pattern of behaviour Ryan had maintained.


    He rested the scotch it on the arm of the couch, the condensation beading on the glass, then sliding down to the leather.


    Reynolds drank, sang, partied, and made merry with everyone around him. He was loved by agents, recruits, and contacts. He always seemed to have time to give advice, make a joke, or simply fly the Agency flag when it was called for.


    Reynolds was everything he couldn¡¯t be.


    Ryan was, he was sure, still to this day, a disappointment to his director.


    But Reynolds had loved him anyway ¨C as a father, as a teacher, and as a friend. He had put up with his ¡°faults¡± and his lack of growth. Ryan wasn¡¯t what his director had expected of him, and that had always hung in the air.


    Ryan took a sip of his scotch.


    He was a disappointment to his father, as much as he was a disappointment to his son.


    He¡¯d disappointed Eilise and Carol and the others that had come and gone over the decades.


    He was never enough for the recruits, especially whilst trying to juggle two jobs without help.


    He hadn¡¯t disappointed Stef, but he had failed her.


    Being in public in uniform always came with risk. And he¡¯d allowed his guard to slip, to enjoy the moment, and not keep an eye on their surroundings. He¡¯d been focused on her joy, on seeing how long she could have a chocolate stain on her nose without noticing...and failed to see an enemy recognise, then attack.


    It had been sheer luck that she hadn¡¯t died in the initial blast - glass had embedded itself in her face, in her arms, but the grace of some god had meant no sharp edges had aimed themselves at her throat.


    And when the balances were totalled, she¡¯d done more to save him, than he had done for her. She¡¯d called in a rescue. She¡¯d sacrificed her blue. All he¡¯d done was shoot a Solstice - after the man had already mortally wounded both of them.


    He took another mouthful of drink and stared at his director. As mercurial as Reynolds could be, it was hard to imagine what he would have thought of the idea of adopting a young woman after just a few days.


    As with any difficult problem, Reynolds would have moved through his various roles, commenting as necessary. His friend would appreciate the gesture but tell him that he was wrong. His father would caution him and warn that it was too great of a leap. His director would ask about the impact on his workload.


    And Reynolds would have asked him to justify it and needed an answer other than ¡°because¡±.


    ¡®Because I love her,¡¯ Ryan said quietly.


    Because she was sad and scared and lost. Because she had suspected the smallest kindnesses to be routine and not genuine. Because she remembered him, when there should have been other people to write over the memory with bigger and better memories.


    Because they fit together like the family they were both missing.


    He looked at his director. At the man he would have died for, living through a punishment that could last until the end of the world. Reynolds had been far from perfect as a father - he¡¯d always looked for those pieces of Rhys that had survived, treating him almost as a replacement for a dead older sibling.


    Reynolds had been imperfect with him. He¡¯d been imperfect with Alexander. He¡¯d be imperfect with Stef.


    But somehow, it almost felt all right that he¡¯d be imperfect again. That making mistakes would be...just what a girl with permanently dirty sneakers would expect.


    He finished off his drink, dismissed his glass, and walked to the dusty bookshelves that lined the wall opposite the cracked, green couch. At first glance, they looked like the kind of typical leather-bound books that were expected in an office like this - something almost more for aesthetic than for content.


    But it always rewarded those visitors to the office that looked closer. Amongst the gifted tomes of poetry and reference books were volumes of bawdy jokes and some books that were simply there as pranks, with spines that said things like ¡°look left¡±, only to have the book to the left insult the person pursuing the bookshelf.


    But amongst the collection, there were some treasures.


    He browsed three of the shelves before finding the book. The volume was old, gifted to Reynolds in the thirties, a collection of fairy tales from a small press, with a gorgeous, hand-carved leather cover. There had initially been decorative magic, but it had long since worn away, except for the occasional sparkle, like an old toy that only spoke when its string was pulled at precisely the right angle.


    It had all of the best stories, and it would be a perfect place to start.


    He looked to his director and knew that despite whatever logic and warning Reynolds would have given him if awake, that his imperfect father would have allowed him to take the book, and to gift it to someone who would appreciate it.


    Ryan put his jacket back on and tucked the book under his arm. He laid his hand on Reynolds¡¯ shoulder. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said and hoped that some part of Reynolds could hear him.


    With a whispered goodbye, he shifted from the office.

 33 - Nothingness

    Someone was holding her hand.


    Stef stirred and tried to squeeze the hand back, but her fingers closed on empty air. Dream. She must have been dreaming about the accident again.


    She shifted and tried to roll over, but her bed felt strange. And something was holding her arm back and-


    Tangled in the sheets. She was-


    She shifted back to the comfortable position, but something still tugged at her arm, something-


    ¡®What¡¯s-¡¯


    She braced herself, and brought her hand up to smack herself in the face - it hurt, but it got her brain engaged.


    She opened her eyes - panic rose, but petered out like an impotent storm, she didn¡¯t recognise where she was, but she recognised the type of where she was-


    There was the familiar smell of a hospital. Wherever hospitals were, they always had that smell of too clean just holding back sickness. It was almost as if miasma theory was still in vouge and illness could be scared away with lemon and eucalyptus.


    Hospital. She was in-


    She looked across the room, hoping that Peter would be there, grinning back, telling her about their plans for Neverland. Maybe everything else had been a nightmare. Maybe he¡¯d never run away and left her alone. Maybe-


    But there was just an empty bed.


    More parts of her brain engaged and memories clunked into place.


    ¡®Hello?¡¯


    Nothing answered but the beep of the ECG. Familiar sound. Comforting sound. A sound that meant she was still alive.


    She looked at the other pieces of equipment, at the various lines and cords leading to her bed and to her body, and she relaxed a little.


    She let her eyes close halfway and just listened to the soft beeping for a moment, confirmation that she hadn¡¯t¨C


    Her eyes opened again.


    ¡®He ¨C hello?!¡¯


    She¡¯d been hurt, but Ryan had been worse and-


    The curtain at the side of her bed was pulled back, and a doctor - or at least someone in a lab coat, stared down at her.


    The man stared at her for a moment, then grinned. He walked over, placed his hand on the edge of the bed, and leaned close, still grinning. ¡®You just won me a blow job, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®The fuck?¡¯ She leaned away from him. ¡®What-¡¯


    The curtain opened the rest of the way, and an identical man gave a placating smile. ¡®Don¡¯t mind him. He¡¯s just excited about winning.¡¯


    ¡®Winning what?¡¯ she asked, desperately hoping that she was suffering from some kind of strange aphasia and that the conversation was actually about something entirely- ¡®Is Ryan okay?¡¯ she demanded. ¡®I need to know-¡¯


    ¡®Ryan was up and about hours ago,¡¯ the second man said. ¡®And we have a standing bet. I usually win.¡¯


    She looked from one to the other. ¡®Are there actually two of you, or- I don¡¯t think I hit my head, but-¡¯


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ the first said, glee in his voice. ¡®No one warned you about us?¡¯


    The second put his hand on the first¡¯s shoulder. ¡®Be nice, darling.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re the Parkers,¡¯ the aggressive one said. ¡®I¡¯m Two, he¡¯s One.¡¯ He flicked her IV bag. ¡®You were smart, so I actually won our standing bet. Most recruits are influenced too much by the idiot box. They wake up, and the first thing they do is undo all of our hard work, rip out their lines, unstick the electrodes, and then try to get out of bed.¡¯ He pointed an accusatory finger at her. ¡®If you rip our stitches through idiocy, I have free rein to harvest your fucking organs.¡¯


    She shrank away from the finger. ¡®I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s in the Hippocratic oath.¡¯


    ¡®Hippocrates can suck my dick.¡¯


    One put a hand on his twin¡¯s chest, and they stared at each other for a moment. Two shifted away, and One pulled the clipboard from the end of the bed. ¡®While you¡¯re assigned to this Agency, I¡¯ll be your primary care physician. Are you interested in your condition?¡¯


    ¡®Are you sure Ryan¡¯s okay?¡¯


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡®Yes, Recruit, I am. Jones knows what he¡¯s doing.¡¯


    She let out a long breath. Ryan was okay. He was okay, but she¡¯d nearly gotten him killed.


    He was definitely going to hate her now.


    ¡®Recruit?¡¯


    She looked down, hooked a finger on the collar of her scrubs and looked down at her chest, where two thick patches sat, taped to her skin - those had to be the two gunshots. Other smaller wound plasters covered what were probably the small cuts from the exploding window.


    Knowing it was stupid, and expecting pain, she pressed a hand to one of the gunshots, but there was-


    She pressed her fingers in deeper. It wasn¡¯t the numbness of a painkiller - she knew they were in play, her brain was a familiar kind of slow that kept turning her thoughts back to the days and weeks after the accident.


    But- This didn¡¯t feel like local anesthetic, it didn¡¯t feel like numbness hiding pain. It just...didn¡¯t feel painful.


    ¡®How long have I been here?¡¯ she asked as she dropped her hand to the bed. The amount of healing to get to this point was-


    ¡®A few hours,¡¯ he said. ¡®As I said, the Director has been up and about for a few hours. We generally like to let our recruit patients get some sleep after something as serious as your injuries. There¡¯s some statutory aftercare that will ensure that-¡¯


    ¡®Not...now,¡¯ she said, waving a vague hand. ¡®Or, um, give me a printout or an email or something. I¡¯m not taking in a lot of data right now.¡¯


    ¡®Of course. In short, you¡¯re excused from duties tomorrow, and I¡¯m recommending light duties for the rest of the week, but even that¡¯s being overly cautious.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®Don¡¯t exert yourself, take the painkillers we prescribe, and you won¡¯t notice anything. Now, give me a minute here.¡¯


    He lifted her arm, removed her cannula, dressed the site, then removed the monitoring lines and patches.


    ¡®Now, do you want to get some further rest here, or would you like me to shift you back to your room?¡¯


    She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then required a piece of paper with her address on it. ¡®I um- I need to get a couple of things from home. Can you shift me here?¡¯


    ¡®Of course.¡¯ He took the address slip from her hand, then the world went blurry as he waved a hand.


    The shift processed and she found herself standing in front of her apartment¡¯s door. She¡¯d included her apartment number on the slip of paper, but she¡¯d still expected to be outside the building.


    You don¡¯t have a key.


    ¡®What- Oh¡­¡¯


    A tougher class of heroine would have sighed discontentedly, taken a swig of their cheap booze, and kicked the fucking door in. She just stared, defeated by a door, like-


    When she¡¯d been younger, when there had been reasons to cry, she had imagined a dam of ice behind her eyes. Something, anything to stop the tears from coming, a self-enforcing idea, each tear freezing as it came close to the dam, making her stronger and stronger.


    Strong enough not to cry when her mother loved Stephanie, but not Stef. Strong enough to stand still while her father yelled for going after the good books in his library.


    And now, a simple door was making the dam creak, melting the ice like the transit of Aslan.


    You don¡¯t need a key.


    ¡®Oh. Right.¡¯


    She rested her head against the door, her eyes aching from the effort of not crying. Her fingers twitched as she lifted her right hand and laid it on the lock. One simple requirement made it click, and she was able to open the door as if it had been no obstacle at all.


    Which, to a normal person, it wouldn¡¯t have been. But she wasn¡¯t normal. And- She stepped inside, and closed the door behind her, careful not to slam it - there was no need to piss off her seldom-seen neighbours, just because she was dancing around the funnel of a breakdown spiral.


    She moved through the apartment, navigating the familiar piles on the floor, and pushed open the doors of the small Juliet balcony, allowing some fresh air into the small space.


    ¡®Coffee. Just- Coffee. I need coffee.¡¯


    The kitchen was generous, given the usual standards of apartments this size - and especially when compared to the other spaces she¡¯d been when looking for somewhere to live.


    She flicked the switch on the kettle, paused, then emptied and refilled the kettle before setting it to boil again. One clean coffee cup. Two jars opened with some difficulty.


    The clean cups were a miracle. The rest of the kitchen was-


    She hadn¡¯t been back since Dorian had knocked, and she hadn¡¯t cleaned before leaping into the adventure.


    Trash had rotted in the bin - dirty, greasy bin juice had leaked through the cracks in the plastic bin and solidified into a dark, ugly patch on the beige tiles.


    The smell was bad, but...nothing she hadn¡¯t lived with. Nothing unusual. Nothing she wouldn¡¯t get used to again once Ryan threw her to the curb.


    Water poured onto instant coffee grounds. One spoon of sugar.


    A few weeks before Dorian, she¡¯d made what she thought was her last coffee in the kitchen. Had sat in front of her couch and taken pill after pill, hoping to slip away into nothingness.


    She spooned more sugar into the coffee.


    She¡¯d chickened out. At the last moment. At what should have been after the last minute. Seen nothingness and railed against it, vomiting until her throat burned, staying awake for days just to be sure that she wouldn¡¯t die when she closed her eyes.


    She spooned more sugar into the coffee.


    She¡¯d been afraid to die, but she hadn¡¯t been afraid of death. The nothingness that was the nothingness at the end of everything was...wasn¡¯t something she wanted. But... if she had just randomly died; or if she¡¯d crossed the street and been hit by an irresponsible driver, she wouldn¡¯t have missed life.


    She had nothing of value.


    She was nothing of value.


    There were good moments, but...there were a lot more bad moments and even more that were just nothing. The bland nothing that consumed your days, that meant you stared at the screen until you went AFK and the system logged you out. When you ate whatever was at your desk because you couldn¡¯t give enough of a shit to get up and seek something approaching real food.


    And those were the days when there wasn¡¯t a screaming skull in the toilet, shadows dancing at the edges of her vision, or scrambled thoughts that not even the sensible voice in her head could break through.


    Days that turned into weeks that were nothing.


    Tonight had been different. Tonight, she¡¯d been afraid to die.


    Had felt the glass in her face and had been glad none of the shards had sliced her throat.


    Had felt the full-body shock of being shot.


    Had wished she¡¯d had the energy to cry as she held Ryan¡¯s hand and sank into darkness.


    She was still a worthless piece of shit, but there were now more things she wanted to see. Magic. More magic that she hadn¡¯t seen.


    She¡¯d been able to see the world, and for the first time ever, she hadn¡¯t wanted to leave it.


    She let the spoon clatter to the counter, and sank to her knees, crying with emotions she wasn¡¯t even sure she knew how to use.

 34 - The Starlight Before Dawn

    There were glow-in-the-dark stars all over the inside wall of her wardrobe. Most of them were at the level under the bottoms of the t-shirts she could bother to hang up. All of them were quiet now, not having absorbed enough sun to activate them like tiny Kryptonian babies. Stupid, useless, and broken, just like her.


    She pulled a large cushion over her head. It was big and heavy, one for sitting on, but the crushing weight was comforting, helped bring her back down to earth, helped keep her in her own body.


    It had been stupid to try. It was always stupid to try. Do anything different, and the world was waiting to fuck you.


    There were tears, even though she wished there weren¡¯t.


    Crying that- Crying that she hadn¡¯t even done when she¡¯d tried to kill herself. That had been tears from terror. From hating herself for not being able to follow through. From being scared of the probably-imagined second of absolute nothingness.


    It was misery made manifest. Sucking cries that turned into coughs when air went into the wrong pipe, snot running from her nose, tears blurring everything within her sight.


    She stretched an arm out, in the direction of the end of the wardrobe that held the few emergency Stephanie outfits she kept for when she needed to put up a facade with the outside world.


    Under a pair of expensive slacks and a shimmering gold top was a storage cube that held all of her camping supplies.


    The world could be too much. Escaping into the wardrobe had always seemed so much safer than just hiding under a blanket on her bed. A wall between her and the world.


    Glow in the dark stars, a camping mattress, a storage cube of snacks and water and a charger on an extension cord meant the space was one she could stay in for days on end.


    She fished out a bottle of water, opened it, and spilled half the bottle as she struggled to sit up enough to drink without choking.


    There was water all over the Agency-issued scrubs. It didn¡¯t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered because everything mattered. And she couldn¡¯t- And she couldn¡¯t- And she-


    More tears came, and she hated herself for every single one.


    There was a knock on the wardrobe door, and her bladder nearly let go.


    ¡®Stef.¡¯ Ryan¡¯s voice. ¡®May I speak with you?¡¯


    She didn¡¯t answer. Even if he knew she was there. Which he did. He wasn¡¯t an idiot. He wouldn¡¯t have gone and knocked on every- He knew she was there, but if she didn¡¯t say anything- He¡¯d go away. He would have to go away eventually. And then everything would go back to-


    Back before she¡¯d wanted to live. Back before she¡¯d been scared of losing- Of having something to lose. Of having things to look forward to.


    Life had always just been- Life. A biological impetus. Going forward because it was what people did. Going forward because you were too afraid to stop. Because it was easier just to exist. Just to- Ride the status quo. To take pleasure in the small things, when you could, and accept that one day it would all be over.


    And suddenly, it had been different. This wasn¡¯t looking forward to the next superhero movie. This wasn¡¯t- This was something so much more real, in a way that was scary. In a way that had emptied her of every tear her body could provide.


    It had to stop, though. She had to get over it. Forget that this week had happened. Because if she didn¡¯t- And it continued too much longer, she¡¯d get used to wanting to live, actually wanting to be alive, and it would be all the worse when it did come to an end.


    She wanted to live so much, so achingly much, that it might be better if she died.


    Because then- Then it was a clean end. And there wouldn¡¯t be a loss. And- And she probably didn¡¯t deserve the pain that the loss would be. Clean end. Happy end.


    There was still a box of sleeping tablets in the bathroom. A back-up in case the first box hadn¡¯t been enough.


    I just want it all to be over.


    I hate this. I hate this so much.


    Death was so much easier than-


    The wardrobe door ratted a little, and she cried out - thinking that he was going to open the door, was going to force the realness of the world on her liminal space.


    ¡®I¡¯m just sitting down,¡¯ Ryan said, his voice soothing beyond anything she¡¯d ever heard. Like the voice of someone who cared Like you¡¯d imagine a parent to be.


    She tried to imagine what she looked like - or, rather, sounded like - to him. To someone who always seemed so...perfect and put together. Narc #3 in the background of an action movie.


    And in stark contrast, she was lying in a puddle of her own snot. It wasn¡¯t cute. It wasn¡¯t quirky. It was messy, disgusting, and more than enough to make any rational person turn away.


    She was worthless, and he had no business giving even one-quarter of a metric shit about her. It wasn¡¯t his job to deal with this. But he was still there. There was no reason for him still to be there and-


    ¡®May I open the door?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah- Sure- Okay,¡¯ she said. The words short and clipped. A compromise, rather than something she really wanted.


    The wardrobe door slid open a few inches. Enough to let the light in but not quite enough to overwhelm her. A wobbly square appeared in her field of vision. A tear-blurred handkerchief.


    She reached for it, her hands landing heavily on his outstretched one. ¡®Go away, please,¡¯ she whispered, trying to control her voice enough to form words. ¡®You keep being nice to me, and- And I hate myself. But I¡¯m getting used to it. I need- I need everything to go back to normal. I need this to end, because I don¡¯t want it to end.¡¯


    Ryan pulled the handkerchief from her grasp, and she let her hands fall into her lap.


    ¡®I¡¯m opening the door,¡¯ he said.


    The door slid open, and he sat on his haunches, handkerchief in hand. He leaned forward, pressed the back of his hand to the underside of her chin and settled the cloth against her nose. ¡®Blow,¡¯ he said gently. She did, then took the handkerchief and wiped ineffectively at the rest of her face.


    ¡®I never meant to cause you such grief,¡¯ he said, as he gently pulled errant strands of hair away from her face, several sticking as they were tugged out of drying patches of snot.


    She choked, and leaned against his hand, needing the comfort, even as she hated herself for taking the kindness.


    His arm moved a little as he crawled forward, and joined her in the wardrobe nest, then used his hand to draw her head towards him, laying her head against his side, then he switched to stroking her head. A storybook parent after a nightmare.


    She closed her eyes and buried her face in his arm, the remains of snots and tears spreading themselves over his pristine sleeve.


    ¡®You saved me,¡¯ he said, the back of his hand resting on her cheek for a moment. ¡®And I haven¡¯t had a chance to say thank you yet.


    She stared down at her feet. ¡®You nearly died,¡¯ she said, the words croaking out. ¡®And it was my- Fault!¡¯


    It had been her actions, her direct actions, her request for something as stupid as ice-cream that had left them both bleeding on cold tiles. He was important, and she¡¯d nearly snuffed out his life, nearly erased the chance of him rescuing another child - one, this time, that wouldn¡¯t waste the gift they had been given.


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    She couldn¡¯t look at him. Not now. Not yet. Probably not ever. If she was quiet, he would leave her alone. He would- He would just leave, and things would go back to normal.


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ she said, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.


    ¡®It wasn¡¯t your fault,¡¯ he insisted, and for half a second, she believed him. ¡®You saved me. I need you to understand what you did for me. What you nearly cost yourself. What you- We weren¡¯t in a System area. I would have bled out. I warned you not to touch me, lest your blue get used in my triage. You did.¡¯


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡®You¡¯re important,¡¯ she whispered.


    ¡®We have- When we¡¯re injured, a countdown timer of sorts. It calculates what time we have remaining, based on all available factors. I can tell you, scientifically, that you bought me enough time for our rescue party to arrive. But it- You nearly traded your life for mine. That isn¡¯t something I ever would have asked of you.¡¯


    ¡®I owed you,¡¯ she said. Now or never. She¡¯d wanted it to be never. To never burden him with this. But- But it was now.


    ¡®I don¡¯t-¡¯


    ¡®You saved my life first.¡¯


    ¡®Stef, you were a child, that was my-¡¯


    ¡®Not then,¡¯ she said, with such vehemence that he stopped. ¡®I didn¡¯t mean- I don¡¯t mean that time.¡¯ Fat, blobby tears fell onto his sleeve, and she hated herself more and more with each second. But it needed to be said. He needed to know how pathetic she was. How broken she was, how-


    ¡®Not then.¡¯ She scrubbed at her face with the wet, dirty handkerchief. ¡®I-¡¯


    And if she said it, it would be real.


    ¡®You¡¯re- You¡¯re a real person,¡¯ she said, trying to find words. ¡®But- But if you get the good side of emotions, do you get the shit bits as well?¡¯ She pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek. ¡®Can agents, you know, get depression?¡¯ the shake amplified in her voice. ¡®Or- Or- Or do something- Stupid?¡¯


    There was a moment of silence before he responded. ¡®Make the choice to end their life?¡¯


    ¡®It didn¡¯t feel like a choice,¡¯ she said, the words out before she could redact them.


    ¡®Yes. We¡¯re more than capable of reaching that level of despair. We-¡¯ She felt his head wobble side-to-side as if thinking. ¡®We tend to experience fewer extremes, and what extremes we do tend to level rather more quickly than a human experiencing the same emotion. It is - fundamentally - what allows us to go on with our jobs. Grief takes days, not months. Euphoria passes in a moment. To hear others speak, it¡¯s a blessing and a curse, but I only know my experiences, and have no basis for comparison.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯


    ¡®I have never,¡¯ he said, ¡®if that is your question. I have known those who have taken steps. None completed, thankfully.¡¯


    ¡®A few weeks ago,¡¯ she said. Detail wasn¡¯t necessary. It would bore him. He was already- He already had no reason to be there, other than to tell her he was firing her. To end all of this. ¡®I- I did.


    More tears.


    ¡®I took a bunch of pills. I had...no reason to be alive. I¡¯m just- I ran out of ways to distract myself. And I didn¡¯t want to be around anymore. And it wouldn¡¯t have mattered to anyone. I - just - wanted - it - to...end. All the hurt and all the nothing builds up and it just...it¡¯s too much pain for too little reward. So I just wanted to go to sleep. I spend enough time asleep anyway because it¡¯s easier than real life. You go to sleep, and when you wake up, you¡¯ve skipped past a few hours that you don¡¯t have to deal with.¡¯ She stared at a dead glow-in-the-dark star, and wished the Solstice had been a better shot, so that-


    ¡®And it was...easy,¡¯ she said, stumbling over the word, her voice cracking. ¡®It wasn¡¯t a cry for help, because it¡¯s not like- Someone would have found my body after a couple of weeks. But- I just wanted it over and done with. So I did- And I did- And- And I was almost gone. And I was-¡¯


    Words. She had to continue. Had to finish the story.


    She reached out a hand and touched his vest. ¡®And I saw this colour. And- And then I didn¡¯t. And- And I made myself get up. Because I saw this. You. Because this has always made me feel safe. Because- Cause it made me not want to go. And you¡¯ve always been there. Always helped me. All I ever needed to do was look at Agency blue and- And whatever was wrong was a little bit better. And you¡¯ve been doing that all my life. So why wouldn¡¯t I- You¡¯re the only person who has ever done anything for me. Ever- Why the fuck wouldn¡¯t I die for you? Why would you think I wouldn¡¯t? Why-¡¯


    The force of the hug crushed the air from her lungs.


    He brought her head to his chest, both arms wrapped around her as if holding her could erase every bad thing that had ever happened.


    And maybe it could.


    Maybe he could crush her into a tiny black hole and the universe would restart around her. And things would be different, and-


    She cried until all of her tears had been exhausted, and he didn¡¯t let her go.


    Her legs cramped, and she shuffled a bit to the side and collapsed against him again, her head landing in his lap. ¡®I want to live,¡¯ she said, staring at her fingers as he stroked her hair. ¡®And that¡¯s terrifying. And I don¡¯t know what to do. So it has to stop. So things have to go back to before. I need to go back to a save point. Before- I don¡¯t know how to handle this. I hate it. I hate it, and I want it to stop. I wanna die, so I don¡¯t have to live.¡¯


    ¡®I would ask you to try,¡¯ he said, his voice cracking.


    ¡®All I can see is how things will go wrong. I never get what I want, and I¡¯ve never even wanted anything.¡¯ She laughed, then choked. ¡®No. I mean. I¡¯ve wanted things, but I always knew I was never going to get them, so I never-¡¯


    A family. A parent. Someone who loved her. Someone who gave a shit.


    ¡®I just want-¡¯


    Someone who- Someone who would hug her when she was sad.


    ¡®I want someone who wants me around. And no one ever has. My imaginary friend abandoned me; my family doesn¡¯t want me; my own father never-¡¯


    Too real. It was too real. He was nice, but he had no obligation and-


    ¡®Sorry. I- I¡¯m sorry- I- It doesn¡¯t matter. This isn¡¯t your problem.¡¯


    She scrambled to her feet, knocked a half-dozen T-shirts to the ground as she fought with the wardrobe door, and jumped over his feet to escape the small space.


    She¡¯d let her guard down. Too much. She¡¯d been too- Weak. And now it was going to hurt more and-


    She stomped into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on again, then began to require things clean. Clean the sink. Clean the floor. Tasks made manageable for once. A new bin, one that had never seen rotting juices or maggots. A repair to the countertop where she¡¯d let a saucepan burn into the finish. A-


    One by one, she opened cupboards and required groceries into each empty space. She was probably down to minutes before they stripped her of her magic powers, so she might as well get one grocery run out of it. One stocked kitchen would mean a couple of weeks where she didn¡¯t have to go outside.


    She picked up a pile of old bills, misaddressed mail and flyers, tossed them into the new bin, then moved to the next section of counter where-


    ¡®That¡¯s new.¡¯


    There was a cloth-wrapped package sitting on the top of her breakfast bar - something she had no memory of. The cloth was beautiful, the blue and green dyes on the white fabric had an almost watercolour-like effect, and-


    ¡®Amongst other things,¡¯ Ryan said as he walked up to the counter and lifted the large, rectangular present. ¡®I came here to give you this.¡¯ He held it to his chest for a moment, then held it out, the counter separating them, meaning he had to stretch to reach her. ¡®There are more modern versions, but I felt you might appreciate an antique.¡¯


    She stared at the present, but stepped back, out of his reach. ¡®I don¡¯t deserve- Aren¡¯t you here to fire me? Or is this to dull that-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to abandon you, Stef. For as long as you want it, you¡¯ll have a place at my Agency. It¡¯s not home to the best of the best, but it can be a home.¡¯


    ¡®But I¡¯m so shit at everything,¡¯ she said. ¡®How could you ever want that around?¡¯


    For a long moment, he was quiet. Five per cent of her expected him to open his mouth, and declare the exact seven-hundred-and-eighty-four ways in which she was shit.


    ¡®Because we make room for family.¡¯


    He put the bundle down, then walked around the counter and onto the tiles of the small kitchen.


    ¡®I have a son.¡¯ He shook his head. ¡®And that isn¡¯t how I wanted to start this. But. I do. His name is Alexander. He¡¯s never wanted me in his life, so I am out of practice, but- He doesn¡¯t need me.¡¯ He paused for the briefest of seconds. ¡®But, I could look after you, if you want me to.¡¯


    The world seemed to stop.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®I could- The thing I enjoy most about my job, my position, and something I do not get to nearly enough of, is teaching. The joy when someone discovers a tactic or a requirement that works with how they operate; a myth that is reality, a simple piece of fae tech that had been thought to be out of reach. It¡¯s something that I never got to do with my son. The last couple of days, I got to see what it would have been like to have a child who- Who sees the wonder in the world.¡¯


    She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ¡®Why would you say...? Why don¡¯t you want someone better?¡¯


    ¡®Because you¡¯re extraordinary, Stef, and I don¡¯t think anyone has ever told you that.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not though,¡¯ she said as she stared down at the floor. ¡®I¡¯m just- Just-¡¯


    He put a hand to her cheek and slowly lifted her face to look at him. ¡®You¡¯re amazing, young lady, trust someone who has lived far longer than you. There are so many people who cannot see their own qualities, and the world is poorer for that.¡¯


    She backed up a step. ¡®I¡¯m...crazy. Tell me you¡¯ve noticed that. Tell me- Tell me I don¡¯t have to tell you that.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve observed some behaviours that could lead to that conclusion. I-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sick in the head. It¡¯s not- It would be one thing if I was just useless, but- I-¡¯ She faltered. ¡®You don¡¯t want any part of this mess. No one ever-¡¯


    ¡®I want you around. I- Used a Directorial override to keep you in Field. You should have gone to Jones. But I thought if- I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to know how that little girl turned out. I wanted to see a mind able to work on alien code.¡¯


    She wiped her nose again. ¡®You fudged my score? You could have just bribed me again. I-¡¯ She brushed past him, ran into the living room, retrieved Alexandria from her place on the bookshelf, then slowly walked back to him. ¡®When I- When I did what I told you- I broke her. I needed a shock to help wake myself up, so I broke her so I could have something sharp enough to cut myself with.¡¯ She held out the doll, the broken side of her face lined with Band-Aids to prevent further cracking. ¡®Could- Could you fix her again?¡¯


    Slowly, like he was taking a holy relic, Ryan pulled Alexandria from her hands. ¡®I had no idea,¡¯ he said, ¡®I never would have suspected that you still had her.¡¯


    ¡®She is my very favourite thing. I¡¯d never let her go.¡¯


    In his hands, Alexandria¡¯s head became whole again, her dusty clothes became new again, and her hair, frizzed with age, became shiny and smooth.


    She took her back, and held the doll like she would have done a child, joyful that her oldest friend was whole again.


    ¡®Stef-¡¯


    She buried her face in Alexandria¡¯s hair and stared at him through red wisps. ¡®I¡¯m trying to give you every chance to back off, to walk away, to-¡¯


    ¡®My worry was that you would think it was presumptuous, or even insulting, that-¡¯


    ¡®Do you know what I¡¯d do,¡¯ she asked, every word cutting her open and baring her soul, ¡®to have a dad like you?¡¯


    ¡®Much the same,¡¯ he said, ¡®for what I¡¯d do for a daughter like you.¡¯


    Tears came again, and this time, they were the happy kind. There were still problems though. Still- Fears. Things that could go wrong. A hundred ways that-


    Or maybe, for once, something good happened.


    She sniffled, and brushed her hair back from her face, trying to look a little less dishevelled, despite still being in snot-covered scrubs. ¡®A puppy isn¡¯t just for Christmas,¡¯ she said, ¡®but- If you get sick of me-¡¯


    ¡®I won¡¯t-¡¯


    ¡®Please- Let me-¡¯ She stared at the floor. ¡®If you get sick me of, let me know, don¡¯t just stop talking to me. I can be scarce, I can stop bothering you. I can- I can stop being annoying if you tell me how I¡¯m being annoying.¡¯


    ¡®You seem to appreciate being given information in a straightforward manner-¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t always- I-¡¯ She put Alexandria down and pressed her hands to her face. ¡®I can¡¯t people right. So I don¡¯t always know what people mean if they¡¯re not saying what they¡¯re meaning, and if I try- If I have to interpret, I¡¯ll always err on the side of paranoia, because in my experience, I¡¯m used to getting beaten with the metaphorical stick instead of given the illusory carrot. It¡¯s safer for me to assume that things are going to turn out shit, that way I¡¯m not disappointed when they do.¡¯


    ¡®I won¡¯t be perfect, I¡¯ve never been, but...to use your metaphor, I¡¯m hoping I can give you more carrots.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re going to make me eat veggies, aren¡¯t you?¡¯


    Ryan smiled. ¡®I believe that is one of my jobs, yes.¡¯

 35 - Simple Stories

    Stef stared at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. At the weird, dual reflection caused by the sliding doors overlapping each other by a few inches. It was probably a metaphor for something, but she¡¯d always just enjoyed trying to be quick enough to outpace her own reflection. A stupid game she¡¯d used to play when doing ballet practice, chasing and dancing with her mirrored doppelganger, all while keeping her technique tight enough as not incur her instructor¡¯s wrath.


    She¡¯d closed the door this time - not that Ryan was the kind to wander in like Dorian had done, but having four walls to herself for a couple of minutes was...necessary.


    Practically speaking, she¡¯d excused herself to change out of snotty scrubs. Realistically, she needed a few seconds to understand that she was no longer alone in the world. That- That someone wanted to be her family. Someone cool, someone amazing, someone- Someone she already respected so much. Someone who had shown her magic and who would show her more.


    She curled her hands together and pressed them to her heart.


    It was stupid. She was hallucinating.


    It wasn¡¯t stupid. She wasn¡¯t hallucinating.


    She stared at her collection of ratty shirts - most of them were her preferred style: black graphic T-shirts bought at a game store at a convention. Beside the shirts - some of which still had weird food stains on them, even after washing. Or probably after a wash. Sometimes the piles could get confusing, so dirty clothes could get hung up, while clean clothes got kicked under the bed.


    This wasn¡¯t a time for a Metal Gear shirt that mysteriously smelled of ramen.


    This also wasn¡¯t the time for a Stephanie outfit. He hadn¡¯t-


    ¡®What the hell is even the word?¡¯


    She walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and poked her head out to look in the direction of the couch. ¡®So, um, we¡¯re going with ¡°adopted¡± right? Like, as a summary word?¡¯


    ¡®If that doesn¡¯t make you feel uncomfortable.¡¯


    ¡®Nope, it¡¯s good.¡¯ She closed the door again and returned to the wardrobe.


    Weirdo. She was a complete weirdo, and he¡¯d adopted her. She didn¡¯t need to hide behind a Stephanie outfit and a fake mask. She didn¡¯t need to pretend to be someone she wasn¡¯t, because, despite all sensible logic, he seemed to like Stef, so there was no need to pretend to be Stephanie.


    She closed the sliding door, blocking off the little nest that had kept her safe for so many days and nights, a place to be when the world didn¡¯t make sense. It had been minutes since she¡¯d been there, crying and wanting to die, and now-


    And now, there was still the ever-present background radiation of fear, anxiety, dread, apprehension, paranoia, fear, and fear and-


    She required her uniform.


    It was her in a way that nothing else had ever been. Maybe it was partly the memory of Ryan, a thing so old it was part of the bedrock of her formation. Maybe it was because it was representative of the first goddamn choice she¡¯d made in her life, maybe it was just that it was far more comfortable than it appeared. The slight restriction given by the vest was even comforting, like a heavy blanket or a fat pillow, that added bit of gravity and control that helped to keep herself together.


    The feeling as her hair tidied itself was still something tickly and hard to get used to. It had been a bonus to find out that along with customising what ¡°Require: uniform¡± conjured onto your body, that it was possible to set specific parameters about your body at the same time. All the options were cosmetic - so far, there didn¡¯t seem to be a way to access the world¡¯s character creator and give herself an extra foot in height.


    But being able to set hair and make-up were definitely useful, even if she had no wish to set make-up for her uniform. If she had to set up something like a proper act-like-Stephanie undercover outfit, then that was an outfit macro that could use some powder and paint.


    Right now, she didn¡¯t want it.


    Make-up had always been Mother¡¯s world - five minutes of ritual and prep spent between mother and daughter. She¡¯d always loved the feel of dragging her mother¡¯s brushes across her face. Her mother hadn¡¯t minded, so long as the brushes had been naked - playing without wasting expensive cosmetics had been acceptable.


    Stephanie had worn make-up sometimes - sometimes it was just easier to put on a real mask over the metaphorical one, to blend in rather than fighting. It had always been pretty basic though - though sometimes a seasonal package sent to school had featured a cool or punky lipstick colour - something interesting, if definitely part of a trend.


    It had always been strategic and never for fun.


    Fun was those photosets of intricate eye make-up or ombre looks that invoked the colours of a superhero. Amazing skills, captured in a photo, or on the eyelid of a pretty girl passing by.


    Not now. Nothing to think about right now. But-


    But maybe if she was going to be a person. Going to be walking around in public pretending to be functional. Then perhaps it was something to think about. Reclaim something else that had only ever belonged to Stephanie.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    She smiled - tried to smile - at herself in the mirror, and saw the expected wobble in her expression.


    Someone wanted to be her family, and that was never going to stop being amazing.


    With one last check to ensure that she was presentable, she left the bedroom.


    Ryan had cleaned the small lounge room - it wasn¡¯t the nuke-from-orbit approach that it required, but in a way, it was better. He¡¯d simply moved the non-rubbish contents of the couch to one corner of the coffee table, and-


    He¡¯d definitely either cleaned the couch itself or replaced it with a clone. Long-ingrained stains were gone, and the long, thin split in the centre cushion where she¡¯d slashed it with a knife had been repaired.


    Alexandria sat in the centre spot, and he¡¯d obviously taken some pains to sit her up properly.


    The cloth-wrapped package sat in the empty left-hand spot - and she sat and settled the gift between her and Alexandria.


    ¡®Tell me about them,¡¯ she said. ¡®Your son. And- Do you have any other kids? I want to know what mistakes not to make. I don¡¯t want to-¡¯ She ignored his hand, motioning for her not to worry. ¡®It would make me feel better knowing...If that¡¯s okay.¡¯


    ¡®Then I guess I would ask the same of you.¡¯


    She looked up and poked her tongue out. ¡®I asked first, narc.¡¯


    ¡®Alexander is the only child I have. His mother, Eilise, is someone Reynolds introduced me to. He¡¯d known her father and thought we would be a good match. She had a brilliant mind, she studied philosophy. Understanding the agent mindset, how we relate to ourselves, each other, our past, our present, it was fascinating to her.¡¯


    ¡®I mean, sounds good so far?¡¯


    ¡®When Alexander was born, and we discussed how to raise him, she expressed...disenchantment with the world as it is. She felt it would be better to raise him human, and introduce him to magic later on. I fought against this, but lost.¡¯


    She looked towards the small linen cupboard that had, for nearly the entire time she¡¯d lived in the apartment, been home to a hope chest of sorts. It had held beautiful baby clothes and cute toys for a child that would probably never come to pass. For Lucy, for a baby girl so fervently wished for that the dream had caused nothing but pain.


    The clothes were gone, the toys were gone, and she¡¯d buried the dream of a little girl to love and care for.


    She wanted a child, but she probably wasn¡¯t done growing up yet.


    ¡®I couldn¡¯t imagine,¡¯ she said, ¡®holding so much back. I mean, you¡¯re-¡¯ She waved lazily at him. ¡®Like. You¡¯re you. You¡¯re made of magic, how do you hide that? At least superheroes just kind of have to hide their day job, you don¡¯t turn your HUD off at five PM.¡¯


    Ryan nodded, and there was a lot of sadness in that one small movement.


    She didn¡¯t know how to people, but this didn¡¯t seem like a moment to push.


    ¡®I¡¯m pretty easy,¡¯ she said. ¡®I just- Mum wanted a pretty doll and didn¡¯t like it when I wasn¡¯t. Father, James just hated me from day one. Don¡¯t hate me, don¡¯t yell at me when I read expensive books, and you¡¯re already a million miles ahead.¡¯


    ¡®Speaking of books,¡¯ he said as he pushed the cloth-wrapped bundle towards her.


    She picked it up, found the knot tied in the cloth and carefully unpicked it. Inside was an old book - he¡¯d said it was an antique - with a delicately carved and embossed cover.


    ¡®A Collection of Stories for Children,¡¯ she said, reading the title out loud.


    In the upper left-hand corner, a shimmer ran across the leather fairy¡¯s wings.


    ¡®Is this-¡¯ she asked, trying to clip her words to keep calm, to not vibrate out of her skin, ¡®is this-¡¯ She carefully opened the book and looked for the publication data. ¡®Is this fae fairy tales?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®And it¡¯s for me to keep?¡¯


    ¡®Gifts generally are, Miss Mimosa.¡¯ He leaned closer and flipped to the table of contents. ¡®It has many of the most popular stories. There are more updated versions, most with art from the Clover adaptations of the movies-¡¯ he noticed her inquisitive look. ¡®Think of them as the equivalent of Disney for fae children. Starting with this collection will let you see the changes over the last century. It¡¯s a good point to begin with, should you want to see the evolution, or trace where a story began.¡¯


    ¡®And if I ask nicely, you¡¯ll read them to me?¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®I¡¯d love to.¡¯


    She looked at the story list, each one with an alluring title: The Elk of Never-was, The Strongest Lute, Shells and Shields, and on and on.


    Part of her wanted try saying some word that approached ¡°dad¡±, even if in her own head, just to push the moment, but every other sensible part of her knew it was an age too soon, a hundred years before it would be time to say that, but one day...maybe.


    ¡®Ryan?¡¯


    ¡®Yes?¡¯


    ¡®Why is it in English? I mean, I haven¡¯t actually picked up on it until now, but shouldn¡¯t these be in some kind of fae language?¡¯


    Ryan lifted Alexandria, traded the doll for the book, and moved into the lounge¡¯s centre seat. She cuddled the red-haired doll and leaned in next to Ryan, her head on his arm.


    ¡®It¡¯s not in English,¡¯ he said as he smoothed the page. ¡®¡®It¡¯s¡­ There are a lot of names for it. We¡¯ll use ¡°glyph¡±. It¡¯s a form of ideographic writing and printing that is used on most public signage, and in areas where you¡¯re going to have multiple fae languages in constant usage. Fae have the gift of languages, something fiction has probably well prepared you for.¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®That only works on a person-to-person level. If you ever watch a fairy movie or fae television, you¡¯ll notice, unless it¡¯s a work that¡¯s been specifically translated ¨C that, you¡¯ll be reading subtitles throughout. Subtitles will use glyph ¨C it¡¯s the closest thing there is to a unified language, however¡­primitive it is. It is a way of conveying a collection of fairly simple concepts, but it tends to fill the gap when you¡¯re dealing with people who don¡¯t speak the language.¡¯


    ¡®So I can read ¡°hamburger with cheese¡± but not War and¡­Peas?¡¯ she asked, trying to force the words to rhyme.


    Ryan nodded. ¡®Correct. It¡¯s a lot easier to have ¡°bathroom¡± written in glyph than it is to convey a work of poetry or exactitude. It¡¯s why you¡¯ll find a lot of tourist information is written in relatively simple language. Also, some things on a menu will have additional qualifiers where an exact ideogram isn¡¯t available.¡¯


    ¡®So wouldn¡¯t that mean this is like the simplified version of the stories?¡¯


    ¡®No. Because these stories are...special, and they want the widest possible audience, the updates and translations are done with love and care. There are fully translated versions that don¡¯t rely on glyph, but these are the set that most human children start with.¡¯


    ¡®So what I¡¯m looking at is actually written in another language, but my brain can¡¯t see that ¨C my brain sees English? That is¡­creepy and cool in equal amounts.¡¯


    ¡®Lead the words with your finger.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    Ryan turned the book towards her, indicated to the titles, and she slowly dragged her fingers along the words ¡°Shells and Shields¡±. As she did, the words turned into ideograms, and after a moment, she was able to see the whole page for what it was ¨C but it went back to English after she blinked.


    He pointed to a title. ¡®I¡¯d like you to read this one first. It¡¯s a simple story, but there¡¯s a lot of fairy history behind it. Would you like the story or the background first?¡¯


    ¡®Both,¡¯ she said as she cuddled Alexandria, ¡®at the same time.¡¯


    ¡®I expected that answer,¡¯ he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. ¡®Both,¡¯ he agreed, ¡®at once.¡¯


    He turned the page, and read her fairy tales until dawn light coloured the walls of her apartment.

 36 - Breakfast, Blue & Biscuits

    The cafe was busy, but not too busy - full of morning people, but also a few people who looked at least marginally unhappy to be awake so early. Fortunately, they¡¯d been able to find a booth towards the back with no one in the next space - meaning any Agency conversation should be relatively safe.


    Unless someone decides to try and kill us again.


    That¡¯s statistically unlikely.


    Stef stared at some of the unhappy people, and wondered if she belonged in that category or not.


    Being awake this early was-


    She sipped from the orange juice that she¡¯d ordered. There was the requisite coffee cup there as well, but the night had already contained more coffee than normal, so her caffeine levels were solidly in the green, and there was no chance of brain failure - at least for a couple of hours.


    Being awake at this time of day wasn¡¯t unusual - especially when she¡¯d been awake all night - it was the context that made it a lot different. Being awake and...expected to do things was the unusual part.


    Any expectation that she was going to do something was unusual. Still, usually, that expectation was nothing more than...something pedestrian like a tradesman fixing something in her apartment, or the occasional doctor¡¯s appointment that couldn¡¯t be dealt with by an in-home call.


    Even at Dorian¡¯s mansion, there hadn¡¯t been a requirement to be awake early. Dorian had been smart enough to understand that his team of nerds had worked to their own schedules.


    But The Agency was changing everything.


    The weird thing was that she wasn¡¯t even tired - she¡¯d been awake for the best part of the early hours of the morning. Still, some combination of the deep, post-surgery sleep, the lingering painkillers and whatever other magic the weird twins had worked meant she was still feeling refreshed.


    Now, if they could just bottle whatever this was, she might have some chance in hell of operating like a normal human being.


    Across the table, Ryan dipped a piece of toast into the pool of soft-boiled egg. Toast, eggs, a slice of tomato, it was the exact kind of safe choice she would have expected, but-


    ¡®I know this was your idea,¡¯ she said, wiping a triangle of toast through the Hollandaise on her plate, ¡®but you argued about ice-cream last night. Is that toast actually the secret Soylent you refuse to admit you eat?¡¯


    ¡®Would you like the truth?¡¯


    ¡®I mean, yeah?¡¯


    ¡®I am simply not a fan of sweet things in general. I don¡¯t mind the occasional pastry - I actually have a former recruit who opened a bakery with her husband, and she sometimes drops by with several boxes of her best-selling options. Otherwise, if I am to eat, I prefer savoury foods.¡¯


    ¡®I guess that¡¯s fair.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®Means I¡¯ll never have to fight you for waffles.¡¯


    Her phone buzzed. Again. For what seemed like the millionth time in the last half hour.


    ¡®You can answer that if you want,¡¯ Ryan said as he returned to his eggs.


    She pulled her phone from her pocket. ¡®I thought I set all the group chats to silent, so I should only be getting alerts for direct messages. I guess it could be some of the info I asked Jonesy for but-¡¯


    Her home screen showed that she had sixteen direct messages over Vox. She tapped to expand the alert, and next to the user icon and direct message icon on all of the messages was a present emoji - a white box with a blue ribbon.


    The first message was from a recruit she hadn¡¯t met - someone who had set their username as Razilla. As she could see Raz¡¯s online status, she appeared to be dealing with two different Psychonauts.


    The message simply said {Take} and then had a present emoji.


    The next two messages were similar - one from Monica had a ¡±get well soon¡± image with the present emoji, and one from T¡¯Lorie had a message in circular Gallifreyan and the emoji.


    She spun the phone to Ryan. ¡®Is this an Agency meme I don¡¯t know about? Gift box means well wishes or something?¡¯


    ¡®Ah,¡¯ Ryan said and began to move their plates so that there was some space in front of her. ¡®Well, to start from the beginning - injury lists are posted in our intranet so that recruits can be alerted that their schedules or responsibilities will change for that day. For example, Curt will have been notified that he shouldn¡¯t expect you today for patrols or other duties.¡¯


    ¡®Following you so far.¡¯


    ¡®A lot of recruits like to send get well presents.¡¯ He moved her juice glass. ¡®Tap on one of them.¡¯


    She went back to the first message and tapped on the emoji.


    A plushie purple duck appeared on the table in front of her.


    ¡®Wat,¡¯ she asked flatly.


    She touched the duck¡¯s head, and it let out a small ¡°meep¡±.


    ¡®Wat.¡¯


    ¡®So long as you have a System connection, you can take delivery of a present sent over Vox. Think of it as emailing a requirement to someone.¡¯


    ¡®You have to teach me how to do this. Immediately.¡¯


    She tapped on Ryan¡¯s icon, typed {Test}, then looked at him for instructions.


    ¡®If you see the system icon, click that.¡¯ She nodded. ¡®These are all system commands. All require different levels of access - for example, you can send a set of shift coordinates to someone, but you¡¯d still need an agent to process it.¡¯


    ¡®So if I feel like going to Comiccon, I just need to send you a map pin, and you¡¯ll send me?¡¯


    ¡®Essentially. Do you see the icon that looks like coins?¡¯


    She nodded, clicked it, and a pop-up menu appeared. There was a red record dot, and some greyed-out options - likely as this was the first time she had used this menu.


    ¡®Think of it like recording a macro. Record, require, stop.¡¯


    She hit the record button, required a cookie, then hit the stop button.


    The record button disappeared, replaced with a simple form giving her the option to name the requirement, choose a gifting icon, to test it, to save or discard after sending, and finally to send it.


    She named it, then chose the present emoji that everyone had been using, then closed the pop-up menu. This time when she hit the coins icon, the cookie sat in a list, emoji to the left, name to the right.


    One click added it to the message, another sent it.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Ryan pointed to the table, and the cookie appeared.


    ¡®Woo!¡¯ She leaned across, grabbed it, and bit into it - testing to see that it tasted as good as any of her other required cookies.


    Ryan had a weird smile on his face. ¡®What?¡¯ she asked, hiding her mouth behind a hand to avoid spraying crumbs.


    He leaned across, touched the table and a tablet appeared there - the streaming video took a moment to crystallise as she recognised her own face. She lifted a hand, reached across and waved it in his face, confirming that the stream was coming from his eyes. ¡®Direct HUD output?¡¯


    A nod confirmed her suspicions. The world went slightly blurry as he opened a menu, showing where his focus was. His contact list sat there - her name at the top, as she¡¯d just sent him a message.


    ¡®I don¡¯t-¡¯ The stream on the tablet cut to a screensaver of the Field logo bouncing from corner to corner like the idle screen of old DVD players.


    ¡®You might have noticed I am not the most gregarious agent. Or perhaps some of your new colleagues have expressed as much. Reynolds felt it was a failing. That one of the important aspects of this model of herald was...interpersonal skills. I am sufficient in that area, but I do not excel.¡¯


    She poked at the duckie again. ¡®You don¡¯t people so well either?¡¯


    ¡®In different ways to yourself I suspect. I do well with my acquaintances, but I¡¯m not sure I have many people I can call friends.¡¯ He took a moment to wipe his hands with his cloth napkin. ¡®It¡¯s a small thing, but I don¡¯t have any prioritised contacts.¡¯ The screensaver blinked away. ¡®And I just don¡¯t feel the default icon is suitable for you.¡¯ A small blue dot appeared beside her name. ¡®See? It¡¯s¡­¡¯


    She tried to think of what phrase he¡¯d used. ¡®Too within normal parameters for a freak like me?¡¯


    The blue dot disappeared, replaced with a cookie. ¡®How¡¯s that? I think I¡¯ve deduced your favourite requirement.¡¯


    It was a small thing. Such a small thing. They were having a serious conversation about what fave icon to use. So small. So stupid. And-


    And somehow it wasn¡¯t. It was a step. It meant something for both of them.


    She slid to the end of the booth seat, stood, walked to Ryan¡¯s side and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. ¡®It¡¯s perfect.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re choking me, Miss Mimosa,¡¯ he said without rancour.


    ¡®It¡¯s okay, you don¡¯t need to breathe.¡¯


    He laughed and allowed the air-constricting hug.


    ¡®I¡¯m still amazed how easy it was for you to come to terms with what agents are, and how we fit in with magic and the world.¡¯


    ¡®You know I still have a hundred thousand million questions, right?¡¯ She flicked to Monica¡¯s message, and clicked the gift icon: a potato peeler with the name ¡°Stewie¡± appeared. ¡®The hell?¡¯


    ¡®That,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®I believe it is an in-joke amongst the Techs, I¡¯m not sure of the meaning. And there are getting to be too many people here to continue this conversation, but if you¡¯d like to check the mail, I can answer some of your multitude of questions.¡¯


    She nodded, required a satchel bag, tucked the duck and the potato peeler inside, and followed him from the cafe.


    ¡®Just one more present,¡¯ she mumbled as they walked down a lane to find a safe spot to shift.


    She went back to the message with the circular Gallifreyan and opened that gift. As soon as the shift processed, a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits appeared in her hands.


    ¡®Young lady,¡¯ Ryan said as she tore open the packet. ¡®You just had breakfast.¡¯


    ¡®Cookies go in the dessert tummy,¡¯ she said, letting her tone convey the shock that he didn¡¯t seem to know this basic fact. ¡®And it would be impolite not to eat at least one. Or three. Or five.¡¯


    ¡®What was your first question?¡¯


    ¡®All of them at once.¡¯


    ¡®Naturally.¡¯


    She bit into a digestive. ¡®Okay, this one is morbid, but- Why¡¯d you bleed blood? I wouldn¡¯t have thought that- Imean, you¡¯re a nanite program people person, so¡­¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s a fair question, and the answer isn¡¯t hard to understand.¡¯ He stopped and turned to her. ¡®I would ask that you keep your reaction to a reasonable decibel level.¡¯


    He placed his hand on his chest, making it less visible to anyone who might be looking and-


    The skin on his hand went transparent and left a bright, electric blue hand where a human-seeming one had been a moment before.


    He flexed his hand, and lights sparked in it, probably as-


    She reached up and grabbed his hand, watching as lighter blue patches appeared where her fingers touched the blue not-flesh. Impressions in an LCD monitor, fingerprints on one of those laser orbs that novelty stores sold.


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said, but didn¡¯t let his hand go. He flexed his fingers again as she turned it palm-up, and she watched sparks and brighter patches of blue moved and shifted within the not-flesh.


    ¡®This is what agents are,¡¯ he said as he moved his fingers in sequence. ¡®In System territory, any human-like functions we seem to have are skin-deep in a way. I breathe, but as you pointed out, I don¡¯t need to. I have a heart,¡¯ he pulled his hand from hers and held it over his heart, ¡®I can feel it beating, but it¡¯s more to help us integrate with humans than it is to keep me alive.¡¯


    ¡®So if I threw you into an MRI you¡¯d look normal?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®A key aspect of agent design, as we¡¯ve been told, is that we were to be the heralds most able to fit among humans, both socially and functionally. If we were, for example, doing a joint operation with human investigators, they would likely notice beings that didn¡¯t breathe, that didn¡¯t blink, that had no pulse if checked.¡¯


    The blue not-flesh regained its skin, and they continued down the street.


    ¡®Key, though, is that when we¡¯re in System territory, at any time, we can choose to turn off any of these components. There are,¡¯ his voice took on a sadder tone. ¡®There are agents that are referred to as ¡°the best of us¡±. They don¡¯t breathe. They don¡¯t blink. They speak only through Vox and their HUDs. They¡¯re a platonic ideal of what an...uncorrupted agent could be.¡¯


    ¡®They-¡¯


    ¡®When we leave System territory,¡¯ he said, cutting her off, and she knew well enough to drop the subject. ¡®These functions become real. Thus, in blackout zones, we bleed like a human does. We have very a limited capacity to use our own blue to heal, both because the majority has been used to properly render our bodies into something functional, and as a deterrent from leaving System territory.¡¯


    ¡®But external blue can be used? As it indicates back up or something?¡¯


    ¡®Precisely.¡¯


    ¡®And you can¡¯t just carry around a water bottle of the stuff?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m worried what you will think of my answer.¡¯


    She stopped walking and gave him a careful, sympathetic look. ¡®Even if you had some on you,¡¯ she said, ¡®you had barely enough strength to breathe, let alone tell me how to help you. So if that¡¯s it-¡¯


    Relief crossed his face. ¡®Fortunately, it¡¯s not that extreme. Combat agents tend to carry a small supply - but someone of my position is not generally expected to get into danger, so I have fallen out of the habit.¡¯


    She smiled. ¡®Stick with me, and you¡¯ll learn a good amount of paranoia. Or- Um- Could I carry some?¡¯


    ¡®I can give you some to carry, but to access the requirement, you¡¯ve got to complete training on how to use it. Ask Jones about it, she can either run you through it or set up the training sim for it. I do know she prefers to run recruits through it, to-¡¯


    ¡®Have I been using the wrong pronouns for Jonesy?¡¯ she asked in a panic.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®she¡¯s genderfluid. She keeps her current pronouns listed in her status.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®Okay, cool. And I¡¯ll ask her about blue first aid later. I may as well do something useful if I¡¯ve got a day off.¡¯


    Did those words just come out of your mouth?


    I know, who-


    ¡®-the fuck am I?¡¯


    She winced and stared at the ground. ¡®I¡¯m not used to being useful,¡¯ she said, filling in the half of the conversation he hadn¡¯t heard.


    She was crazy, and he was okay with that.


    He probably didn¡¯t understand everything - he definitely didn¡¯t understand everything, but- But-


    She took a couple of quick steps to catch up to him, then hugged his arm.


    It was okay that he didn¡¯t understand everything. She¡¯d told him she¡¯d tried to kill herself and he hadn¡¯t abandoned her. She¡¯d told him she was crazy and he hadn¡¯t fired her.


    He¡­


    He hadn¡¯t smashed her head into a car hood and threatened to lock her in an asylum if she couldn¡¯t act normal.


    She touched her face, remembering how hot the hood had been, how James had brought her a change of clothes, apparently planning ahead of time to hit her so hard she bled.


    And James hadn¡¯t known a tenth of what Ryan knew, he¡¯d only known that she was disruptive, not normal, and causing problems at school.


    And the threat of being locked away forever had hung over her head until she¡¯d stepped onto the plane at Heathrow, finally leaving her family behind forever.


    ¡®Herald,¡¯ she said, trying her best to sound normal, trying to push bad memories down and away. ¡®You¡¯ve used that word a couple of times now.¡¯


    ¡®We haven¡¯t always been agents,¡¯ he said as they approached the first letterbox. ¡®It only takes a moment¡¯s thought to realise this.¡¯


    ¡®So agent isn¡¯t a generic term as in ¡°operator¡±, it specifically refers to,¡¯ she waved a hand at him. ¡®Secret agent dude model, or whatever?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®The earliest of us were generated around 1850, with a rapid expansion after 1900, after the last of the duskers had been recycled. Herald is the word we use to refer to all types and designs of ash-and-blue constructs.¡¯


    ¡®So there¡¯s the you-type, the anti-social assholes you mentioned, what else?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re not encouraged to know a lot about our history, as I said. However, we know that there were knights, various warriors and...angels.¡¯ He smiled down at her. ¡®Making your assertion that you thought of me as somewhat of a guardian angel strangely true in a way.¡¯


    She opened her mouth.


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t ask anything yet.¡¯


    ¡®I believe you were about to ask if I had wings. It¡¯s generally the first question people ask when they find out this aspect of our history.¡¯


    She ran in a circle around him. ¡®I don¡¯t see anything.¡¯


    ¡®There are a few things that agents can do that are to be reserved for emergencies, for situations where there are genuinely no other options, and the need is greatest. To keep us from frivolity, there is a cost associated with these abilities. Wings, for example, are extremely painful to manifest.¡¯ He handed her the mail from the box, which she shoved into her bag. ¡®But if it¡¯s a consolation, I can show you images.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, please.¡¯

 37 - Observations and Evidence

    There was a knock at the door.


    Stef looked up from the sliding wooden puzzle from hell that Jones had sent as a get well present and stared at the door. ¡®Um?¡¯


    ¡®Me, Mimosa,¡¯ came a woman¡¯s voice.


    She quickly ran through the catalogue of people she¡¯d met and tried to identify the voice. It was probably-


    ¡®Magnolia,¡¯ Magnolia clarified. ¡®Open up.¡¯


    She hopped off the bed, stumbled, then opened the door.


    Magnolia - dressed in another cute dress that still somehow conveyed the impression that she could kill with a pinkie finger - smiled. ¡®Perfect, you¡¯re already dressed like a nerd, come on.¡¯


    She looked down at the Spider-Man shirt she¡¯d required. ¡®Need someone to play hostage or something?¡¯


    ¡®Not today.¡¯ Magnolia reached in and pulled on the door, effectively scooping her into the hall. ¡®So I know from experience that people with scores like yours tend to get loaned to Jones from time to time.¡¯ Magnolia started down the hall, and Stef skipped to keep up. ¡®You¡¯ve got Screen as an operator, so you¡¯re going to get some good passive knowledge on how to work. Jones will probably steal you from Ryan for a week and put you through the quick format introduction and-¡¯


    ¡®Um, ma¡¯am?¡¯


    Magnolia turned and grinned. ¡®Oh, I like you. What is it?¡¯


    ¡®You know I¡¯m, like, off today right? Medical dispensation or whatever?¡¯


    Magnolia nodded. ¡®Which is why I¡¯m not bitching at you for missing training. This isn¡¯t going to be anything physical, but newbies are always playing catchup, so I think this will be valuable for you. You up to it?¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®Good,¡¯ Magnolia said. ¡®So what I have in mind is this: today¡¯s sim is a solo venture, and the Field recruit will be in contact with an in-sim tech recruit. I¡¯m going to put O¡¯Connor last, throw you into the second room and have you sit with his sim operator. You¡¯ll get to see what an operator does without having to do any work yourself. And...get more of an insight into how O¡¯Connor works, which is always valuable when you¡¯re working with a new partner.¡¯


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said, ¡®I think I can handle that.¡¯


    Magnolia stopped in front of the closed double doors of the gym. ¡®We have you to thank for Ryan still breathing, right?¡¯


    She stared at the floor. ¡®I, um-¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s not my favourite agent,¡¯ Magnolia said. ¡®But I¡¯m glad I¡¯m not breaking in a new director. Good job.¡¯ She pushed opened the doors, and they walked to the sim rooms - the left one was already occupied and active.


    Magnolia pulled the control tablet for the second room from its cradle and tapped in a few commands. ¡®It¡¯s pretty self-explanatory,'' she said as the door opened. ''Any questions, ask the sim.¡¯


    She stepped into the room - and the room bore a lot of similarities to the small meeting room that she¡¯d been using with Curt. Unlike the meeting room though, there were two side-by-side rectangular desks, rather than the large circular table.


    ¡®Hi,¡¯ the sim said. The operator sim had the appearance of a young woman with light brown skin in an Agency uniform - the version with the blazer, rather than the waistcoat and long jacket. ¡®I¡¯m Operator Sim Nine. The Field simulation is beginning if you¡¯d like to observe.¡¯


    She sat at the desk next to Nine - the computer woke up as she touched the mouse and automatically logged her in - seeming to do so on facial recognition.


    ¡®The operator program has been loaded,¡¯ Nine said. ¡®Please ask if you have questions. You can change the screen layout using the directional arrows at the top left.¡¯


    She nodded and quickly looked at the contents of the triple-monitor setup.


    To the left was a map, on the right was Vox - with a header bar indicating that it was in sim mode.


    The centre screen was how she¡¯s always imagined that Otacon saw the world. There was a feed that was probably coming from Curt¡¯s earpiece, various lines indicating heartbeat and health statuses, a System icon indicating a strong connection, and mission-specific Vox window.


    She looked to Nine, who seemed to be in low-power mode, waiting to answer any requests from Curt - the layout was simple enough. However, once she started using it, there¡¯d probably be a million things she needed clarifying.


    She grabbed the headset that lay next to the mouse - wireless, so that there was no chance of getting tangled up if you had to stand up and run, with big noise-cancelling pads that would keep the world at bay.


    There was no impetus to do anything. No need to do anything other an observe. But-


    But Ryan thought she was good enough to want to call her ¡°family¡±, and that meant that it would be okay to try, even if she ultimately failed. It would be okay to be brave because there¡¯d be someone to catch her.


    ¡®Once more unto the breach.¡¯


    She the voice icon in the Vox mission window, and listened to a soft beep while she waited for Curt to answer.


    ¡®O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    ¡®Hi, Trekkie.¡¯


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, it¡¯s me. Magnolia said I could observe since I was off today.¡¯


    ¡®I saw you were on the injured list. I sent you a text, but-¡¯


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said, ¡®I¡¯ve kind of been inundated with people sending me stuff. Your message must have gotten buried.¡¯


    ¡®Are you-¡¯ He stopped talking for a moment. ¡®You can tell me whatever you feel like telling me after, if you want.¡¯


    She touched a hand to where one of the shots had-


    It was still too fresh. Too unexamined. Too examined. She¡¯d had time to mourn, to think about dying, about living, about being afraid of both and neither. And yet-


    He¡¯s asking because it¡¯s what friends do.


    Are you sure?


    It¡¯s what books say friends do.


    ¡®God I¡¯m a sad motherfucker,¡¯ she mumbled, with a hand over the mic.


    ¡®Mags didn¡¯t give a lot of detail,¡¯ Curt said, filling the dead air. ¡®Just that a civilian had reported a monster. You sitting in an operator chair?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    He waved a hand in front of his earpiece. ¡®Got visuals?¡¯


    ¡®Yep.¡¯


    ¡®Then feel free to point out anything strange you see, Spock. There should be some drones you have access to as well, take a look at their feeds.¡¯


    She looked across at Nine. ¡®Mind showing me how to use the drones?¡¯


    Nine slid her chair over, minimised the right screen Vox window and brought up a window showing six video feeds - all of which were listed auto. Movement to her left showed that an overlay had appeared on the map. The overlay showed the position of all the drones and their predicted auto flight paths.


    ¡®Right-click on a feed to request access, that¡¯s just to stop more than one recruit trying to control the same unit,¡¯ Nine said.


    She did as instructed, and the request was immediately granted. A pop-up menu offered her several manual control choices. The options included just using the keyboard and mouse, but the one that looked like a slightly squarer version of a PlayStation controller called to her and she clicked on it. The controller appeared next to her mouse, and she picked it up - and a slight movement of the left stick immediately turned the way the drone was looking.


    ¡®As this is a night sim,¡¯ Nine said, ¡®this particular drone has the appearance of an owl. Please keep that in mind for interaction with civilians.¡¯


    Stef nodded, and played with the controls for a few minutes, figuring out how to move in the air, land and take-off again.


    ¡®Anything?¡¯ Curt asked. ¡®What I¡¯m thinking is that this a sim scored primarily on your approach. So it¡¯s looking to see if you do a grid search, use tech resources, do a door-to-door survey, or whatever.¡¯ She turned to look at his feed as he walked through a park, playground equipment creepy and horror-movie-esque in the low light.


    ¡®You¡¯re just going to wander around until you find something?¡¯


    ¡®I started at the location of the call. The sim operator hasn¡¯t alerted me to any additional calls, so it¡¯s possible it was nothing. We always have to check though, we have to give a reasonable amount of time to every call we get - because if it¡¯s the one time we slack off, and that¡¯s the drunk fairy that gets all over Twitter, then¡­¡¯


    ¡®Wait.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®Just shut up for a minute.¡¯


    Something had been out of place. Something had caught the attention of her brain.


    She set the drone to auto and maximised Curt¡¯s feed. ¡®Look around again,¡¯ she said slowly, trying not to lose whatever thread her brain had latched onto. ¡®Retrace your steps for me, kay?¡¯


    Curt backed up and slowly swept his head from left to right. Playground equipment. An abandoned toy truck. Some derelict chip packets. Some mud that had been stomped in.


    ¡®That wet patch near the swing, go closer.¡¯


    Curt did as instructed, and in amongst the shallow footprints of children was one set of very distinctive tracks.


    ''Hoofprints,'' she said, ''that''s not normal for the suburbs.''


    ''Nice find,'' he said. ''There are several things it could be, and a lot of them would look like monsters to civilians.''


    ''They''re smaller than normal, and they''re unshod, so-''


    ''A lot of Saddle Club books in your collection, Newbie?''


    ''Most little rich girls are horse girls,'' she said - it was okay to say that much. There were a lot of things she couldn''t - wouldn''t - say, memories that were sucky and painful, but surface-level stuff would be okay.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ''I guess it comes with the territory,'' he said.


    ''In a lot of ways, it does. Cars used to be a luxury, now horses are. Obvious exceptions if you''re on a working farm or something, but that''s not what people think about when they think of little horse-mad girls.''


    ''No, they tend to think of dressage and all that fancy stuff.''


    ''If I never have to do another dressage competition, yadda yadda,¡¯ she said.


    She¡¯d hated the pomp and circumstance. Hated being all prim and proper. But...an hour mucking out Buttercup¡¯s stall, or brushing his coat until her tiny arms felt like they had been about to drop off, those had been good times.


    Ballet had only ever been for Stephanie. Horse-related activities...Stef had been allowed to peek out sometimes - it was only Stephanie¡¯s world when competitions and judging were in the picture.


    Horses had been a good, neutral topic. Until they¡¯d become something never to mention again.


    Carefully, Curt moved from mud patch to mud patch, following the tracks from the park, across a quiet street, and into a patch of scrub.


    He spent a few moments looking for more patches of mud, but found nothing. ¡®What now, Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Try smelling,¡¯ she said. ¡®Horses smell. Horse poop smells more. Horse poop has an awesome smell.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s more than I needed to know.¡¯


    She heard several deep sniffs, then a long string of curses.


    ¡®If this is your definition of ¡°awesome¡±¡­¡¯ he said, jogging deeper into the scrub and trailing off as he found a pile of poop near a tree.


    ¡®Light,¡¯ she said, and he required a torch.


    ¡®It smells like something died. Is it supposed to smell like that?¡¯


    She stared at the screen in disbelief. You didn¡¯t flinch at the corpse yesterday, and poop bothers you?¡¯ She clicked on the magnification icon and zoomed in a little on the poop.


    ¡®I don¡¯t care what it smells like. It¡¯s not supposed to look at that. It...really isn¡¯t supposed to look like that.¡¯


    She heard hooves and waited for Curt to look up.


    A centaur stood, sallow in the weak light of evening, grass hanging from its mouth.


    ¡®Oh, this is so cool!¡¯ She thumped her hand on the table.


    ¡®Thanks for the help,¡¯ he said brightly. ¡®I can handle it from here, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t get the keep the centaur all to yourself!¡¯


    He turned away from the centaur, looked down at his phone, and the feed switched from his headset camera to his selfie camera. ¡®Remember that thing I said?¡¯


    ¡®You say a lot of things, Ensign.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s what you¡¯re going with?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll get a field promotion when you level up your geek. You teach me Agency stuff, you be my nerd Padawan.¡¯


    ¡®I said I wouldn¡¯t give you any stupid instructions, so that when I do ask something of you, you know it¡¯s for a reason.¡¯ He ran a hand through his hair. ¡®I think you promised, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a centaur,¡¯ she pleaded, ¡®I¡¯ve never seen one before.¡¯


    ¡®And you still haven¡¯t,¡¯ he said, his voice sad.


    There¡¯s got to be a reason he¡¯s asking.


    ¡®What do you want me to do?¡¯


    ¡®Go to our meeting room. Breakfast is on you today. I¡¯ll be there in five.¡¯


    She stared at the camera feed for a moment longer, wishing she had a better ability to understand what people¡¯s physical emoticons meant. ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said, ¡®I¡¯m signing off.¡¯


    ¡®Please,¡¯ he said. ¡®And don¡¯t do that stupid thing where you say you¡¯re signing off, then stay and watch anyway.¡¯


    He¡¯s going to kill it, isn¡¯t he?


    You know he is.


    ¡®Logging off now.¡¯


    She closed the observation window, placed her headset down, then pushed herself away from the desk.


    ¡®Um, thanks,¡¯ she said to Nine.


    ¡®Anytime,¡¯ the sim said.


    She walked out of the room, waved awkwardly to Magnolia, then made her away to the small meeting room.


    She stared at his side of the table, required a full English breakfast, expensive cutlery and a linen napkin.


    Still full from the early-morning cafe run, she settled into her chair with a cup of coffee.


    As she sat, she felt the crinkle of the bandaged taped over her gunshots.


    A text - from presumably the nicer Agent Parker - had informed she was in the clear to remove all bandages and plasters, but there hadn¡¯t been time.


    And part of her wondered if she ripped the dressings off if all of her blood would just fountain out and she¡¯d be bleeding and dying on the floor again.


    But that was stupid and made no sense.


    She looked at the door, then quickly worked her hand up under her shirt and ripped off the first bandage without letting herself have a second thought.


    There was blood on the underside of the dressing, and her skin stung from where the tape had been, but no blood sprang forth.


    She laid the used dressing on the table and skated her fingers across the skin - only old and familiar scars remained.


    Satisfied with her bravery, and knowing the other dressing could wait before it was yanked away, she tidied her shirt and vest. Another thought, a moment later, dismissed the medical waste.


    Ten minutes later, Curt walked in, looking tidier and shinier in his dress uniform than she could ever hope to do.


    ¡®Does requiring have a reheat function?'' She asked as he sat.


    ¡®I¡¯ll deal with it,¡¯ he said and waved his hand across the plate. ¡®There¡¯s nothing weird here, is there?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll save black pudding for when you¡¯ve annoyed me.¡¯


    He cut into a sausage and popped a piece into his mouth. ¡®I thought I might have made it onto the ¡°annoying you¡± list with what just happened.¡¯


    ¡®You said you had a reason. I¡¯m giving you the benefit of the doubt.¡¯ She stared into her coffee. ¡®Why¡¯d you have to kill it?¡¯


    ¡®How¡¯d you-¡¯


    ¡®Genius, remember? Or- I don¡¯t know if I told you. Literal genius, not bragging, it¡¯s also not always that helpful. Am I right?¡¯


    ¡®I wasn¡¯t going to make a horse-girl watch as I shot something like that. I do try to avoid cruelty when I can.¡¯


    ¡®Why are centaurs-¡¯ she shook her head. ¡®You said it wasn¡¯t- So what was it, then?¡¯


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ he said, then scratched at his chin. ¡®Let¡¯s work through this logically. You¡¯ve gathered there¡¯s animal fae, right?¡¯


    ¡®Like how you said Magnolia¡¯s a magpie?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Okay, good starting point. She¡¯s half, by the way. Half-human, half-fae get a weird grab-bag of powers, it¡¯s never a consistent thing. Say, if she¡¯d had a sibling by the same father, they could have wings, whereas she¡¯s only got the occasional patch of feathers that grow on her back. Full animal fae, if that was Mags, she¡¯d be able to go between bird form and human form. Or...any stop along the way, birds like to show off wings, fish will have scale patterns in their skin, whatever you can think of.¡¯


    ¡®Following you so far. So that...was a horse person?¡¯


    He toyed with his breakfast for a minute. ¡®Not quite.¡¯ He required a tablet and played a video - not from the sim, but obviously some older security footage, of what seemed like a centaur in a horse stall. Unlike the sim¡¯s low light, detail here was a lot easier to see. The way it recoiled as a stablehand walked past, the spooked look on its face, the flaring of nostrils-


    ¡®That¨C It was a horse person without the person, wasn¡¯t it?¡¯


    ¡®Some animal families will make¡­ half creatures like this. Mockeries and freaks. They¡¯re sold as slaves and entertainment. Each animal family has¡­¡¯ he played with a toast soldier for a moment. ¡®Generally, they¡¯re called the Warden, you can think of them like the head of the family, the patron saint, or the king - different families, different structures, same powers. The Warden can control every member of the family under them, grant or take powers, or turn an ordinary creature from their family into a person. Or...do part of the job anyway.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, god.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®So you have a Warden or a proxy for them,¡¯ he winced, then continued, ¡®force a human shape onto an ordinary horse, and you get something like that sim creature. Consciousness, intelligence ¨C these are much harder to do. Most of the time, people building mockeries don¡¯t bother with it, complexity increases the price, and mockeries are sold as cheap toys.¡¯ He wiped his hands on the napkin. ¡®This mockery would have been an ordinary horse, and suddenly it had hands and a face that wasn¡¯t designed to eat hay and grass.¡¯


    ¡®Or a digestive system to process it.¡¯


    ¡®Most mockeries are poorly built together, and only designed to have short lives. This one was probably already dying, whoever owned it didn¡¯t want to deal with disposal fees, so they released it. And for extra shits and giggles, they decided to freak out some humans at the same time.¡¯


    ¡®So it¡¯s kinder to put it down than make it suffer?¡¯


    ¡®Probably the least bad choice available, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said, staring into her coffee cup. ¡®You- You were right. I¡¯m glad I didn¡¯t see you do it. Even if it was a sim. I used to have a pony.¡¯


    ¡®Grew out of the phase?¡¯


    ¡®Something like that, haha,¡¯ she said, hating herself for how fake she sounded.


    She didn¡¯t even remember what she¡¯d done wrong. Whatever it had been, it was something that James had decided was a punishment worth stabbing her in the soul.


    Glue. He¡¯d looked her dead in the eye and told her he was going to sell Buttercup for glue.


    When you were as rich as her family, you could be pointlessly cruel to make a point.


    Memories of apologising a thousand times, a thousand different ways. Stiff-lipped and formal apologies, crying apologies, written apologies. Letters bargaining the point, pointing out the benefits of letting her keep Buttercup. Memories of screaming and crying and begging ¨C and getting shouted down for all three. Begging had earned a good, hard smack ¨C one of the very few times James had hit her. Most of the time, words had stung hard enough, but begging had triggered him. Begging was unbecoming. Begging was something desperate people did, and people of their status, their position, were never desperate.


    Begging meant that you weren¡¯t able to negotiate well enough.


    She¡¯d offered her inheritance, and he¡¯d shouted her out of his study.


    It had been one of the few times mother had tried to have a conversation with her, but even then, the focus had been on how much more time she could put into ballet. There¡¯d been a dozen new outfits and a dozen new pairs of shoes by the end of the week.


    Running away in the night to get Buttercup and just ride off had been an appealing idea until logic got in the way. Genius pointed out the problems of food, of safety, of the likelihood of being found and brought back home, which would have made the situation worse.


    James hadn¡¯t even let her say goodbye. He just informed her when it had been done.


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯ she asked, her voice thick.


    ¡®When- When something is shit, you don¡¯t have to pretend it¡¯s not. You don¡¯t have to talk about it, but-¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t want to talk about it.¡¯


    ¡®And you don¡¯t have to, but you don¡¯t have to- You don¡¯t owe anyone ever more than you want to say, but you¡¯re- I¡¯m not gonna pretend I can¡¯t see how bothered you are.¡¯


    She stared past him, unable to meet his eyes. ¡®I¡¯ll try your language,¡¯ she said. ¡®Assuming it¡¯s not just fluent Original Series you speak? Buttercup is my Stargazer, important, but gone a long time ago.¡¯


    ¡®Understood, Picard,¡¯ he said. ¡®Did you have more questions about this sim?¡¯


    ¡®The sim operator wasn¡¯t saying much,¡¯ she said, ¡®though my presence might have messed with that. What¡¯s expected of that role?¡¯


    ¡®Right, you haven¡¯t actually been on the receiving end yet. It varies wildly by operator, which is why sometimes it takes a few tries to match up the right pairs of recruits, if there¡¯s options available. Otherwise, you have to sort of take what you get. Or if you¡¯re working outside of your usual area. Or if we¡¯re short-handed and pull in some temp help. There are a dozen reasons you might not get your preferred operator. But-¡¯ He cut a piece of bacon into two. ¡®The comfort of the field recruit is prioritised. They¡¯re the one out in the world, in potential danger, are the one needing help. You¡¯ve always got to feel like you¡¯re able to tell your operator to shut up, because distraction can kill.¡¯


    I¡¯m not so good at asserting my needs.


    ¡®If you can¡¯t,¡¯ he said, like he¡¯d read her mind, ¡®rip your headset out. It¡¯s better to go it alone than to have someone pulling your attention. These are worst-case scenarios, mind, Agent Jones has a good team, so you¡¯re probably not going to have a problem.¡¯ Curt smiled. ¡®I mean, I¡¯m the resident piece of shit, and he even made sure I¡¯m looked after by someone happy to work with me.¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®Now, I want you to listen to the question I¡¯m actually asking when I ask it, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Um, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Is there anything I need to know about how you got on the injured list for today?¡¯


    She immediately stared down at her empty coffee cup.


    It wasn¡¯t anything she wanted to talk about.


    Think about what he just said.


    ¡®You mean, did I make an enemy for life or something? Or- Or lasting damage that means I¡¯m off the rest of the week or whatever?¡¯


    ¡®That kind of thing, yeah.¡¯


    He concentrated on his breakfast in a pronounced way, not looking at her, not trying to make eye contact. It was nice, he was giving her the space to process the question, and more importantly, the answer.


    He didn¡¯t need to know-how-


    She stood up quickly. ¡®What happens to evidence and stuff?¡¯


    ¡®You mean from last night?¡¯ She nodded. ¡®Well, ah, evidence storage.¡¯ He stood. ¡®But-¡¯


    She nodded again and was out of the door before he¡¯d finished his sentence.


    ¡®One,¡¯ Curt called as he jogged to stand in front of her. ¡®You¡¯re going the wrong way to the actual room. Two, you don¡¯t need to go there just yet.¡¯ He held out a tablet. ¡®Let¡¯s see if what you¡¯re after has been logged. Otherwise, we can go look at the crime scene.¡¯


    She looked down at the tablet and started to scroll through the few items listed as being held in evidence. There was also a separate - and much longer - list of things assumed to belong to the store.


    Most of the evidence were items that had been probably pulled off the asshole that had tried to kill them. Ryan¡¯s gun was listed, as was her phone.


    And nowhere on the list were the golden phoenix feathers.


    A once-in-a-lifetime gift and one stupid request for ice-cream had-


    ¡®Find what you¡¯re looking for?¡¯


    She shook her head.


    ¡®Is it okay if you tell me what it is?¡¯


    ¡®Phoenix feathers,¡¯ she said. ¡®Me and Ryan- He took me to see the phoenix last night. And- And you get a feather at the end to show you¡¯ve been there. There¡¯s nothing like it on this list.¡¯


    ¡®We can go check the scene. Or if it¡¯s too much for you to go back, I can-¡¯


    She touched a hand to the remaining dressing under her vest.


    It hadn¡¯t been a bad thing to ask for ice-cream.


    ¡®I¡¯ll be back in a minute.¡¯


    She walked down the hall, shoved on the swinging door to the bathroom and stepped in. All of the stalls were empty - though that wasn¡¯t surprising, as Curt seemed to have picked this meeting room for its relative isolation from their colleagues.


    Ice-cream should have been safe.


    With a quick look at the door, she quickly dismissed her shirt, vest and tie, leaving herself in just the undershirt. This way, it was easy to pull off the dressing that was over the second gunshot, as well as peel off the half dozen or so little wound plasters that covered smaller cuts.


    It had been a perfect night - magic unimagined and spending time with-


    With the man who surely had the world record for the Strangers-to-Family speedrun.


    It had been perfect, and some asshole had decided to intrude.


    And now, souvenirs beyond precious were lost.


    She required her uniform back.


    Where there had been sad, now there was just mad.


    It didn¡¯t feel good, but it felt like it was buffing her ability to get stuff done.


    It was always possible that the feathers had been swept aside with trash; or been blown outside of the radius where recorded evidence was taken from.


    All she could do was check. And if they were really missing, then the sad could slink back and replace the mad.


    She touched her tie, adjusted it, then left the bathroom.

 38 - Glitter and Dust

    Stef stared.


    If she¡¯d been asked what she was expecting, she wouldn¡¯t have been able to put it into words. Whatever that vague idea she¡¯d had though, this wasn¡¯t it.


    It was the same ice-cream shop they¡¯d been at last night. It looked different by the light of day - ice-cream stores, like parks, were something that should only exist in bright daylight. By the light of morning, the colours of the paint, and the chalk illustrations were far cheerier, inviting customers in to experience all the homemade flavours.


    The only thing that hampered the shop¡¯s cheer was the police tape.


    The blue-and-white tape sectioned off the area around the shop, cordoning off the section of footpath covered in broken glass and broken beer bottles. Hazard tape covered the window, warning people to stay away from the broken glass and splintered wood.


    It was all wrong.


    She couldn¡¯t remember exactly what the damage had looked like. There had too much pain and fear to take in detail, and dying - or nearly dying, or whatever her dumb body had done - was more than enough to scramble what little she did remember.


    But...this looked like someone had smashed their way in with a cricket bat, rather than throwing a bomb, or whatever had blasted out the shopfront.


    She looked from the broken window to the footpath and the collection of garbage that hadn¡¯t been there the night before, then finally looked up at Curt. ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said, ¡®explain.¡¯


    He nodded like she¡¯d passed a test. ¡®There¡¯s a level of violence and destruction people expect,¡¯ he said. ¡®Two dickheads getting into a punch-up, normal, most people walk past that.¡¯ He gave a lopsided grin. ¡®I mean, you live in the Valley, that¡¯s not known for being the most cordial part of the city.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®Yeah, I suppose. I mean, I cross the street if two blokes are fighting, but it¡¯s not something I think about.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, compare that with...the once a year or so when someone sees a gun in a public space. If you¡¯re in the same city, the whole place basically goes into lockdown, office workers think twice about going out for lunch, and it¡¯s all anyone can talk about. Not your city, someone in your group chat is going to mention it, or it¡¯ll come up at dinner. Drunks smashing up a shop, normal. A terrorist chucking a grenade, not normal. Not normal is where we live, but it¡¯s also what we try and shield civilians from.¡¯


    She pointed at the beer bottles. ¡®So we stage crime scenes to make it look like a more expected type of crime?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®If there are no witnesses, we can usually put everything back how it was - here, it was too public, there were calls, so we¡¯ve got to do set dressing. It¡¯s the Agency prime directive to make everything seem normal, and hide the truth from people who would freak out. I¡¯ll look around inside so you don¡¯t have to bother talking to people if you want to look out here?¡¯


    She nodded, but with the cleanup and the broken glass, there probably wasn¡¯t much hope.


    The feathers could have been destroyed. They could have been stolen. They could have sensed their owners were about to die and melted into glitter and dust. But...but she had to look if only so she knew she¡¯d done her best.


    ¡®Come on, feet,¡¯ she murmured and started to make a search grid, starting from the shop door to the gutter and back, checking each square centimetre, like investigators after a plane crash.


    There was a cool breeze, strong enough to feel, but not strong enough to even roll one of the abandoned beer bottles around.


    She looked for gold, for opal, for garnet, and found only broken glass and dirty paper.


    ¡®I can help,¡¯ a woman¡¯s voice said.


    In dreams, you got knowledge, things you needed to know to make the narrative of the dream flow right. You knew that the orange tree was supposed to be your brother, or that the dog following you around had been in your family for years. It was instant, and it was unquestioned.


    Apparently, it could happen in real life as well.


    The woman who had spoken wasn¡¯t human, and she knew that like she knew her own name. The slight echo helped, but that was surface to the capital-K-Knowledge that had come with the first syllable hitting her ears.


    She swallowed and turned towards the sound of the voice.


    Death stood there - and like when she¡¯d seen Death from a distance the previous night, the woman wore the long black robe that was the universal shorthand for ¡°grim reaper¡±. Her face was shrouded by the robe¡¯s hood, though what little was visible seemed human, rather than looking like a skull.


    ¡®I feel like-¡¯ she started. ¡®Should I bow or something?¡¯


    Stef looked around - expecting that either people were getting the same instinctual knowledge that something magical was going on, or would be approaching with phones, wanting to get a picture of cool, random cosplay.


    The world had stopped - but it wasn¡¯t like some god had hit the pause button, it was almost like¡­


    There wasn¡¯t really a good comparison for what she saw - the colours of everything around her had desaturated, and the noise of the world had fallen away.


    It wasn¡¯t Silent Hill, there wasn¡¯t fog everywhere - but somehow there was still the impression of everything being hazy. A photograph made blurry from exposure to the sun. Assets in a video gave just coming within draw distance range.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    And it left the uncomfortable question if it was the world that had become less real, or if they¡¯d-


    Concentrate, Spyder.


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she mumbled.


    She bowed, even though Death hadn¡¯t said to, it just felt...right. This was even bigger than coming face-to-face with the phoenix, this was-


    A hand held hers, and for a moment, there was something familiar about the touch. She looked up and saw Death smiling down at her. ¡®You don¡¯t need to do that,¡¯ Death said. ¡®Ryan stands on ceremony with me, it¡¯s not a trait you need to inherit from him.¡¯ Death squeezed her hand, and she straightened up. ¡®I appreciate the courtesy, but it¡¯s not required.¡¯


    It would be dumb to ask if Death remembered her, but surely-


    ¡®Of course I do,¡¯ Death said kindly. ¡®I remember everyone. Sometimes though, there are those that stand out. Your angel never makes things easy on himself, so he...stands out. Not many are humble enough to bow and call me ¡°Lady¡± while being bold enough to call on me.¡¯


    There is so much to unpack in that sentence.


    For the briefest of seconds, there was the impression of a man in a suit walking behind Death - maybe thoughts in this space could manifest whatever you were thinking about and-


    A shadow-of-haze-and-light passed her, formless and barely more than the movement of air. However, for a moment, it seemed to be a woman in a dress, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.


    ¡®Um.¡¯


    ¡®This is the place where ghosts reside,¡¯ Death said. ¡®Those that do not manage to make it back from Limbo are here until the end of the world.¡¯ The smile on her face was sad. ¡®This-¡¯


    ¡®Is this where I would have come?¡¯ she asked. ¡®Ryan said- He said that I might have become a ghost.¡¯


    Death nodded. ¡®If you had slipped away, you would have been an echo here, but you were both lucky, and that wasn¡¯t your ending.¡¯


    I feel like I¡¯m luckier than I deserve.


    She stared down at her feet and tried to concentrate on what had brought her to this moment. To be standing in front of- In front of someone as powerful as the universe, who...was somehow not exuding the least drop of impatience, or sense that she was being a time-waster.


    ¡®We, um, we got feathers last night. But-¡¯ she indicated to the storefront. ¡®This happened. And-¡¯


    Death pulled the two feathers from within her robe. ¡®They were damaged,¡¯ she said, ¡®but some things are easily repaired.¡¯


    ¡®Th-thank you,¡¯ she said, and gently took the feathers from Death¡¯s hands. ¡®I feel like- I don¡¯t have anything but words to give.¡¯


    ¡®I can feel your gratitude,¡¯ Death said, ¡®and I didn¡¯t ask for anything in return.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said again, trying to put every good thought into the words.


    Death nodded and faded as reality reasserted itself.


    She hadn¡¯t noticed the slip into the world of ghosts - concrete looked much the same in both places, but with her attention on the wider world, the transition was far more apparent.


    Colour came back quickly, everything bright and hyper-real compared to the subdued reality of the last few moments. Sounds, though, seemed to slowly ramp up in volume, rather than breaking over her like a wave.


    She quickly walked to the door and knocked on the frame - Curt looked up from talking to an owner or manager or some other important person, upset that their store had been the target of random violence.


    Holding the feathers up would be weird and draw unnecessary attention from the owner; instead she smiled and hoped that he''d use his freakily good intuition to gather what she was trying to say.


    She walked a few metres down from the shop, leaned against a patch of wall, wrapped Ryan''s feather in a piece velvet and slipped it into a required bag.


    Her own feather, she stared at, happy and grateful to someone who-


    She''d just talked to Death. That was big. That was huge. That was-


    She looked down at the hand Death had held and slowly curled it into a fist, trying to hold onto the wisp of feeling and memory. It had been familiar, and that was weird.


    It''s possible she held you when you were a child.


    Ryan had described her death and the short trip into the grey world that was Limbo, and it made sense that this was how the memory was connected¡­


    But it seemed to be stored in some other part of her brain. As disjointed as her memories of her first meeting with Ryan was, there was a particular web. The drowning, the colour blue, the impression of being held and safe, the flash of a suit, the echo of Ryan''s voice that had made it unmistakable upon hearing it again.


    Nowhere in the web was someone holding her hand.


    ¡®Opal? That¡¯s October, right? What day?¡¯


    She looked up at curt, who was leaning against the same wall she was - she hadn¡¯t noticed him arrive, or the probable multiple attempts he''d made to get her attention.


    ¡®My friend Carmichael inherited a phoenix feather, it''s been in his family for generations, so he told me about them once. And given what I assume your background to be, that''s your birthstone, right?'' he held up his phone. ''and Google says October. Do you celebrate? Agent Jones keeps a calendar of who does and who doesn''t, so people don''t get triggered if it''s not something they can deal with.''


    She looked at the feather, then back to him. ¡®Um. I dunno.¡¯ She looked down at the footpath. ¡®It¡¯s a non-event I guess? Never really bothered to celebrate on my own.¡¯


    There was a look on his face, and she didn''t quite know what it meant - it was kind of sad, but it could have just been pity. ¡®Well then expect a lot of random gifts delivered via Vox. Gifts are weird, Raz showed me everything he got last year. Because with requiring, you''re not limited by budget, so you don''t have to wait to get a new car or watch or whatever, a lot of gifts tend to be more¡­¡¯ He seemed to search for a word. ¡®It''ll be a playlist of music someone wants you to try, or the recreation of the best meal they ever had, or a bound collection of their favourite memes. It''s¡­¡¯


    ¡®Almost more like recommendations?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Kind of, yeah, sometimes it¡¯s sharing something that couldn''t be recreated in another way, sometimes it¡¯s just sharing something the gift giver loves, in the hope that you will too.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s kind of beautiful.¡¯


    ¡®Of course, you still get lazy people who just send a box of chocolates because it¡¯s stuck in their head that that''s what you buy a coworker you don¡¯t know that well.¡¯


    She stared at the feather, required another piece of velvet and tucked it away.


    ¡®Hey?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, Newbie?


    ¡®What would you be doing right now if I was normal?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m gonna need you to reword that into something resembling a question I can understand.¡¯


    ¡®You- You¡¯ve been patient- You did the soundboard, you get that I¡¯m not normal.¡¯ She stared at her shoes, each word harder than the last to say. ¡®So I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re not running through your average ¡°new recruit first-week¡± playbook. What would you be doing if I was normal?¡¯


    ¡®Should I ignore that you¡¯re technically off today for injuries?¡¯


    ¡®I got shot twice,¡¯ she said. ¡®We just- We came to get ice-cream. Bomb. Blackout. All in all, kind of shit. The weird twins didn¡¯t say anything about lasting damage. So- So I think that¡¯s all you need to know.¡¯


    ¡®If you need to talk to someone, the Parkers can get you an appointment with a counsellor.¡¯


    That¡¯s the first time he¡¯s said an agent¡¯s name without rank.


    ¡®Do I- Are twin agents normal? One of them was...kind of intense.¡¯


    ¡®Two,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®Yeah, he- Was he at least wearing clothes?¡¯


    She lifted her head. ¡®The fact that you have to ask that question makes me afraid.¡¯


    Curt clapped his hands. ¡®Okay. First things first. If you were Joanne Average recruit, we¡¯d probably be doing a patrol. Or...taking a drive around the city, pointing out landmarks that are important now that you¡¯re wearing that suit, and getting you to learn how to think.¡¯


    ¡®Then let¡¯s-¡¯ she said as he stepped past her.


    ¡®I guessed,¡¯ he said, pointing at this little red sports car. ¡®Get on in.¡¯

 39 - A Lack of Scholastic Achievement

    Stef pulled on her seatbelt, then pulled her phone from her pocket and tucked it into the centre console as Curt settled himself into the driver¡¯s seat.


    ¡®You understand,¡¯ Curt said as he started the car, ¡®this is another one of those conversations you should probably be having with Agent Jones or a Tech, right?¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t, now I do, but try anyway?¡¯


    He pulled out into traffic and immediately hit a red light. ¡®Hell, Newbie, I don¡¯t even know if you know enough about agent creation and physiology or whatever you¡¯d call it to get to this stage. What do you know? Tell me that, and I¡¯ll build on it.¡¯


    ¡®Agents are nanite goop, magic in system territory, basically human in blackout zones. AI. Um- Blue?¡¯


    ¡®Fair,¡¯ he said. ¡®And when an agent, or whatever model, comes to the end of their life, they¡¯re recycled. It¡¯s not gory, don¡¯t think about bodies getting chopped up. It¡¯s all about the code, the useful bits of code are removed and kept to make baby agents better at their jobs out of the box.¡¯ He looked at her. ¡®Very technical,¡¯ he drawled sarcastically, ¡®told you.¡¯


    ¡®So they die and get uploaded to GitHub?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll take your word for it. So that¡¯s the basic procedure. There are humans who have been recycled. People who it¡¯s been deemed have information that should be included in future agent builds, but that¡¯s almost a tangent, that isn¡¯t what happened here.¡¯ He took a hand off the wheel and waved it. ¡®Not here-here, here like ¡°this situation¡±. No one even really knows when or where this takes place. Most people, including our doctors, tend to tell it like it¡¯s a medieval story, it¡¯s easier to mythologise uncertain history if you wrap it in knights and kings and whatever.¡¯


    ¡®Maybe start at the beginning?¡¯


    ¡®Agents having recruits is a new-ish thing. Like, last century or so. Less human interaction before that, and the further you go back, the more taboo it gets until it¡¯s banned outright. Agents or knights or whatever you want to imagine, a few hundred years ago, definitely not allowed to have human friends.¡¯ He leaned forward and pressed a lump of red PlayDoh to the dashboard. ¡®But things happen, and a human and an agent,¡¯ a blue lump was placed beside the red lump, ¡®fell in love.¡¯


    ¡®And this isn¡¯t a slap on the wrist offence.¡¯


    He pulled the car over in the shade of a tree next to the Botanic Gardens. ¡®Death penalty for the agent, but the human wanted to die with their lover.¡¯ He picked the lumps. ¡®It was allowed, and they died together.¡¯ He pressed the pieces together and started to intermix them. ¡®But it caused this glitch where sometimes when you press the ¡°make a new agent¡± button, instead of one, you get two.¡¯ He pulled the PlayDoh into two lumps again - the red and blue intermixed to the point where you could never fully separate them again. ¡®So now, you¡¯ve got several rare cases of agents who are simultaneously one person and two people. Two became one who became two again.¡¯ He pressed the lumps of intermixed colours to the dashboard again. ¡®There are volumes of documentation on this glitch, so the information is there if you want it. But the important thing is...that-¡¯ He winced. ¡®Safe if I call it¡­ interpersonal mingling? That you don¡¯t like? That¡¯s almost their literal default state of being. The part of them that was lovers never forgets that. So if you¡¯re going to medical, always knock.¡¯


    ¡®That can¡¯t be sanitary.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not,¡¯ he said. ¡®But this is one of those times where skill buys you leeway.¡¯ He started the car again, and they drove on.


    They passed buildings, both new and unfamiliar. Parts of the city she¡¯d seen before became new with secrets pointed out: fairy bolt-holes you could only access if you knew where they were, stairs to Fairyland, certain trees that were actually nymphs, one run-down building that was student housing for fairies.


    A hundred secrets that she¡¯d walked by. A hundred new things she needed to know. But- But it was worth it to try. To earn a proud smile from someone wanting to act as a parent. To actually have someone to take proverbial crayon drawings to, with the actual expectation that they¡¯d end up on a fridge, and not in the trash.


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Hmm?¡¯


    ¡®What are you aiming for? You seem- Okay, yeah, I don¡¯t know you that well, but- Weirdly determined this morning? So if there¡¯s something specific you want to achieve, that¡¯ll help me know where to focus my training.¡¯


    She stared out the window for a long moment. It was personal, but it wasn¡¯t the kind of too personal where she couldn¡¯t say anything. He was trying to help and facilitating that would make things easier. So, it was just a matter of putting it into words.


    ¡®Remember, um, on my first day. I said I didn¡¯t work or go to uni or anything? I¡¯ve never done anything. Working for Dorian was the first time I¡¯d even managed to stick at a freelance job for more than a couple of days.¡¯ She turned to look at him. ¡®Nothing, okay? People in my family don¡¯t have after-school jobs or whatever. If I¡¯d had a gap year, it would have been to travel on the family purse, not to work and understand the real world.¡¯ She looked down at her uniform. ¡®So this is- This isn¡¯t like anything I¡¯ve ever done before. But I want to do a good job. Ryan gave me a chance, and I don¡¯t want to disappoint him.¡¯


    She quickly looked away again. Almost too much. Talking to people was still- Hard. Stupid. Impossible to know what your mouth was going to say without asking your brain first if you didn¡¯t stay on top of things.


    ¡®I get that,¡¯ he said, and he sounded sincere. ¡®Remember I said I wanted to apply to be his Aide? I¡¯m pretty much centring my Agency career on trying to look good to Agent Ryan. You¡¯re starting with an advantage though, cause I¡¯m pretty sure he doesn¡¯t hate you, Newbie.¡¯ He barked a laugh and buried one hand in his hair, the other one gripping the wheel tightly. ¡®Heh. Sorry. That- You don¡¯t need my baggage.¡¯


    ¡®He hates you?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m pretty good at figuring out people. Reading expressions and stuff. Agents are harder, and that¡¯s not just Solstice propaganda speaking. They can literally choose what emotions to show on their face and how intensely they want to show them. You know how- No, you probably don¡¯t...People who work in retail develop like a work face, so you can keep smiling at customers, without showing what you really think. If retail people were agents, they could scream all they wanted at customers inside, without a drop of it showing on their face. Agent Ryan doesn¡¯t do that, not as default anyway, he just seems to be naturally one of those-¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s not stiff-upper-lip,¡¯ she said with a perfect RP accent. ¡®But he¡¯s reserved,¡¯ she said, letting her voice go back to normal.


    Curt looked in her direction for a moment. ¡®What the fuck did you just do with your voice?¡¯


    ¡®Keep talking, or I¡¯ll do it again.¡¯


    ¡®He-¡¯ He swallowed. ¡®I just wish I knew what he thought of me. I think I¡¯m sitting somewhere around the level of ¡°useful tool¡±, and I don¡¯t know what I can do to improve that.¡¯


    ¡®Want me to ask him?¡¯


    Curt blanched. ¡®No¡­No. No thanks. I¡¯d rather not ping on his radar as an issue. So, please don¡¯t, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Okay.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s going to take a lot of work to upskill you to¡­ To...To where you¡¯re somewhere confidently past four-point-two. So, just flag it with me if we¡¯re pushing past your ability, okay? Going past breaking point serves no one, least all the agent you¡¯re trying to impress.¡¯


    His phone beeped, and he pulled over as soon as it was safe.


    Curt looked at his phone, then slipped his earpiece in. ¡®Raz, I¡¯m on.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Sure.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Newbie, you want to do some work? It would be a good learning opportunity, and we could get lunch after'' He held a finger up. ¡®Probably Fry¡¯s. You want something?¡¯ The finger went down. ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Um. Sure?¡¯


    ¡®Send the details to Stef,¡¯ he said. ¡®Give us a ten count before shifting.¡¯ He looked at her. ¡®Hop out.¡¯ They exited the car, which disappeared as soon as he¡¯d closed the door, then the world slipped as they were teleported away.


    The first thing she saw was some familiar-ish scenery - the Botanical gardens again, though from a different angle this time. She turned slowly and the location crystalised - the university.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    She¡¯d been there at least once before. At some point, the stars had aligned to give her enough energy and brain think to stupidly give her the confidence to attend an open day. She''d wandered around and picked up information on courses she could attend if she wasn¡¯t a broken shell of a human being.


    Her school transcripts were a garbage fire, but if they allowed her to test specific competencies or-


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    She could probably manage to scrape through and get accepted...but maintaining anything like a good work ethic was-


    Was exactly like what she was trying to do now, wearing a suit, where there were actual stakes involved.


    Actual stakes, and a half-memory, half-dream boss to disappoint.


    What in the fuck do I think I¡¯m doing?


    Curt stepped in front of her. ¡®Newbie?¡¯ he asked, bending down so that he was eye level with her, without looming into her personal space. ¡®Did you hear anything I said in the last couple of minutes?¡¯


    She started to drag her foot in rough semi-circles on the pavement. ¡®No. Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s okay,¡¯ he said, ¡®if you can give me warning you¡¯re zoning out, try, but otherwise-¡¯


    ¡®It doesn¡¯t work like that,¡¯ she mumbled.


    ¡®That¡¯s why I said try, not all zoning outs are created equal.¡¯


    She mentally shook herself and tried to focus. ¡®What were you saying?¡¯


    He ran a hand through his hair. ¡®I always find it disconcerting if I directly repeat myself, it feels like a glitch in the Matrix or something. Deja vu on a creepily personal level. In summary: this is a good first outing for you, this is actually something rated at a basic four. Take a look at your phone, Raz sent through some stuff.¡¯


    She nodded and opened the message from Raz - one blurry photo of a moving patch of...something. A second photo followed, showing a cleaned-up version. A section underneath showing that it had been put together with inference, deduction and System resources - so real tech, rather than just zoom-and-enhance.


    ¡®Goblin,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®Basically, we got a photo sent in from a fae student who wanted to give us a heads¡¯ up.¡¯ He leaned in and changed to a conspiratorial whisper. ¡®And sometimes we give reward money for stuff like this. It¡¯s easy to slide someone a small envelope of required cash as a thank you for this not ending up all over social media.¡¯


    She started to look around for any signs of-


    ¡®It helps if you don¡¯t look like you¡¯re gawking. People will already notice the matching suits, but that can pass under the radar if you don¡¯t seem to be taking an active interest in the area.¡¯ He slipped on a pair of sunglasses. ¡®The less you look like a secret agent investigating something, the less people will treat you like a secret agent investigating something.¡¯


    She required a pair of mirrorshades, the thought putting them directly onto her face, giving her face a weird, momentary tingle as they appeared. ¡®So they¡¯re functional, as well as stylish?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll just count it as a blessing if you remember to take them off when we go into a building.


    He beckoned to her, and they started walking.


    ¡®Let¡¯s start with your preconceptions,¡¯ he said as they stopped at an intersection of paths. He put a hand to his ear. ¡®Raz, anything?¡¯ Pause. ¡®I realise that.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Do a wider sweep, and get someone on social media.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Your efforts are appreciated, Recruit.¡¯ He looked to her and pointed down the path. ¡®If I say ¡°goblin¡±, what¡¯s your first impression?¡¯


    She hesitated, and he noticed.


    ¡®If your answer is Bowie, that¡¯s fine, that¡¯s where a lot of people start.¡¯


    She shrugged her shoulders so high they brushed her ears. ¡®Not...inaccurate.¡¯


    ¡®Expand on what you mean by that.¡¯


    ¡®Well, there¡¯s Labyrinth, of course. But there¡¯s a dozen different lores and canons I could throw at you, so just tell me what they¡¯re really like, and I¡¯ll deal.¡¯


    ¡®Wait.¡¯ He put a hand to his ear. ¡®Okay, great. Okay, not great, but better than¨C Where from here?¡¯ He looked down at her. ¡®How are you at running?¡¯


    ¡®Running and I do not get along.¡¯


    He muttered under his breath. ¡®Okay, then just try to keep up.¡¯


    Dammit, I really will have to start doing all of Madame¡¯s exercises again.


    He moved quickly, and she tried to match pace with his striding steps, having to run for a few steps every couple of meters to catch up.


    ¡®So I see a lot of treadmill work in your future,¡¯ he commented mildly.


    ¡®Yeah, but you should see how fast I can type.¡¯


    ¡®Look at the ground,¡¯ he said. ¡®Most goblins are pretty small, and if there haven¡¯t been more calls, then it¡¯s got to be on the small side.¡¯


    ¡®Ok, but how small is small? Misick small or dog small or¨C¡¯


    ¡®When did you see a misick?¡¯ he waved a hand as if telling her not to answer the question. ¡®At least the size of your head,¡¯ he said. ¡®It¡¯s a goblin, Newbie, you¡¯ll know it if you see it .¡¯


    ¡®We don¡¯t have a better way of tracking fae? No tricorders or anything?¡¯


    ¡®Well, there¡¯s¨C¡¯


    Something scampered along the ground and disappeared through an open door.


    ¡®There!¡¯ she said, her arm flying up to indicate its path.


    He waved his hand near her arm but didn¡¯t touch it. ¡®Stop that.¡¯


    ¡®No pointing?¡¯


    ¡®Pointing is worse than staring.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re learning.¡¯ He turned his head to look at where she¡¯d pointed. ¡®Just¡­ Be cool, okay? Relax. Act like you belong.¡¯


    I have never belonged in my entire fucking life.


    You might need to reexamine that thought. Being basically adopted kind of means you belong.


    A flurry of warm fuzzies fluttered through her chest, and she tried to set her face into something approaching determination. Sensible. Quiet. Still. Asking the right questions.


    They walked through the door and into the building but saw no sign of the little, dark shape.


    ¡®Are they dangerous?¡¯ she asked, immediately looking to the ceiling in case it was hiding above them.


    ¡®Not really,¡¯ he said. ¡®We rarely have anything to do with them.¡¯


    A door closed at the end of a hall to their left. Curt took a couple of steps and looked through the clear pane of glass on the door. ¡®There¡¯s a lecture in there,¡¯ he said. ¡®This is¨C¡¯


    She pulled the fire alarm.


    The evacuation tones began to play almost immediately, and there was a flurry of activity from within the classroom.


    They stood to the side of the hall as students, arms full of books or hurriedly stuffing laptops into bags, stomped past.


    One student called out that they should wait for further information, which made a few stop in the hall.


    She looked around - delays could be bad, delays could mean losing track of the goblin. The alarm was a good first step, but reinforcing the idea could sell it to those wavering on whether or not they should evacuate.


    One quick look at the ceiling located a fire sprinkler and one requirement set it off - with the spray directed at the wall so that it didn¡¯t wreck the tech of students who probably couldn¡¯t afford to replace it.


    The noise and the little bit of reflected spray kicked the ¡°flight¡± instincts of the milling students into high gear, and they headed for daylight.


    As the last few people left the room, she slipped in, Curt close behind.


    Curt closed and locked the door.


    Part of her noted that it didn¡¯t bother her. A week ago, someone locking the door of a room that she was in probably would have sent her into a - likely justified - panic attack.


    Apparently, Curt had done enough to earn her trust.


    Maybe this was what having friends was like.


    ¡®Come out, come out, wherever you are,¡¯ she muttered as she looked around for signs of the goblin.


    There was no movement.


    ¡®We¡¯re Agency,¡¯ Curt said in a loud, clear, narcy voice. ¡®We¡¯re not going to hurt you.¡¯ He looked at her. ¡®Keep your movements slow. It¡¯s probably spooked enough.¡¯


    The desks disappeared, and she began to circle the room, listening for any tiny sounds of a creature hiding.


    Hiding in the dark, listening to footsteps outside and just waiting to¨C


    Stop it.


    ¡®Would heat vision goggles work?¡¯ she asked.


    He shook his head. ¡®Not with goblins. One of their only abilities is to regulate their body temperature to blend in with their environment.¡¯


    ¡®What about¨C¡¯


    ¡®I want sanctuary!¡¯


    A little dark shape shot out and flung itself against the locked door. ¡®Sanctuary! Sanctuary!¡¯


    Does he think he¡¯s Quasimodo?


    She looked at Curt. ¡®Are we a church?¡¯


    He ignored her and walked to the goblin. ¡®The Agency is neutral. We can¡¯t give you sanctuary. You¨C¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯ll kill me!¡¯


    ¡®The locals have changed leaders again?¡¯


    The goblin jumped from the door to one of the desks - giving her a chance to really take in what it looked like.


    If she hadn¡¯t known what it was, she probably still would have guessed ¡°goblin¡± - it was small, had pointy ears, and in general, looked like it could have been one of Jareth¡¯s backup dancers.


    It wore a small, many-pocketed vest that looked like something a fisherman would use. The upper left pocket was covered in carefully shaped moss, the top right pocket had a constellation embroidered into it.


    The other thing that drifted from the general goblin expectations was the bright, jewel-toned purple skin, and its deep golden eyes.


    ¡®You didn¡¯t yield?¡¯ Curt asked. ¡®This is the fifth time this year the locals have changed leadership. What happened the last four times?¡¯


    The goblin looked from side to side, then shrugged.


    ¡®We can¡¯t help you,¡¯ Curt said. ¡®Have you gone to the Local Court?¡¯


    The goblin shook his head.


    ¡®They¡¯re your best shot,¡¯ he said. ¡®Or you can head down into Fairyland, but I like your odds better up here.¡¯


    The goblin cocked its head to the side. ¡®Recruit me, Agent?¡¯


    Curt shook his head. ¡®We can drive you to the Court. Or arrest you. We can¡¯t let you run around in broad daylight.¡¯


    The goblin jumped off the window and onto a bench beside her. ¡®I don¡¯t want to go to Court.¡¯


    Curt glared at the goblin. ¡®Incarceration. Fairyland. Court. Those are your three choices, and you¡¯re running out of time to decide.¡¯


    The goblin drew itself up to all of its one-foot-and-change height and puffed out its chest. ¡®You can¡¯t arrest me. I haven¡¯t done anything¨C¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re running around in broad daylight. Public exposure is an Agency offence.¡¯ His voice went cold. ¡®You know the Court is your best chance. I suggest you accept.¡¯


    The goblin¡¯s chest sagged. ¡®They¡¯ll indenture me.¡¯


    ¡®Only for a year, then you¡¯re on equal footing with everyone else under their protection.¡¯ A large backpack appeared on the table. ¡®It¡¯s this or cuffs.¡¯


    She looked at the goblin, imagined the teeny-tiny cuffs necessary to hold it, and tried hard to suppress a smirk.


    The goblin looked to her, and she shrugged.


    The goblin climbed into the backpack, and Curt closed the snaps before lifting it and handing it to her. ¡®He¡¯s not heavy. Do me a favour and carry him.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not that strong¨C¡¯


    ¡®Think ahead, Newbie. You always have to be prepared for an attack. Fine, we¡¯ve only got to walk to the car park, but if we fall over some Solstice part-timers, I¡¯m better in a fight, and the backpack will slow me down.¡¯


    ¡®Fine.¡¯ She lifted the backpack and slipped it over her shoulders. The goblin bounced up and down inside, then settled.


    They found the car park without too many people around, and he required his car. He opened the small boot. ¡®You can put him down.¡¯


    She slid the backpack off, and Curt undid the clips. ¡®It¡¯s only a ten-minute drive,¡¯ he said the goblin. ¡®So just keep quiet.¡¯


    He closed the boot, and they climbed into the car and headed away from the university.

 40 - Adventures in Shopping

    Stef brushed cookie crumbs off the required Agency-wiki pages on goblins and looked up. ¡®Um?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah?¡¯


    ¡®Thanks for this, but¨C¡¯ She swallowed the rest of the cookie. ¡®What¡¯s the deal with the Court and what¡¯s going on now? I¡¯ll tackle this stuff on my own,¡¯ she said, poking at the folder, ¡®but learning stuff in context is more likely to stick.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s complicated,¡¯ Curt said. But it was in a way that she was starting to learn was ¡°I¡¯ll give you a short explanation¡± rather than ¡°I don¡¯t want to explain anything to you, leave me alone you stupid bitch¡±.


    ¡®I¡¯m kinda smart,¡¯ she said. ¡®You can try to explain it.¡¯


    He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ¡®Okay. You as a civilian. You¡¯re subject to local government, state government, and federal government, right?¡¯


    ¡®Right.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s more complicated for the fae.¡¯


    ¡®Question?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m never going to be able to explain anything if you interrupt me all the time.¡¯


    She tilted her head back and forth. ¡®Collating data at appropriate times is important.¡¯


    ¡®Faerie, Fairyland, I¡¯ve heard people say both and-¡¯ she made a helpless gesture with her hands. ¡®I need to know if they¡¯re the same thing or what. ¡°Faerie¡± is the more traditional term, but¡­¡¯


    ¡®Decent question actually. Faerie is the name for the whole plane, as separate from Earth. So because it¡¯s a plane, it¡¯s a copy of Earth, but...different. Fairyland is Faerie-Australia, if that makes sense. And if I can forestall your question, it¡¯s not actually called that, but it¡¯s what non-citizens have to call it, there¡¯s a lot of social protocols about names, and place names are included in that.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®Okay, that¡¯s filed away.¡¯


    ¡®To start with,¡¯ he said. ¡®In Fairyland, there are only two levels of government ¨C local and federal, so you¡¯ve got all your applicable laws and such from them. We won¡¯t go into parts of Faerie, because frankly, I don¡¯t know anything about them. Over the top of these is Kings¡¯ Law. The Court of Kings writes the laws that all fae have to adhere to, and it¡¯s so convoluted and outdated that it seems like it¡¯s getting pulled from someone¡¯s arse most of the time.¡¯


    She failed to suppress a giggle.


    ¡®Most of these laws don¡¯t play into everyday life for the fae, but they exist, so it¡¯s worth remembering. So, local, federal, and Kings¡¯ ¨C keeping up?¡¯


    ¡®Law stuff, unfortunately, is really easy for me to comprehend.¡¯


    He gave her a quizzical look.


    Anxiety pounded in her chest, and she tried to clear the thoughts of her family. She shrugged and straightened her tie. ¡®Genius, remember? Everything¡¯s easy for me to comprehend.¡¯


    ¡®Layered into all of this are the other Courts. We can get into them later, but you¡¯ve got major, minor, and local. Major courts almost act as their own cities; minor ones tend to be specific, like for each type of fae. Magnolia? Remember, she¡¯s a magpie. There¡¯s a magpie court and so on. Local ones are what¡¯s important right now.¡¯


    ¡®Keep going.¡¯


    ¡®Local courts take the place of local governments outside of Fairyland. They¡¯re basically the local support groups for all the fae living in human society. They help with transitioning from living with fae to living with humans. Do ¡°act like a human¡± classes. Provide all kinds of backup for things you wouldn¡¯t think of, like job references and legal advice. They help with getting IDs and bank accounts, all that kind of thing.¡¯


    She nodded.


    He pulled into a parking lot of a large white building. There were faded marks in the paint where signs had been. A dozen other cars stood in the lot.


    ¡®Okay, this is just like the restaurant,¡¯ she said as they got out of the car. ¡®Do fae always have to hide in crappy places?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s just social engineering, Newbie,¡¯ he said as he opened the boot. ¡®Better-looking buildings attract more attention. Besides, this is only skin-deep; it¡¯s really impressive inside.¡¯


    ¡®You could still recruit me,¡¯ the goblin said as he bounced out and onto the ground.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Curt said.


    They walked to the door, and she heard cameras tracking their movements. ¡®Paranoid,¡¯ she said. ¡®I approve.¡¯


    A tall, broad man with a face made of stone stood as a bouncer at the door. ¡®Agents,¡¯ he said. ¡®What¡¯s your business?¡¯


    Curt pointed down at the goblin. ¡®One for sanctuary, two for lunch.¡¯


    The literally-stone-faced man looked down at the goblin, then waved them into the lobby.


    There was a small reception area to the left, a bank of public phones to the right, and two security gates leading further into the building, each manned by two guards. The goblin was escorted to the receptionist on the left, a short, squat man with green hair.


    Curt waved her over to one of the other receptionists ¨C a woman with white-as-snow, white-as-printer-paper skin. ¡®Get out your ID,¡¯ he said. He smiled at the woman. ¡®Two lounge passes, please.¡¯


    They handed across their IDs, which were scrutinised, scanned, then handed back. Two passes on lanyards were spat out from a small chute on their side of the counter. Curt lifted them both, then gave one to her.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said to the receptionist.


    ¡®Last chance,¡¯ the goblin said as he sat on the counter, tapping at a goblin-sized tablet computer.


    Curt shook his head one more time, then walked through the security gate to the left. The guard barely looked at their passes before waving them through.


    ¡®That was kinda easy, don¡¯t you think?¡¯


    He shrugged, and they walked down some stairs. ¡®We¡¯re recruits, in uniform, with ID that passes inspection ¨C that¡¯s a lot of hurdles to pass, so it¡¯s unlikely that we¡¯re a threat. If we did try something, those guards would suddenly show you how passive they aren¡¯t. Any damage we managed would have to be taken care of by the Agency since we were imitating Agency personnel.¡¯


    ¡®The Agency is responsible, even if they¡¯re not?¡¯


    ¡®Agency IDs aren¡¯t the easiest thing to fake, so there¡¯s always the possibility of collaboration in people¡¯s minds, plus it¡¯s part of the ¡°cooperation with the community¡± thing.¡¯ He rolled his eyes. ¡®We let people use us for a bit of good PR.¡¯


    ¡®So what are we¡­?¡¯ Her mouth lost the ability to form words, and her feet forgot how to walk.


    The breakfast restaurant had been a peek into the world beyond. Still, at the end of the day, it had been a relatively normal restaurant with an unusual client base.


    This...this was Dorothy stepping out Kansas and into Oz.


    She rocked on her feet, unsteady even while standing still as she looked around. Whereas at the restaurant - up until now her only real basis for comparison - there had been a mix of fae who had seemed human, and others, like the little nymph girl, had been showing their fae side; far more people here were obviously fae.


    Fairy wings in a rainbow of colours stretched as far as she could see. Nymphs aligned with different domains walked by, their skin like tree bark or flowing like water. Animal people walked by, a whirl of ears and tails and claws, and a dozen other kinds of people she couldn¡¯t even begin to guess at.


    Creatures eight feet tall, with square heads and limbs so spindly they looked as though they would blow away at the slightest breeze. Four-legged fae with skin like silver that seemed to vanish if there was enough light on them.


    Fae that exuded thin wisps of smoke from rows of blackened holes in their arms.


    Lines of wiggly metallic ribbon flowed across the floor. She stared, unsure if it was sentient, pet, or art.


    Beyond that, some shops were familiar if you didn¡¯t look at them. The shapes of fast food, newsagents and gift stores were familiar enough until you looked at the details and realised that the signs were in languages she couldn¡¯t recognise, selling products she¡¯d never seen.


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®U-uh?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re kind of in the way, you can keep staring, but we need to move.¡¯ He offered his arm. ¡®Hold on if you¡¯re feeling unsteady.¡¯


    She looked at his sleeve - touching people was still hard. Getting used to getting a hug from Ryan was one thing, but just randomly touching another person was...weird.


    But she did feel like her feet weren¡¯t properly connected to the rest of her body, so she reached up and gently pinched his shirtsleeve. It would keep her hand close enough so that she started to fall, she could actually grab his arm. Hopefully, though, this placebo version of touch would help align her brain and keep her upright.


    It was like an airport - and that was a strange thought. It would have been more natural to think ¡°shopping centre¡±. But...something about the broad concourse with alternating sections of seating and shops made her think far more of wandering around an airport than a mall.


    She walked, waiting to wake up from this beautiful dream.


    They passed by small stores selling clothes, stationery and wine; past meeting rooms and halls leading to offices then came to a food court.


    Curt pointed to a wall that held a row of booths. ¡®Go have a seat, trust me to pick the food?¡¯


    She opened her mouth and tried to make a comment about not knowing where she would even start, then just nodded.


    ¡®Any allergies?¡¯


    ¡®Eh?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sure it wouldn¡¯t look great for me if I dragged a recruit corpse back to the Agency, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®Fair. Um. No, no allergies.¡¯


    He nodded and headed towards one of the larger establishments in the food court.


    She sat in the closest empty booth, then pulled out her phone and opened up the wifi settings, curious as to what was available.


    There were a few wisps of signal, but there was one strong signal ¨C a public access spot. She clicked on it and was unsurprised as a redirect page opened. She circled her finger, ready to ignore and accept the standard terms and conditions page.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    There were no terms. No conditions. Just an ad, directing her to the information desk, to access the ¡°collect¡± and ¡°collect-enabled services¡±. There was a map below, showing the local court, and images of concentric circles at various points. Some were single spots, others had one to four lines around the spot. Signal strengths ¨C that much was easy enough to parse.


    Beneath the map was a screenshot from a social media site she didn¡¯t recognise, but with a photo showing a new service available in the food court - at both the tables and booths. She looked to her left, and on the wall next to the standard charging ports was a multi-headed retractable cable. She pulled the cord from the wall and sorted through until she found a USB-C plug to plug into her Agency phone.


    The screen lit up, and the redirect page redirected itself, prompting her to download an app - ¡°Local Court - Free Collect¡±, the most generic name possible. However, the lack of imagination on the part of the app designers didn¡¯t stop her from hitting the download button.


    The app logo was something that had been on the redirect page as well. A stylised flower design with increasing petal sizes, and it suddenly crystalised that this was probably Faerie¡¯s version of the wifi logo. That made sense, there would be no reason at all that it would be the same dot-and-curves that was the Earth standard.


    The app installed, then launched itself, asking for most of the permissions that the phone was likely to grant - which she did - at worst, she could throw out the phone if it loaded it with spam.


    Permissions granted, a new icon loaded in her status bar - the wifi/flower design, showing a moderate-high signal, if she was interpreting it correctly.


    The app then launched - and the fear of spam being loaded onto her phone wasn¡¯t helped by the fact that the free wifi was sponsored - a large header ad in the app advertised a different special every three seconds, and there were several promoted apps for businesses within the Local Court.


    Scrolling further, there was a ¡°beginners tips¡± section, which she clicked into - with the first suggestion to install a collect-friendly browser called Spiral.


    I am not going to get used to calling the internet the collect.


    That might be the glyph name for it, it may sound better in its native language?


    She started the install process for the browser, then pushed her phone aside as Curt returned with an overloaded tray and a takeout bag under his arm.


    ¡®That¡¯s for Raz,¡¯ he said as he put the bag at the far end of the table. He pointed to the cord. ¡®Should have guessed you found the free wifi. Sorry, you¡¯re not going to get much of a chance to play today, but I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s going to be a draw for you to do more field work if it means getting to come here and look at new memes?¡¯


    She gave a solemn nod. ¡®I want fae memes,¡¯ she said, her voice as serious as she could make it. She turned her attention to the tray of food. ¡®Nom time?¡¯


    He clapped his hands together, then spread them like he was about to give a presentation. ¡®Okay, so this is Famous Fry¡¯s,¡¯ he said, pointing to the logo that adorned every item on the tray. ¡®Probably the biggest chain, equivalent of Maccas in Fairyland. And like Maccas, their staple menu revolves around burgers.¡¯


    He handed her a burger and took one for himself. Next came two packets of long fries, each about half an inch across, but relatively thin, sprinkled with flake salt and herbs.


    That left two cardboard bowls in the centre of the table - one contained squares covered in brown sauce, and the other held thin green chips. ¡®Brikini,¡¯ he said, pointing the brown squares.


    ¡®Brick-nee,¡¯ she repeated slowly, and he nodded at her passable attempt.


    ¡®Imagine...savoury baklava,¡¯ he said. ¡®The majority of meat in Fairyland is vat-grown, brikini is processed into sheets as thin as filo pastry, then covered in various sauces. It¡¯s traditional to share a plate with the table.¡¯ He pointed at the green chips. ¡®Aole, I remember it like ¡°ye olde village¡±, they¡¯re a palette cleanser, you have them after the meal.¡¯ He pushed the brikini at her. ¡®Try some.¡¯


    She lifted one of the squares and tentatively nommed on it. The sauce was¡­somehow nondescript, almost tasting like a half-dozen things. She swallowed and sucked the sauce from her fingers before reaching for a serviette.


    She bit into her burger, and she watched helplessly as a slice of tomato slid from the back of her burger and onto her uniform pants. She shook her leg, and the tomato fell onto the ground. Curt, nomming on his own burger, didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    After a moment, he pulled out his phone and began to play with it. ¡®I got the pretty basic burger,¡¯ he said, half-distracted by whatever he was tapping out on his phone. ¡®This meat mix is the closest to what you¡¯d think of as beef, and the veggies are a mix of Earth and Faerie.¡¯


    There had been tomato, but-


    She put the burger down on the wrapper and pulled off the top bun. There was another half-slice of tomato. Some green stuff that looked like silverbeet but had an almost honey-like taste. A thick wedge of something with the consistency of mushroom, its foamy flesh orange and red.


    ¡®Don¡¯t make too much of a mess, Newbie,¡¯ he chided gently.


    That¡¯s a fair point.


    ¡®If this is- Are we technically in Faerie right now? Ergo, blackout zone and not somewhere we should be?¡¯


    He sighed, then smiled. ¡®Fair, but way above my technical know-how, okay? In Local Courts, and this place in Fairyland called The Marches, there¡¯s a weak System signal. Dial-up versus broadband.¡¯


    She started to grin. ¡®I can¡¯t even imagine how- The logistics on that- I am definitely going to bug Jonesy about that later.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®He¡¯ll be happy to explain it. It kind of makes them the ¡°preferred¡± areas for Agency personnel to go. It¡¯s not really more or less dangerous for recruits, except from a tracking and tracing point of view. Still, it¡¯s safer for agents, so if you see an agent in a Local Court, it¡¯s perfectly normal.¡¯ He waved his phone. ¡®Front desk wants a bit of follow-up paperwork about our goblin friend.¡¯ He pulled out his wallet and laid a blue note on the table in front of her. ¡®Think you can entertain yourself for twenty minutes when we¡¯re done here?¡¯


    She picked up the note - most of the writing was in fae languages, but one corner in glyph told her the value of the note was twenty-five.


    ¡®Breakfast, lunch and spending money? I¡¯m going to owe you all my per diem for ages,¡¯ she said, as she quickly took a photo of the note so she could examine it, even after spending it. ¡®Is there like a quest board with the high-paying jobs so I can start to pull in fae cash?¡¯


    He ran a hand through his hair. ¡®Don¡¯t forget, I¡¯ve been here like a year and a half, I¡¯ve had a lot more time to build a bit of bank.¡¯ He sipped at his purple soda. ¡®Meet back here when we¡¯re done?¡¯


    She nodded, and they finished their lunch.


    ¡®Twenty minutes,¡¯ he said as he stood from the booth. ¡®If you continue down the concourse, there¡¯s a lolly shop, I think it might appeal to you.¡¯


    He left the food court, and headed back down the concourse towards the front desk and the main entrance, off to do paperwork that she should probably know about. Paperwork he¡¯d probably mentally classified as a ¡°week two¡± project - there was no point in getting her used to fae forms when she didn¡¯t even know all of the regular Agency paperwork yet.


    She ate the last brikini square, sucking the sauce from her fingers before she reached into the bowl of aole chips. She lifted one, wondering if the green was nature-green or radiation-green, and bit into it. It was¡­refreshing. Like some unholy child of mint and eucalyptus.


    She haphazardly threw all of the trash onto the tray, then emptied it into the bin. The bin¡¯s LCD screen did a wave of dancing emojis, then ¡°thank you¡± in several languages.


    She brushed her hand over her pockets, ensuring that both her phone and the twenty-five note were in their proper places, then stepped out of the food court area and onto the broad white tiles of the concourse.


    A few fae looked at her, either because her eyes wouldn¡¯t stop trying to escape her skull at the sight of each new race, or because she was wearing an Agency uniform.


    She moved through the sea of people and pressed flat against the glass wall of one of the stores.


    Get a hold of yourself.


    I¡¯m trying.


    A remote-control-sized car zoomed past her feet, carrying half a dozen misick. She smiled and watched them weave in and out between the larger fae.


    I¡¯m really trying.


    She peeled herself away from the wall and turned to look at the store. It sold alcohol and wines if the window display was to be believed. Tiny bottles ¨C some in plain and familiar shapes, others more artistic ¨C lined shelves. The next store sold flowers in a million different colours, with some seemingly made of glass or metal or stone.


    The next one was a toy store, and she nearly stepped on a tiny child trying to get into the store. She apologised as the child¡¯s parents glared at her. She backed away and continued down the concourse. Toys could wait.


    Doughnuts. Cake. Four different clothing stores. Something that was either some kind of church or a lecture hall.


    The lolly shop, with a false front designed to look like a gingerbread house, called her like a siren. She watched the flow of foot traffic for a moment, then stepped into the store, carefully avoiding bumping into ¨C or stepping on ¨C any fae.


    The store was tiny, cramped and full of people.


    She picked up one of the small self-service bags and tucked her arms as close to her body as she could, trying to make room. On the surface, the store was surprisingly average ¨C dozens of different kinds of candy in clear containers, even more varieties on shelves.


    A train circled around near the roof of the store, carrying tiny, tiny, doll-sized fae.


    She passed jelly beans, flavoured jubes, and boiled sweets ¨C there was no point in going into a fae candy store to buy things that could be required.


    Is that what heaven is like?


    For you? No, there¡¯s no coffee.


    She found silver-shelled chocolates that were shaped like butterflies and shovelled some into her paper bag.


    Wings. Not butterflies.


    She took another look at them.


    Oh. Right.


    The bag slowly filled, and then she moved to the counter.


    The counter was a glass case, the kind that usually contained the more expensive chocolates. It held a swimming pool of dark, melted chocolate, with several Barbie-sized fairies swimming in it.


    Occasionally, one would jump out and run across blocks of other chocolate ¨C white, red, purple, and blue, leaving chocolatey footprints, before jumping back into the pool.


    As she stood in line, she looked at a display stand - what at first seemed to be just a piece of static art changed. It moved from photo to photo, displaying lollies in various artsy displays, interspersed with phrases in a fae language she couldn¡¯t read.


    She reached for the display, and gently tapped the screen, then lifted it off the counter. It was wireless - either powered by batteries or some wireless energy transfer that would make Tesla proud. What was more impressive was the screen - barely thicker than paper, pliable, like foldable, rollable screen demos she¡¯d seen - but obviously more advanced. This wasn¡¯t a tech demo, to be touched by executives and demonstration experts, nor only in the hands of early adopters with cash to splash.


    This was a rollable screen, sitting casually on the counter of a candy store as if it was nothing remarkable.


    ¡®Twisting Ivy was giving them away at the latest industry convention,¡¯ the clerk said as he saw her gently touching the screen. ¡®Great if you like their products, or,¡¯ he lowered his voice, ¡®you know, have the basic understanding of how to sideload images, and you need a new photo display.¡¯ He winked. ¡®I set one up with alphabet pictures for my kid. I¡¯ve got a couple back here if you want one. They¡¯re cheap though, so don¡¯t expect it to last long.¡¯


    ¡®How- How much?¡¯


    ¡®I mean, you¡¯re buying the sugar treats, right?¡¯ he asked as he held out his hand for the bag of assorted lollies. ¡®Then I¡¯ll just throw one in for free.¡¯ He pointed to a donation bucket. ¡®If you really want, you can donate to Ivy¡¯s non-profit.¡¯


    The clerk weighed the bag, then announced her total as sixteen-forty-five. She handed over the note, and he sighed as he opened the register. ¡®Is a whole bunch of small change all right? Otherwise, I can-¡¯


    ¡®Small change is fine!¡¯ she said, trying not to sound too excited - but the more coins she got back, the more different pieces of Fairyland currency she could examine.


    The clerk nodded, and scooped a solid handful of change into a branded envelope, before handing it back, then turning to her purchase. He tied a ribbon around the neck of the self-service bag, curled it with a scissor blade, then knelt and retrieved a small white cardboard box from beneath the counter and popped both items into a paper bag, and handed it over.


    ¡®Have a great day, Agent, and I hope to see you again.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ she said and smiled in a way that she hoped looked real.


    Halfway back to the food court, she found a wide wooden bench and sat to examine her treasures. With a little bit of effort, she freed the ribbon from the bag of lollies, then dug for one of the silver-shelled wing pieces - the silver was coated chocolate, and the inside was a sweet, blue, citrussy filling with the texture of Turkish Delight.


    Jadis can tempt me any time.


    She quickly nommed on it, then stuffed two more into her mouth.


    The little cardboard box contained the rollable screen - it rolled up without a problem, and a collapsible rod held it steady at the back, hooked into a small loop on the back.


    A single button on the underside turned it on - a small, generic loading bar appeared, then images of Twisting Ivy¡¯s catalogue of chocolates began to play.


    Someone had once told her that she¡¯d never been satisfied with an answer that satisfied just her heart or her mind, that she needed both. She was sure there had been more to the platitude than that, but whoever and whyever they''d said it was lost to time. And that was if anyone real had ever said it, and that it wasn¡¯t just something half-remembered from a book, falsely implanted as a memory.


    It was true enough, though, even if it was a platitude. Even when she¡¯d played with an imaginary friend, she¡¯d looked for the borders, for how far her mind could fool itself, so she knew how much she could play. She had played games with her dolls, with the queen and the princess. Even though she¡¯d been too young to know the words, she''d known that she¡¯d been doing some kind of replacement therapy. A functional mother and daughter relationship, when she knew it wasn¡¯t going to happen in the real world.


    There was the spiral, her mantra for helping to keep quiet, to keep conversations contained in her head. A spiral that was both a nautilus shell with the mysteries of the ocean sucking her words away and the Fibonacci sequence, drowning her brain in beautiful math.


    And now, she had everything she ever wanted. She had magic that was real, and it hadn¡¯t come at the cost of sacrificing good wifi.


    She was weird, stupid, and always out of place.


    Except now maybe she had somewhere she belonged.


    ¡®Did you steal an advertising banner?¡¯ Curt asked as he sat down beside her.


    I only steal shit from people who won¡¯t notice.


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said, ¡®it was a giveaway.¡¯ She offered the bag to him. ¡®Want something?¡¯


    He pulled out one of the wing chocolates. ¡®If I had a dollar for every one of these I¡¯ve had,¡¯ he mumbled, then ate it. ¡®My friend Carmichel, they¡¯re his favourites - angel wing, blue inside, they¡¯re the agent candy, and he¡¯s got this...thing about agents.¡¯


    ¡®Fanboy?¡¯


    Curt rubbed the back of his neck. ¡®It¡¯s his half-serious goal to f- To...interpersonally mingle with every agent on the planet. Handsomely compensated, of course, there¡¯s a lot of paperwork that gets in the way of agents doing some stuff in Fairyland, and he can help that along.¡¯


    She shook the bag in his direction. ¡®More chocolate for less detail, okay?¡¯


    He smiled, then dug into the bag and this time, took a clear jube that held edible petals. ¡®Come on, we need to head back.¡¯

 41 - A Short Discussion of Wishes

    Her father¡¯s office was never a place where she¡¯d been welcome. It was a place to avoid when he was at home. A place she was only summoned to when she was in trouble. Somewhere that she snuck into when he wasn''t around, as he¡¯d refused to put the good astronomy books in the larger library.


    There was something already comfortable and homely about Ryan¡¯s office. He¡¯d welcomed, not just accepted, her setting up her laptop in the seating area of his office, offering advice while she worked on introduction modules. The fact that the coffee table was the perfect height for using a keyboard while sitting on the floor. The carpet that was soft enough to nap on.


    Everything was good, even if she wasn¡¯t sure if she deserved it.


    Stef looked up from the video showing how to fill in a request for time off. ¡®So, permission to ask a stupid question?¡¯


    Ryan nodded at her from behind his desk. ¡®Of course.¡¯


    ¡®So, tonight. Mirrorfall, right?¡¯ He nodded. ¡®What actually- I mean, are we expecting a big flaming planetary core to crash like a meteor?¡¯


    Ryan shook his head. ¡®No, it¡¯s far calmer than that. The mirror itself doesn¡¯t cause any damage, it¡¯s what people choose to do with it. Every piece of mirror is a wish, and we have to prevent as much of the mirror getting used as we can.¡¯ He gave a sad smile. ¡®As much as some would like our policy to be different, it¡¯s easy to understand why it is the way it is.¡¯


    ¡®Something something butterfly effect, right?¡¯


    ¡®A careless wish could create a weapon, or spark a war, or rip a hole in the world. It could damage an ecosystem, or wipe out a species, or spread a plague. Solstice could use it to weaken or destroy the Agency. Blue Earth would try to integrate more magic into the world. Power-hungry fae could change the political landscape. Not all wishes are made with good intentions.¡¯


    ¡®And a lot could end the world.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®But other powers don¡¯t have the rules that we do. We can¡¯t stop people going after it, and we also can¡¯t arrest civilians who try to obtain a piece. The majority of what we¡¯ll be doing tonight is damage control, using crowd control measures and actively trying to discourage people from pursuing the mirror. That, at least, isn¡¯t too difficult. Desperate people will ignore our advice, there isn¡¯t much someone wouldn¡¯t do to save a loved one, but the treasure hunters and opportunists will generally wait until the next day.¡¯


    She looked at her fingers and tried to think about the logic of the situation. ¡®But it¡¯s one piece, right? ¡°Mirror¡±, singular?¡¯


    ¡®Most commonly, they get shattered. People fight, or someone sets off an explosive. It spreads the risk but lowers the danger, as there¡¯s a proportional relationship between the size of the piece of mirror and the potential it contains, the size of the wish it can grant. One large mirror could end the world, a thousand grains of sand...not so much.¡¯


    She nodded, and filed that under ¡°important shit to know¡±.


    ¡®Any pieces we get, we have to destroy. The temptation is hard to resist, most people have things they would wish for.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about me, I¡¯m safe. Look at the stories. The fallout from wishes can be worse than leaving the situation as-is. Aladdin¡¯s a street rat; add wishes, and now he¡¯s stuck dealing with political intrigue for the rest of his life.¡¯


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    He gave her a curious look. ¡®You really wouldn¡¯t be tempted?¡¯


    A wish to be normal. A wish to work properly. A wish not to be crazy. A wish to bring Peter back from Neverland. A wish to start life over with a better family. Wishes made a hundred times, a thousand times, on first stars and shooting stars and with pound coins flicked into fountains.


    Wishes of a child.


    Wishes of someone too cynical to really believe that anything would happen. Wishes of someone who still wished on every star anyway.


    And now the thing she¡¯d always wanted, family, had happened without the intervention of a genie.


    She shrugged. ¡®Am I gonna lose my ability to require cookies?¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    ¡®Then what would I need wishes for?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re rather strange, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Keep me around long enough, and I¡¯m sure some of it will rub off on you.¡¯ She watched as he pulled another folder from the seemingly-endless pile. ¡®Seriously, can¡¯t you get in a bloody temp to do some of that for you?¡¯


    ¡®I could,¡¯ he said. ¡®But I would prefer to¨C¡¯ He paused for a moment. ¡®I¡¯d prefer not to involve someone in the process who wasn¡¯t part of this agency. There are¡­idiosyncrasies that an outsider may not appreciate.¡¯


    ¡®And no one has offered to be your aide?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve had a few offers,¡¯ he said as he pulled the next folder from the pile. ¡®But I¡¯ve had my reasons for rejecting each application.¡¯ He gave a quick smile. ¡®And I don¡¯t have other commitments, as some agents do, so there isn¡¯t an issue.¡¯ He paused. ¡®Is Curt preparing another application?¡¯


    A promise was a promise. ¡®How the hell would I know?¡¯ she asked lightly and looked away. ¡®I can barely keep on top of my own paperwork right now.¡¯


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t tell him I told you,¡¯ she said. ¡®It¡¯s just- If you could give me some pointers, I¡¯d have some conversational ammunition instead of just being the stupid newbie who doesn¡¯t know anything.¡¯


    ¡®You aren¡¯t stupid,¡¯ Ryan said.


    She stared at the floor. ¡®So, any hints?¡¯


    ¡®There wasn¡¯t anything wrong with his last application,¡¯ he said. ¡®Submitted a little too soon, and his knowledge was lacking in a few areas, but still an application worth considering.¡¯


    ¡®So it¡¯s the Solstice thing, and he¡¯s wasting his time no matter what he does?¡¯


    ¡®An agent needs to be able to trust their aide,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®And I don¡¯t trust him.¡¯


    ¡®You trust him with me.¡¯


    ¡®His history aside, he¡¯s a model recruit. Trust is something more than that though.¡¯


    ¡®You didn¡¯t really answer my question.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t trust him, but I trust his motivations. If he is reformed, as his image suggests, then I have no reason not to have him assist with new recruits. If he¡¯s a long-term mole, then his goal is something other than murdering a single recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Your brain is kinda scary.¡¯


    He smiled. ¡®For what it¡¯s worth, I think you¡¯re safe. I won¡¯t have him as my aide, though. I¡¯ll just reject his application as last time. I¡¯ll reconsider it when his probation has expired.¡¯


    ¡®How come you¡¯re telling me this?¡¯


    ¡®Because I trust you.¡¯


    She dropped her head and grinned, then looked back up. ¡®I¡¯ve been here three days. There¡¯s still a chance I¡¯m a bad guy.¡¯ She wiggled her fingers in his direction. ¡®Boooo, and such.¡¯


    ¡®Are you trying to be a ghost?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know what noise bad guys make!¡¯ She made a finger gun. ¡®Mostly it just seems to be boom!¡¯


    ¡®What you can tell him,¡¯ he said after a moment, ¡®is that he needs to shore up his knowledge of inter-agency cooperation practices. It¡¯s not something we deal with a lot, but it¡¯s an area where he lacks knowledge.¡¯


    She smiled. ¡®Thank you.¡¯ She stared down at Frankie¡¯s keyboard for a minute. ¡®Can I come tonight? I know I¡¯m probably acting- It¡¯s not my place or whatever. But I¡¯d kind of like to see this thing through to its conclusion.¡¯


    It probably wasn¡¯t where she belonged, but it would feel...like an incomplete story if she simply went to sleep that night. A jump cut, turning to the last page to find out how the book ended.


    ¡®It¡¯s dangerous,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®It¡¯s not something I can recommend in good-¡¯ He paused. ¡®I can understand your desire though.¡¯ A longer pause. ¡®I do have to be there myself though. Do you promise to follow every instruction I give you, immediately and without question?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, of course.¡¯


    ¡®Then I would ask you to familiarise yourself with the mission area.¡¯ He pointed, and a folder appeared on the coffee table beside Frankie. ¡®There are the locations of viewing areas we have designated for fae, as well as any natural blackout zones or entrances to Faerie.¡¯ There¡¯s also a code if you want to examine the area in a sim.¡¯


    She nodded and started to pack up Frankie. ¡®Okay, I¡¯ll go study.¡¯


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    ¡®Promise me you¡¯ll be careful. This isn¡¯t a situation I want to take a new recruit into.¡¯


    ¡®I promise. I¡¯m not an idiot.¡¯

 42 - Probably Not The Answer

    ¡®You¡¯re an idiot.¡¯


    ¡®I heard you the first four times.¡¯


    Stef watched as Curt walked over the scaled-down sim like some kind of overly-formal kaiju. It was mostly a collection of warehouses and industrial buildings. Nothing that would have a lot of traffic at night, which was good - it meant fewer civilians getting in the way.


    ¡®You¡¯re an idiot.¡¯


    Sending him a text hadn¡¯t annoyed him. Asking for help hadn¡¯t annoyed him. It wasn¡¯t until she¡¯d loaded the sim and explained what she was studying for that his vocabulary had seemed to boil down to three words, spoken with an increasingly flustered voice.


    ¡®I just want-¡¯ She stared down at the doll-sized warehouses and streets. ¡®It wouldn¡¯t-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re doing it because you want to impress Agent Ryan.¡¯


    She scuffed her foot against the miniature street. ¡®Yeah. Not- That¡¯s not the only reason, but it¡¯s a big part of it.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t talk you out of this?¡¯


    She shook her head.


    He sighed, a long, deep sound that made her want to reconsider every decision she¡¯d ever made in her life. ¡®Stick to him like glue, Newbie. The Agency doesn¡¯t like its Directors dying, so whatever happens, you¡¯ll probably be protected a little by proxy.¡¯ He made a face. ¡®Poor wording. Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®Nevermind.¡¯ He played with the tablet controls, and the sim blurred, then grew in scale so that the buildings reached her thighs, rather than her ankles. ¡®I can¡¯t make you a more capable fighter, but maybe we can work on defensive strategies.¡¯ He interlaced his fingers behind his head like he had a sore neck. ¡®If you fuck up, fuck up in a way that means you live. You can¡¯t learn anything if you¡¯re dead.¡¯


    Maybe you should listen to him.


    I just want to be brave. I just want to try something.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ Curt said, walking to one corner of the sim grid. ¡®This is where-¡¯


    It took him twenty methodical minutes to go over the planned movements of the Combat recruits and where the stationary and mobile Field recruits would be. It took another ten to show all temporary locations that could act as emergency bunkers if the area blacked out, and the one lonely entrance to Fairyland.


    ¡®That¡¯s a lot,¡¯ she said, sitting on a couch she¡¯d required, next to the part of the sim earmarked as a civilian viewing area. ¡®Like, a lot a lot.¡¯


    Curt sat on a matching couch across the sim from her. ¡®You¡¯re not a coward if you don¡¯t go. I personally don¡¯t think anyone under a six should go in.¡¯ He rubbed his eyes. ¡®Realistically, if I was running things, I¡¯d have it be Combat only, with Field working in tandem with the Combat operators, so there¡¯s nothing missed. We¡¯re pulling in people from all over our network, and that¡¯s already going to cause problems. At least Outpost recruits that are technically classed as Combat have a healthy respect for Mags and have done at least some mixed training with our groups. The same can¡¯t be said for the Field recruits.¡¯ He took a long drink from a water bottle. ¡®If we had a Director and a Field Agent, things would probably be more-¡¯ A look of panic crossed his face. ¡®I¡¯m not trying to- Two roles makes it really hard to have optimal efficiency.¡¯


    ¡®Especially without an aide,¡¯ she said. ¡®He, um- He said you should work on intra-agency, um, standards and practices or protocols or whatever you call it.¡¯ She threw her hands up, expecting anger. ¡®I didn¡¯t tell him, he- Kind of interpreted it from something I said.¡¯


    ¡®Intra or inter?¡¯ he asked after a moment.


    ¡®Wait. Inter. Sorry, not intra.¡¯ She stared at her fingers. ¡®And don¡¯t make me say that three times fast or those words will permanently lose all meaning.¡¯


    ¡®Did he say anything else?¡¯


    She scratched her nails across the arm of the couch. ¡®You probably don¡¯t have a decent shot until after you¡¯re off probation.¡¯


    He gave a mirthless chuckle. ¡®He didn¡¯t happen to mention when that would be, would it?¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t know?¡¯


    ¡®I think the logic is something like ¡°if I¡¯m a happy little recruit, I won¡¯t ask¡±, and the more I pick at that scab, the less loyal I seem.¡¯ He stood. ¡®And that sounded a lot more bitter than I wanted it to. Any more questions?¡¯


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    What¡¯d you say about not having to pretend things are okay?


    You could say that out loud, Spyder.


    ¡®If no,¡¯ he continued, ¡®I¡¯d suggest take whatever time you¡¯ve got left and spend it with Tech. It¡¯ll be like what we just did, but more in-depth, watching how Screen preps would probably be instructive.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®Hey, Padawan?¡¯ He met her gaze. ¡®Thanks. This- You didn¡¯t have to help out with this. Or- Or any of the other shit. And I know I¡¯m annoying. But-¡¯


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah?¡¯


    ¡®Shut up.¡¯


    The smile on his face told her there was no malice, that it wasn¡¯t a ¡°you¡¯re so annoying, shut up, go away forever¡± kind of shut up; just a ¡°what you¡¯re saying is unnecessary¡± kind of shut up.


    She left him to shut the sim down and headed for the elevator to ride up to Tech.


    It was almost counter-intuitive that Tech was ¡°up¡± compared to Field and Combat. Everyone''s association - nerd or not - was that geeks belonged in the basement, even though she¡¯d found herself capable of being a dork at any elevation.


    Curt had explained at some point that it made strategic sense. When you had a multi-storey Agency, the departments seen as less capable of defending themselves - namely Tech and Medical, were installed on the higher floors. It meant any attack or breach from the ground level would have to go through Mags and several of her highly-trained friends before murdering any nerds.


    When she¡¯d asked ¡°what about a breach from above?¡±, he¡¯d answered ¡°then we¡¯re probably fucked¡±, which was succinct, if a little depressing.


    And it had left her wondering, if, post-Matrix, any Solstice had tried attacking an Agency with a helicopter and a chain gun.


    With the exchange of a couple of texts, she found Screen in the major operations centre - halfway between a call centre and mission control. Two columns of six long desks led to a wall of monitors - some of which were streaming news, others were probably mirrored from the various recruits who were already set up at the stations.


    Screen sat with two other people - an Asian man nearly as squishy as Screen with a rainbow pride pixel art tattoo on the back of his hand, and a dark-skinned individual in an Agency vest and blouse, with a probably-not-uniform black miniskirt and chunky chain belt.


    The bright purple boots probably weren¡¯t uniform either, which made her feel a bit better about her own choice of non-standard footwear.


    Screen waved at her. ¡®Fresh meat, old guard; old guard, fresh meat.¡¯


    ¡®Raz,¡¯ Raz said, ¡®I don¡¯t remember if we met offline yet.¡¯


    ¡®Sacha,¡¯ said the other, with an obvious touch of a German accent. ¡®He-slash-him, they-slash-them, or beautiful-slash-gorgeous if you¡¯re feeling flirty.¡¯ He pointed at Screen and Raz. ¡®And neither of these two are old guard compared to me.¡¯


    Raz offered her a popcorn bucket, and Screen rolled a freshly-required chair at her. ¡®Mister Genderglorious here is an exception, most people are recruited, he walked in and asked for a job.¡¯


    Sacha shrugged. ¡®My family¡¯s been fae-adjacent for generations, I¡¯m just one of the few who decided to put on the suit.¡¯


    ¡®You joining us tonight?¡¯ Screen asked.


    If Curt had his way.


    If you would listen to common sense.


    She shook her head. ¡®I¡¯m going in with Ryan. But Curt thought it would be a good idea if I saw behind-the-scenes to get a better idea of how things are organised.¡¯


    Raz grinned. ¡®He¡¯s pretty smart like that.¡¯


    Screen nodded. ¡®Right now, we¡¯re going over predicted operations routes and using drones to make some marks.¡¯ Screen rolled her chair a little so that the whole group could see the central monitor. The footage showed a view of an ibis standing next to a pile of trash.


    ¡®You know our drones are disguised as birbs, right?¡¯ Screen asked.


    She nodded. ¡®I piloted one in a sim earlier. Haven¡¯t actually seen one in person though.¡¯


    Raz held up an arm and an owl appeared there. ¡®Voila, Celeste,¡¯ he said, and fed a piece of popcorn to the drone. ¡®Mostly indistinguishable from the real thing, except when direct piloting makes them act un-birb-like.¡¯ The owl disappeared, and he lowered his arm. ¡®So we try and do direct control as little as possible, to avoid suspicion.¡¯


    Next to the ibis, a blue X appeared on the wall, looking like sun-faded graffiti. ¡®I¡¯ll get you a list of symbols in a minute, but we actively try and avoid any actual logos or symbology. Just dashes and lines and stuff. We get rid of everything after an operation like this. Still, we don¡¯t need to be identifiable, even in a temporary way. Anonymity and all.¡¯


    She nodded, and settled into her chair, content to watch as the more experienced recruits made their preparations; remotely stashed supplies - mostly small medical kits; and sent reports to Combat when they saw things that looked suspicious, or out of place.


    It was careful, detailed work, and definitely something she could - with training, handle. Go grid by grid. Maximise the amount of data collected. Find sensible places to put first aid kits, without those spots being so obvious that any bad guy could also take advantage of them. Build paths using spray-painted markers without interfering in path building done by other teams or departments.


    It wasn¡¯t coding, but it used the same mix of logic and imagination. Use parameters as a base, but modify and create where necessary.


    And even sitting at the back of a group, included, but unable to decode Agency memes and in-jokes, it felt so much more natural than pretending to play action hero.


    Ryan had admitted he¡¯d basically gone ¡°dibs!¡± and ignored where here test scores indicated she should be placed. And right now, nothing meant more than that. It meant he¡¯d wanted her around, wanted to spend time with her, and in doing so, they¡¯d speedrun their way past friendship and into family.


    But it probably wasn¡¯t going to work long term. There was probably stuff she could bring to the table - when her genius-slash-madness switch was flipped the right way, she might be able to contribute. Buf if Curt was supposed to the ideal recruit - bad guy history aside - and she got out of breath trying to run across the street when the ¡°run-quickly-or-get-smushed¡± red blinky light at an intersection appeared, there probably wasn¡¯t a lot of hope for her future career as an MiB.


    Some people were meant to be superheroes, some people were meant to be the guy in the chair.


    And some totally-not-self-insert Spider-man fanfic and a nickname aside, she¡¯d never wanted to be a superhero.

 43 - Storming Calm

    Afternoon slid into early evening, and as it did, more techs started to fill in the empty desks, taking up their position as guys-gals-and-nonbinary-pals in the chair, support to their field or combat recruit.


    And in another world, she¡¯d be doing the same thing.


    Stef held back a sigh, and tried to fight down any feelings of missing out. She was lucky - more than lucky - to have found a place where she might belong. An entire flight of luck dragons had been drained in order for the stars to align just right. The fact that maybe in a few weeks or months she¡¯d have to transfer departments in order to be fully useful was meaningless in comparison to that.


    For the time being, she¡¯d just do her best not to fuck up too badly.


    Raz peeled off first, explaining that it was important to him to be prepared for Curt, so planned on virtually running Curt¡¯s planned route with Celeste a few times, now that all the tricks, traps and extra resources were in place.


    Sacha said his goodbyes and headed to the call centre, but stopped before getting to the door in order to chat with another tech.


    ¡®Technically, this isn¡¯t his manager shift,¡¯ Screen explained as she sipped on an oversized pink slushie. ¡®But he likes to be there as backup when something big goes down.¡¯


    ¡®Do you, um, want me to GTFO so you can get ready?¡¯


    Screen shook her head. ¡®Merlin is looking after Mags tonight, so I¡¯m a free agent. Basically that means drone duty unless - well, probably until - someone needs a replacement.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®I¡¯ll still be quiet.¡¯


    ¡®How the fuck are you going to learn anything if you¡¯re quiet?¡¯ Screen asked with a grin. A couple of clicks maximised the view from a drone on autopilot. ¡®Deeply personal shit aside, what would you wish for?¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®Everyone in this world has had this conversation at least once. Usually while drunk, around one of those glass verandah tables while getting bitten by mozzies. Most people want magic, different magic, or superpowers. Some people want unicorns back, but refuse to say if it¡¯s altruistic or because they¡¯re hungry and-¡¯


    ¡®Huh-what-now?¡¯


    Screen grinned. ¡®Oh, sweet summer child. TL;DR: unicorns are extinct because they were so fucking delicious.¡¯


    ¡®Like dodos?¡¯


    ¡®The story¡¯s a bit sadder, but basically.¡¯


    On the monitor, the drone landed beside a recruit, whose hand came into frame to pet it.


    ¡®Combat,¡¯ Screen explained. ¡®Our snipers go in early, settle down in their first positions. Build their nests like little birdies and become as invisible as possible before the rest of the teams head in.¡¯


    She looked at her own tablet, which showed the positions of the teams and drones across various layers. A few taps expanded the layer options for Combat, then selected the sniper subgroup. She stared at the dots. ¡®Do we really have that many good snipers? Isn¡¯t sniping usually something you have to spec pretty heavily into to be any good?¡¯


    ¡®Most can only really deal with the immediate area around their building, not any decent shots. It¡¯s also an intimidation tactic, so even if they don¡¯t get a shot, it might discourage some. Taking down previously-identified Solstice is a plus. A lot of the treasure-hunters and the civilians we don¡¯t currently class as threats are easily discouraged. It¡¯s one kind of bravery to show up early, when there¡¯s hardly anyone around, chest all puffed out and hoping for a payday. It¡¯s a few levels up from that where people will stay when they hear a gunshot. Some wishes are worth dying for, some aren¡¯t.¡¯


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Time passed, and more of the screens on the front wall began to stream drone footage as the operators followed their recruits.


    Jonesy arrived, holding the hand of...what seemed to be a child cosplaying a tech recruit.


    She reached out and tapped the desk near Screen¡¯s keyboard. ¡®Um?¡¯ she asked, with a hopefully-subtle point.


    ¡®You haven¡¯t met Merlin yet?¡¯


    She shook her head.


    ''You really need to come down here for like a full day and I can drag you around, have you meet all the important people, and show you all the cool stuff.''


    ''I mean, he''s holding Jonesy''s hand, so I''m guessing he''s pretty important.''


    ''He''s Jonesy''s kid,'' Screen said with a smile. ''Adopted, before you ask. Not technically a recruit, because he''s...well, we don''t know how old he is, but we go with "about twelve" and you without special circumstances, you can''t be a recruit until you''re of legal age.''


    ''So he''s here to observe.''


    ''He''s not technically a recruit,'' Screen said, her nose scrunching, ''but he does work. He''s usually Mags'' operator, since he basically worships the ground she walks on. Jonesy adopted Merlin, and Merlin followed suit by claiming Mags as his big sister.''


    ''That''s...really kind of cute.''


    Screen slid her chair closer. ''Don''t let Mags hear you say that. There''s only certain people she lets call her cute, and you''re probably not on that list yet, n00b. Mags does have-¡¯


    A scream ripped through the room.


    Stef stood up and looked to the front corner of the room, where a tall, thin recruit was fighting to get up off his chair but finding himself entangled in his headphones. He screamed again and wrenched away from his desk. He dragged the tower onto the floor before he was finally able to break free.


    One of the techs standing by the snack table ran over to him and braced the screaming boy before he fell.


    ¡®Singh, get him out of here,¡¯ Jones ordered. ¡®Alfie, take over!¡¯ he said, whirling on a short girl who¡¯d been pouring drinks.


    The girl ran forwards, required the computer back into working order, and was already looking around the screen when the map came back up.


    ¡®The fuck?¡¯ Stef asked Screen quietly. Screen pointed to the list of recruits on her monitor, and it was suddenly apparent that one was now greyed out, with a red ¡°Deceased¡± tag where the line for the ECG had been. ¡®Oh. Fuck.¡¯


    ¡®People die,¡¯ Screen said. ¡®Sometimes we can¡¯t stop it. Rewind his footage; see if you can track who or what did it. Everyone else who isn¡¯t doing an active will be doing the same thing.¡¯


    ¡®Got him!¡¯ Alfie yelled. ¡®He¡¯s moving down¨C¡¯ She went quiet.


    One of the windows on Stef¡¯s monitor started to blink, so she clicked it, and she was surprised to see what had been a single view ¨C probably from a drone, was now eight very similar views of the one stretch of road ¨C possibly drones flying in formation, with a man in a black shirt moving quickly in the shadowy parts of the street.


    Jones turned away from the monitors to face the room. ¡®Incoming.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    Screen hadn¡¯t looked away from her monitors. ¡®Are you easily squicked?¡¯


    ¡®Depends on the content.¡¯


    The purple-haired tech pointed. ¡®Here comes your litmus test.¡¯


    Eight screens showed the man being knocked out of a pool of shadow and onto the road.


    The drones, thankfully, didn¡¯t appear to provide sound ¨C or, if they did, it was muted. Stef stared at the footage, enthralled and disgusted as Agent Volcano beat the man¡¯s head into the ground, then¨C


    Stef stared. ¡®Oh, holy fuck.¡¯


    She heard at least one of the techs vomiting.


    Taylor disappeared from the footage as quickly as he¡¯d appeared, leaving the drones staring down at a body that was now in two pieces ¨C the head several metres from the rest.


    ¡®Did¨C Did he just do that?¡¯


    ¡®Yep.¡¯


    Stef stared at the screen and the form of the dead man, which receded as the drones retreated. ¡®He just pulled a guy¡¯s head off.¡¯


    ¡®Eee-yup.¡¯


    ¡®I-¡¯ Stef pinched her nose. ¡®How-¡¯


    ¡®Taylor, Mags and their team are the only reason I¡¯m still alive and adorable,¡¯ Screen said quietly. ¡®Their methods are extreme, but necessary. That pile of garbage just murdered a recruit for the crime of wearing a suit, such little hesitation means he¡¯s done it before, would do it again. Now, there¡¯s one less monster in the world.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s still not-¡¯ She stared at the wall of monitors that had thankfully moved on from the gruesome image. ¡®That¡¯s still going to take a bit to process.¡¯


    ¡®We do this,¡¯ Screen said, ¡®so people can sleep safely. So the civilians coming in to pay their respects are safe. It¡¯s not how we deal with every solution, but sometimes-¡¯ She drummed her fingers on the desk. ¡®It¡¯s awful, but it¡¯s necessary.¡¯

 44 - Mirrorfall

    There was change from without and change from within.


    Both were valid, and both expressed themselves in different ways. Both meshed in an infinite feedback loop. One causing the other which rolled and twisted and-


    She still recognised the person in the mirror.


    Stef splashed her face again, dried off with a required towel, then required a fresh uniform.


    On her first morning in the Agency, she¡¯d hidden in the bathroom. She''d been unable and unwilling to face how things were supposed to go - but Ryan had adjusted for her, simply throwing her at Curt instead of insisting that she meet an overwhelming number of new people all at once.


    I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.


    She smoothed back her hair, adjusted her sleeves, tidied her shirt cuffs, then left the safety of the bathroom.


    It was getting easier and easier to navigate the dull, undecorated halls of the Field floors - a lot of it was just down to the simple-for-some process of paying attention to the world. Being present in the world and the moment was still hard, navigating by the numbers on the doors was easier.


    Ryan¡¯s office door was open, and he stood staring out the window, the blank expression on his face telling her he was more interested in his HUD than in anything going on outside the window.


    For a moment, it was the silhouette of her father in his office. The imposing figure against the window, phone to his ear as he worked on what was ostensibly a day off. A guard dog to sneak past if she felt brave, or one to avoid - to double-back and use the other stairs to get down to the kitchen.


    So far, Ryan hadn¡¯t shown any signs of anger for the mere crime of being in his field of vision.


    As awful a father as James was, Ryan was that good of a person.


    After standing awkwardly for a moment, she walked forward, then rapped on his desk to get his attention.


    ¡®Are you ready?¡¯ he asked as he focused on her.


    She tried to stand straight. ¡®If you¡¯re still willing to take me.¡¯


    He nodded, and the world blurred.


    They were alone when they reintegrated - there was the anticipated rough concrete of the roof of an industrial building beneath her feet, but none of the civilians she¡¯d expected to see.


    Stretching out from where they stood was a small sea of tin roofs and flat concrete roofs. Everything was in darkness, aside from some small security lights and the street lamps.


    It would have been serene, if not for the sounds of fights.


    ¡®No observers showed up?¡¯ she asked.


    ¡®More than we expected, actually, but we¡¯ve had some unexpected help,¡¯ he said. Ryan walked towards the low fence of corrugated metal that ran around the edge of the roof and indicated to what looked like a roof covered in trash and pallets. ¡®The Lost are providing shields and cover for the observers. Kelly and Darren are acting as-¡¯


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    There was a rush of sound and light. Ryan spun, his gun appearing in his hand. A blond man in a tie-dyed shirt appeared, a relaxed expression on his face. Ryan¡¯s hand immediately dropped, as did his head.


    Panic slid into her ¨C the change from attack mode to meekness had been so sudden, it almost seemed like he¡¯d been turned off. She moved forwards, but Ryan¡¯s hand shot out and grabbed her.


    ¡®Hey, Ryan,¡¯ the man said, with a smooth drawl that belonged to a cartoon hippie. ¡®Where¡¯s the observation area?¡¯


    Ryan kept his head bowed for another moment, then straightened and pointed to one of the buildings across from them. ¡®You¡¯ll need to step through the Lost¡¯s illusions to find it, but you¡¯re welcome to join them,¡¯ he said, in a quiet, respectful voice. ¡®And I won¡¯t bore you with the usual warnings, sir.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks, man.¡¯ The hippie disappeared with another rush of sound.


    ¡®Do I get to ask ¡°What the fuck?¡±¡¯ she asked.


    ¡®He¡¯s a god.¡¯ Ryan went back to scanning the road and the buildings.


    ¡®Lolwut?¡¯


    ¡®To¨C¡¯ Ryan coughed, his voice clearing. ¡®To be precise, he¡¯s a diminished god, but we still afford him all the respect that his kind demand.¡¯


    ¡®That hippie was a god?¡¯


    ¡®Stef, you¡­¡¯


    Thunder rolled, and static electricity filled the air.


    Everything went still as if moving would bring the lightning strike.


    But that¡¯s backwards, thunder comes after...


    There were no more sounds of fighting. No more...anything. The world seemed to have taken on the air of a library or a graveyard, where sounds weren¡¯t just not expected but were...rude. Sacrilegious. Against the natural order.


    There were no sounds, and for the moment, that seemed right.


    She jumped as something touched her hand - Ryan. She looked to him, then followed his gaze towards the sky.


    There was a hole in the clouds. It looked funny, almost unreal, like the image of a sinkhole in a metropolitan area. Something not right and probably shopped. The edges of the sky seemed to rush into the hole as if it were some sort of upside-down sink. A blob of silver fell through, and the hole closed as quickly as it had opened.


    ¡®That,¡¯ she tried to find her words, fight against the unnatural silence. ¡®That¡¯s the-¡¯


    He nodded.


    The blob moved strangely, like a liquid in zero-G, and began to descend from the clouds.


    There was a gunshot, and that seemed to break the spell that was holding the world silent.


    ¡®You gonna shift up and grab it?¡¯ she asked. ¡®Doesn¡¯t this make it game over?¡¯


    ¡®Watch,¡¯ he said.


    A dozen dark shapes moved towards the mirror. They seemed to be unable to touch it ¨C some passing through it, some bouncing back as if they¡¯d hit a force field.


    ¡®The mirror is fickle,¡¯ he said. ¡®And now things get even more dangerous.¡¯


    The shapes in the sky began to turn on each other and fight in mid-air.


    ¡®I need to reiterate,¡¯ Ryan started slowly. ¡®Because I say this to everyone, not because I don¡¯t trust you. The mirror is not to be used; it¡¯s to be destroyed. If you find yourself unable, call me, and I¡¯ll do it for you.¡¯


    ¡®I remember.¡¯ She watched as two winged people clashed and fell towards a distant rooftop. ¡®Would¨C Would you wish for anything? If it wasn¡¯t against the rules?¡¯


    ¡®I have very few needs that can¡¯t be taken care of by requirements,¡¯ he said. ¡®There are some fairy foods and drinks I enjoy, but I have money enough to fill those wants. Other than that¡­¡¯ He paused for a moment. ¡®Words I wish I hadn¡¯t said, decisions I wish I hadn¡¯t made, but I don¡¯t think I would actually wish them away. They¡¯re part of my life.¡¯


    She stared at the ground. ¡®Are you lying, like me when I said no?¡¯


    He squeezed her shoulder. ¡®I am.¡¯ He paused again. ¡®There are things I wish for, but even if given a choice, I¡¯m not sure I¡¯d be able to make the wish. Like I said before, a wish is one thing; the fallout of the wish is something completely different.¡¯


    ¡®Butterfly effect?¡¯ she said, echoing their conversation from earlier.


    He nodded. ¡®I almost envy the conviction that it takes for a person to-¡¯


    Someone started to scream, a desperate scream-or-die shriek that rose above even the amalgam of sounds in the surrounding area.


    ¡®Ready?¡¯ Ryan asked.


    No.


    She nodded, not trusting her words.


    He put a hand on her shoulder, and they shifted towards danger.

 45 - Incremental Changes

    The owner of the rather impressive scream was still fighting against whoever was causing him pain when they reintegrated.


    Curiously, Ryan hadn¡¯t shifted them directly into the fray - instead, they were a few metres back from two fighting men, hidden from view by a couple of industrial bins.


    Stef looked down to her hand as Ryan pressed something small and hard into it - a headset, which she dutifully slipped into her ear.


    ¡®On a night like tonight,¡¯ he said, the sound only coming through her headset, rather than from his voicebox and mouth. ¡®It never hurts to be careful. Too many would take advantage of a recruit¡¯s - or even an agent¡¯s - desire to help first, and ask questions later.¡¯


    The two men - one obviously a fairy, though only one of his wings was visible - were brawling like someone had announced ¡°two men enter, one man leaves¡±. Both were bleeding, and neither seemed inclined to stop.


    She looked down, made sure she wasn¡¯t going to make any noise by changing her position, and shuffled a half-step to her right to get a better view.


    The better view was far less pleasant - with her new angle it was obvious that the fight had started unfairly - there was a third man on the ground, either dead or very much on his way, and lying beside him was the fairy¡¯s other wing.


    She looked up at Ryan, then mouthed the word ¡°now?¡±.


    He shook his head, and again his voice came through her headset. ¡®This situation is funny, in a hideous kind of way.¡¯ He tapped the side of his head. ¡®I¡¯ve got identities for both - well, all three - of these individuals. Two Solstice, one slaver, whoever wins will still be a problem for us.¡¯


    ¡®Wonderful,¡¯ she muttered soundlessly.


    ¡®Tell me what you see.¡¯


    She pulled out her phone, winced, set the brightness to minimum, then opened her text chat with him. {Idiots. Fighting.}


    ¡®Tell me what you see, Recruit.¡¯


    This is a learning opportunity, Spyder. See, don¡¯t just look.


    She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and tried to see with a fresh perspective. She looked past the fighting men - he already knew who they were, so that couldn¡¯t have been what he wanted her to see.


    Behind them was a warehouse dock, a standard, ill-painted roller door, a trolley that probably should have been-


    {Roller door. Partially up} she texted. {Could be more inside?}


    ¡®Very good,¡¯ he said, and she couldn¡¯t stop herself from smiling as warm fuzzies flooded her system. ¡®Now, what would be your next move?¡¯


    {Need to be able to see inside. Could be one guy. Could be a hundred guys.}


    ¡®Likely closer to the former,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®but there is some interference inside preventing more than a basic scan. That indicates that there¡¯s some Solstice technology inside.¡¯


    She pulled up Screen from her recent contacts. {Still floating? Can you get a drone into the building in front of me and give me a live feed?}


    {Bat incoming. Point your head at the building you¡¯re talking about.}


    She straightened, and looked directly at the warehouse behind the fighting men - who had seemed to exhaust themselves in the fight-or-die intensity of a few moments prior and were now limping in weak circles around each other.


    An impression of dark-on-dark rushed overhead and she caught sight of a fruit bat as it disappeared through a broken pane of an upper window.


    Immediately, a feed appeared on her phone, stabilizing as the drone settled. A light touch on the screen brought up the options, and two more taps shared the feed with Ryan.


    ¡®Ah,¡¯ Ryan said after a moment of examining the feed. ¡®It¡¯s what I suspected. The van,¡¯ he said, indicating to her phone, ¡®it¡¯s a mobile blackout zone for transporting prisoners.¡¯


    {That¡¯s bad. What do we do?}


    The world blurred as they shifted again - this time, they appeared inside the warehouse, the metal floor of a storage mezzanine beneath their feet.


    She looked around - from what she could see, and from what the bat had shown, they were alone. ¡®What about Punch-and-Judy?¡¯ she asked, keeping her voice quiet nonetheless.


    ¡®Combat recruits are coming for them.¡¯


    ¡®What now?¡¯


    ¡®Show me inside the van.¡¯


    She flicked back to her conversation with Screen. {Inside the van, please.}


    There was a scrabbling noise near the half-open roller door and a moment later someone - the one-winged fairy - ducked under the door, blood dripping from the stump that had been his other wing.


    He ran towards the van, shouting a name she couldn¡¯t make out, and made it there at the same time as the image from the bat drone stablised.


    Inside the van were dead fae - obviously dead fae - unless there was some magic that would allow someone to survive a shot to the head, along with what were surely too many spare petrol canisters lined along one wall of the van.


    ¡®There¡¯s no one in there that needs saving,¡¯ she said. ¡®Not that I can see. Do we need to check anyway?¡¯


    The one-winged fairy grabbed the door of the van, and as he did, the world went white.


    There were feelings, sensations, absent of context, of meaning, of anything.


    A hand on her arm, that hand being ripped away.


    The feeling of flight, of weightlessness.


    The roar of the truck that had scarred her tiny body.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    She stared, not seeing, not-


    She blinked, and she knew time had passed.


    Spyder?


    She closed her eyes.


    Wake up.


    I¡¯m here. I think.


    Skin cold and warm and wet and-


    All she could feel was the breath from her nose on her upper lip.


    Open your eyes.


    I¡¯m too-


    She coughed and it hurt.


    Floaty. All floaty.


    What about Ryan?


    Fear overrode pain and she forced her eyes open.


    Inventory. Start.


    Slowly, she wiggled each finger and toe - all twenty seemed to be accounted for, even if a lot of them hurt to move. She lay on her side, her legs trapped under a shelving unit that had fallen from the mezzanine with her, but all she couldn¡¯t see anything else for all the hair in her eyes.


    With a grunt, she pulled her right hand towards her face to smooth her hair back, but it-


    ¡®Wha¡­¡¯


    Her hand came through the hair blocking her vision, but...it hadn¡¯t parted the strands, it had¡­


    She moved her hand back and forth, and each time, it seemed to clip through the hair like a poorly-programmed video game asset or-


    I¡¯m not...brain enough for this¡­


    She clipped her hand back through the hair, got her hair out of her face - which still left her staring at hair.


    ¡®Come the fuck on,¡¯ she mumbled, then bit into her index finger - hoping the pain would give her focus - it wasn¡¯t the healthiest way to deal with the situation, but it had an unfortunate history of working.


    ¡®Ow.¡¯


    She bit herself again.


    ¡®Ow!¡¯


    ¡®Hey doc, it hurts when I do this,¡¯ she mumbled, then shuffled, wiggling out from under the lighter debris that covered her, and with a couple of shoves, retrieved her legs from under the shelving unit.


    Head still spinning, she sat up, knocked her back of her head against a piece of something that had been out of field of fuzzy vision, and felt herself freeze as she saw a suit.


    For one panic-filled instant between two heartbeats, she thought it was Ryan - but confusion dripped into her brain as she recognised herself.


    ¡®Did¡­¡¯ she asked no-one, her mouth full of dust, ¡®did I level up dissociation so much I unlocked third-person mode?¡¯


    She slowly patted herself down - she felt real, and there were a tonne of tiny, useless details that wouldn¡¯t be there if she was hallucinating.


    Taste. Sound. Feeling. Hearing. Sight.


    I am here in this moment.


    She reached down and touched her doppleganger¡¯s back - but like her hand had done with the hair, it went straight through, as if the other Stef wasn¡¯t there at all.


    ¡®What the fuck is-¡¯


    Am I dead? Is ¨C is this what being a ghost is? You can touch everything but your own corpse?


    And the her-or-other-her was a corpse - she couldn¡¯t see her other¡¯s head, but it disappeared under a piece of shelving at a strange angle and there was far too much blood to-


    ¡®Then who is-¡¯


    There had been- She fought to think straight. The van had been blacked-out, and it had exploded. And- Someone - Ryan or Jonesy or- Someone had said that enough bombs going off in the one spot could crack dimensions just a bit.


    Stef of Earth-1 was okay, Stef of Earth-2 wasn¡¯t.


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said, unsure of why she was apologising, but knowing it felt right. ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    There was movement, and she looked up from herself, saw Ryan - bleeding from a cut on his head and sans his jacket for the first time since she¡¯d met him - and ran to him.


    Instead of being met with an agent hug, she stumbled through him, and barely caught herself before falling.


    Ryan of Earth-2 was okay, which meant-


    It¡¯s not an even exchange, it doesn¡¯t work that way. Stop it right now!


    She straightened, and looked at the other Ryan, knowing what she had to show him.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ she said as she pointed. ¡®I¡¯m really, really sorry.¡¯


    Ryan-2 walked past her, following her point, footsteps slow, already acting like a man at a memorial. There was no need for him to run - unless she¡¯d been severely misinformed about human anatomy, you needed most of your head to live, and that blood she¡¯d seen-


    She gave him his privacy, not watching - somehow feeling like a voyeur, like a helpless bystander who was doing nothing but making the situation worse.


    A lot of people had the desire to attend their own funerals, to see what people would say about them, to know secretly how people felt, and to bask in the adulation and praise whose floodgates were only opened when the target of that goodwill wasn¡¯t around to embarrass the well-wisher for their verbosity.


    She¡¯d never imagined her own funeral. She¡¯d imagined - and predicted - passing quietly away in her flat, oozing corpse juices onto her bed or couch, inconveniencing her landlord, but otherwise being cremated with little ceremony or notice.


    There was no-one around to care, except now...there was the man quietly weeping next to her doppleganger¡¯s corpse.


    After a moment, Ryan-2 entered her field of vision again - he¡¯d done his best to look like he hadn¡¯t been crying, but the grief was still far too evident on his face.


    ¡®I saw another,¡¯ he said, his voice distorted a little, his image wavering a bit - whatever was allowing this peek into another world was fading. ¡®Follow me, I¡¯ll take you to him.¡¯ Ryan-2 paused, then reached his hand forward, hovering it just above her cheek. ¡®I¡¯m proud,¡¯ he said, his voice cracking on top of the distortion, ¡®of you. Live a happy life, please.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll try,¡¯ she whispered.


    He walked forward, picking his way through fallen debris and cracked cement, to the far side of the warehouse, where most of the mezzanine had fallen. Sitting awkwardly on a flat slab of concrete, and leaning against the corrugated wall, was another Ryan.


    Ryan-hopefully-1 looked up, lifted a bloody hand away from his side, and reached for her.


    Breath caught in her chest, in case this was Ryan-3, she reached out, and let out a gasp as her fingers touched his. She stumbled forward, dropped her knees, and hugged him - careful not to press in on the bloody spot on his uniform.


    ¡®Are- Are you okay?¡¯ she burbled, trying to stop herself from crying with relief.


    ¡®It¡¯s not deep,¡¯ he said, ¡®painful, but I¡¯ll be fine.¡¯


    ¡®Stef?¡¯ he said after a moment.


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    ¡®We need to regroup. The stairs look relatively intact, can you go to the roof and see if there¡¯s a System connection?¡¯


    She nodded, stood and after hesitating for a second, pulled out her gun. Curt was right, one training session didn¡¯t make for an action hero, but right now, in a blackout zone, with an injured agent, any protection was better than nothing.


    Careful not to step too heavily, she picked her way up the metal stairs - stairs which, thankfully, seemed to be mostly intact, aside from losing several connections to the wall - definitely not OSHA-compliant, but safe enough to traverse.


    Once out onto the roof, she took in a lungful of clean air, then pulled out her phone. Credit had to be given to whatever combination of science and magic had put it together, as even after a fall that had killed her Earth-2 doppelganger, there was only one small crack across the bottom half of the screen - not nearly enough to interfere with its operation.


    She flicked it on, but wasn¡¯t surprised to see no System signal - though if they needed to order food, the regular human internet was working.


    Internet meant GPS, which meant- She opened the map that she¡¯d spent the afternoon examining and altering with the techs - her position pinged, then began to show supplies and safe zones - they were near a couple of medical supply drops, but the nearest safe zone was-


    Something moved, and she spun towards it, dropping her phone to put a second hand on her gun to steady it, adopting the stance she¡¯d practiced for way, way too brief a time.


    The mirror tumbled overhead - for the moment, no-one was fighting for control of it, no figures flew around it, trying to grab it and make their wishes.


    It flowed and deformed, a living blob of mercury, a T-1000 practicing interpretive dance. Every now and then when moonlight or artificial light touched it, it refracted as a rainbow, iridescent and magical.


    It was gorgeous, but it could end the world.


    And maybe for the first time ever, she didn¡¯t want the world to go away.


    ¡®One large mirror could end the word, a thousand grains of sand¡­not so much.¡¯


    Ryan had said that most mirrors were shattered, but for whatever reason, this one was still intact. Still...looming large with apocalyptic possibilities. Still- It tumbled directly overhead, so close that she could see her reflection, distorted as it was in the liquid mass of the mirror.


    Breaking it was the second-best thing to destroying it completely. Cracking it into a million tiny pieces maybe meant that a million tiny wishes would be granted. New cars, not new continents. A flame war, not a world war. Lotto wins and exams passed, tiny things that would change the lives of the people wishing, without changing the world.


    And she could make it happen. Do something good for once. Prove that she could be a good recruit. That she could listen and take initiative.


    She adjusted her grip on her gun, and flicked off the safety.


    At least it¡¯s a big enough target.


    She smiled, took a deep breath, then nodded to herself.


    I can do this.


    She checked her footing, aimed again, then fired.

 46 - Joy and Sorrow

    Ryan stared at himself, at his double, and knew what the grief meant.


    Even as his Stef gently hugged him, smearing his blood onto her uniform, the man standing across from him had only loneliness and a burial in his future.


    ¡®Take her home,¡¯ his double said, the words evident, even without sound. ¡®You-¡¯ he took a step forward, fading as the dimensional cracks continued to heal themselves.


    It had been...too much. An indulgence that he should have ignored - this type of operation was too far outside of her current skills as a recruit, but she had asked, and-


    He put a hand on her head, and brushed away some of the dust.


    She had asked, and he¡¯d been afraid to say no - just as maybe she¡¯d been afraid not to ask, for fear of disappointing him. They both wanted family, both knew what happened when expectations didn¡¯t align.


    There were going to be a lot of false steps, of running up against memories of her parents and his son; as well as sorting through the lessons Reynolds had taught him again, looking for the good advice on how to be a father. A second chance he never thought he¡¯d have.


    He looked to the empty space where his double had stood. In at least one world, and probably countless others, a tiny difference in how Stef had been standing, how she¡¯d fallen, what debris had crashed against the structure of the building, meant that dozens of Ryans had squandered that second chance.


    Had...been responsible for her dying, again. Had cut short the life he¡¯d tried to give her by carrying a child out of Limbo.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    She looked up, dust and blood on her cheeks. ¡®Hm?¡¯


    ¡®We need to regroup. The stairs look relatively intact, can you go to the roof and see if there¡¯s a System connection?¡¯


    She nodded, stood, then pulled her gun from her holster, and started up the warped-but-intact metal stairs.


    He stood and drew his own weapon, looking through the gloom for any movement - the proximity triggers wouldn¡¯t have been the first plan for the blackout bombs, and as such, there would likely be a squad of Solstice on their way to check for any remaining supplies - and to gather what bodies they could, both of their fallen comrades, and trophy pieces of their enemies.


    And he wasn¡¯t going to let those trophies include an agent and a recruit.


    There was a scraping sound as Stef opened the door at the top of the staircase.


    Carefully, as to not aggravate the wound in his side, he started up the stairs, taking them one at a time, pausing with each step to fully sweep the warehouse.


    There was movement, and he levelled his gun - only to see that it was nothing but settling debris.


    A single shot sounded, and he turned to run up the stairs, but stopped as the doorframe - previously showing nothing but the darkness of the night beyond, now seemed to be showing daylight.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    No - the texture was wrong for daylight, but-


    A ribbon of coloured light streaked past him, running across the wall like headlights in the night.


    Magic suffused the air in a way he couldn¡¯t describe. Energising and drowning, choking and uplifting, power such that he felt like an insect, like-


    A shockwave slammed into him, and he tumbled to the bottom of the staircase.


    He lay dazed for a moment as the choking, overwhelming amount of magic in the air drained away.


    The mirror, someone had-


    He pulled himself to his feet and took the stairs two and three at a time, ignoring the pain in his side, focussed on nothing but the doorway, which was again, nothing but a rectangle of night.


    He wanted to shout her name, to call out, to see if she was all right, but even that would slow him down, would-


    There seemed to be a hundred times as many stars, as twinkling specs of shattered mirror drifted like dust motes in the air.


    And Stef lay on the ground, unmoving, in a puddle of blood.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    The word was a refutation. A wish. A prayer. A denial of the reality he saw. A reality that couldn¡¯t-


    He covered the space between them, his legs unsteady and numb as he knelt beside her.


    A blood-covered point poked out of the back of her vest, dripping blood onto the ground.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    He gently rolled her, lifting her so the she rested on his knees so that he could assess the damage, so that he could-


    He was already crying. Already knew the truth. Already knew he¡¯d failed her.


    Moonlight reflected off a shard of mirror that had torn through her chest.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    Little dead blue eyes stared.


    His tears dripped onto her dust-covered cheek.


    He looked around, hoping to see the edge of the blackout zone, hoping to see a way back into System territory. The doctors could¨C The Parkers¨C


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    He shook her, like perhaps she was just asleep, a useless gesture, and her head lolled to the side, taking her unseeing eyes off him.


    She was-


    ¡®Please.¡¯


    She was dead.


    The Parkers could work miracles, but not miracles like this. It would take time to get to the edge of the blackout and by then her brain would have been starved of oxygen for long enough to-


    And that was if-


    He blinked back his tears and looked for her soul, for the tiny spark, for the little light that had taken him from grief to hope when he¡¯d held a dead child.


    There was no sign of her soul - meaning it had already slipped away, while he¡¯d been immobile due to the explosion of the mirror, or when he¡¯d been too slow getting back up the stairs. There was no movement, except for the tiny reflections in the mirror that protruded from her chest.


    Mirror that reflected the blue of his vest.


    ¡®And I saw this colour.¡¯


    He brushed her hair back from her face.


    ¡®Because this has always made me feel safe. Because- Cause it made me not want to go. And you¡¯ve always been there. Always helped me.¡¯


    He had thought her remembering him was the most precious thing possible - a memory that should not have survived, a day that shouldn¡¯t have been remembered, a connection remade, separated by a lifetime.


    ¡®All I ever needed to do was look at Agency blue and- And whatever was wrong was a little bit better. And you¡¯ve been doing that all my life.¡¯


    And it had been just as precious to her. Maybe even more so.


    He reached forward and touched the mirror.


    It was the directive to destroy all pieces of mirror. It was his duty to follow his directives.


    It was his duty to destroy it, no matter the cost.


    He had his duty. Duty to his directives. Duty to his recruit. Duty to his new child.


    He cleared his mind as he wrapped his hand around the piece of mirror. The magic flowed beneath his fingertips, a tangible sort of static, far more powerful than blue, far more powerful than any fae magic he¡¯d been exposed to. Potential yearning to be used. Wishes waiting to be made.


    This was the furthest thing from his Duty to the Agency, and yet there was no question in his mind that it was the right thing to do.


    Wishes had consequences, and as he had said to Death so long ago, the consequence would be a life.


    ¡®I love you,¡¯ he whispered, and hoped that it wouldn¡¯t be both the first and last time he said it.


    He closed his eyes and made a wish.

 01 - Everything Lost, Everything to Lose

    There was an innate stillness to corpses that always set Ryan at unease. All the small motions of life extinguished, the spark gone, nothing but the husk remaining.


    Stef¡¯s dead eyes stared out into the night, and he blinked back tears.


    He closed his eyes, holding the image of Stef alive, happy, questioning everything and exploring magic ¨C tried to hold onto the precious few things he knew about her ¨C then took another breath.


    With a shaking hand, he touched the jagged, misshapen piece of mirror that jutted out from her chest, and made a wish.


    He could feel the magic flowing in the mirror, static and overwhelming, so vibrant compared to the unmoving body of his recruit. He let go of the mirror and waited for something to happen, looking around for signs of other people ¨C of fae to avoid, of Solstice to fight, of other Agency staff to¨C


    He forced his thoughts away from the Agency.


    Making a wish was a violation of his Duty.


    If it had been a wish in service to the Agency or for some noble, world-saving act, then there was the chance it could be swept under the rug.


    Here and now, there was no such nobility to hide behind. Saving a recruit was not an act that bowed to the tenets of Duty. Recruits were expendable. Recruits could be replaced. Recruits existed to supplement agents, to take risks so that agents didn¡¯t have to.


    Recruitment as a concept had become corrupted. Recruitment as a concept was a truly wonderful thing ¨C to bring in people with new perspectives, to give agents a chance to show some the wonder of the world.


    To watch their faces light up as they learned new things. To see their wonder at something as simple as encountering fae. To be reminded to be grateful that magic existed.


    Stef¡¯s body stayed limp in his arms.


    He shook her a little, hoping to wake her.


    Dead blue eyes stared at him.


    It was just like it had been the first time. He¡¯d been so close, and she¡¯d slipped away due to his inaction. ¡®Wake up,¡¯ he whispered. ¡®Stef, wake up.¡¯ Tears ran down his cheek. ¡®Dammit, please, you- Please-¡¯


    She gave no response.


    He rubbed her back, like he had done for Alexander when his son had been crying, or unable to sleep. He could avoid the sharp point of the mirror that had torn through her back, but he couldn¡¯t avoid the blood that had soaked into her uniform.


    She was bleeding again, and it was his fault again.


    Eight-point-six in technical aptitude. A score high enough to indicate she had a chance at becoming Jones¡¯ aide. A score for a recruit with a long, successful, vital career.


    And a long, happy life.


    Instead, she lay still, and he couldn¡¯t hold back his tears.


    The wish was going to work. It had to work. She was going to live; he hadn¡¯t failed her. He couldn¡¯t have broken a promise to protect her so soon after making it.


    He looked down at her ¨C at the sharp shard of mirror that had sunk into her chest. The wound was still open, though no more blood poured from it. There was no heart to pump more of her life away.


    He touched a fingertip to the mirror again, trying not to move it, trying not to make its sharp edges cut her more. There was still magic there, but his wish hadn¡¯t come true.


    It didn¡¯t make any sense.


    He had made a wish, and mirror magic was, so far as anyone knew, the highest order of magic in the universe. The mirrors were, after all, all that was left of Chaos whilst he was dead.


    There was nothing that could block the magic, no reason the wish wouldn¡¯t be granted.


    He refused to acknowledge the possibility that he had been a second too late, that her soul had sunk out of sight before he had recovered from the explosion¡¯s overload. Refused to consider that this was the one wish that a mirror couldn¡¯t grant.


    A life. One tiny life. It was such a simple wish.


    ¡®You have the audacity to think it¡¯s that simple?¡¯


    He squeezed Stef¡¯s hand for a moment, then stood and turned to face Death. She hated those who genuflected before her, but he nodded nonetheless ¨C he needed to show respect.


    She was angry with him. She had never been angry with him before. With Carol, there had been sadness, disappointment, and warnings, but not anger. Ryan flicked his gaze to the ground. ¡®I¡¯m sorry, my Lady. I meant no offence.¡¯


    ¡®How can you think this is a simple wish?¡¯


    He stole a glance back at Stef¡¯s body. ¡®My Lady¡­why hasn¡¯t it worked?¡¯


    The skull within Death¡¯s hood stared for a moment more, then her human-seeming face took over, a frown drawing her mouth tight. ¡®You ask that as though you expect it to work.¡¯


    He recognised a stillness in his HUD ¨C his clock had stopped. Death had pulled them to the side, into a moment that never happened in the real world, to talk. It was a kindness ¨C it was delaying the seconds until their system connection came back, delaying the time until¨C


    ¡®I am not here for your sake, Ryan. I am here for hers.¡¯


    He swallowed. ¡®My lady, the mirror¨C¡¯


    ¡®This is the second time you¡¯ve chanced a fate worse than death for her. It is arrogance on your part to assume that this is any different to any other mortal death.¡¯


    He drove his hands into his pockets and balled his fists for a little borrowed strength. ¡®It is different. The mirror is involved.¡¯ He gave her an imploring look. ¡®I made a wish,¡¯ he said, hating himself for how weak he sounded.


    It was human to fight the inevitable, but this wasn¡¯t inevitable ¨C a mirror had been involved, and that changed everything. It had to change everything, else he was a failure.


    ¡®Ask the question you want to ask,¡¯ Death said, her fingers curling as if to beckon the question from his lips.


    He dredged up thoughts he hadn¡¯t allowed himself to have since cutting his palms on the mirror and wishing her back. ¡®Has she passed?¡¯


    A small eternity went by as he waited for Death to answer.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    He exhaled a long breath. ¡®Then is she with one of your sisters?¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    He frowned in confusion. ¡®Then¡­where is she?¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s not for me to say.¡¯


    He looked back at the body again. ¡®I need to know.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re acting out of guilt again.¡¯


    ¡®The mirror was there. I¨C¡¯


    Her voice took on a sharp edge. ¡®Whether or not a piece of my father was there, you would have tried something, wouldn¡¯t you?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know.¡¯ He looked away. ¡®I ¨C I like to think I would have¨C¡¯


    ¡®You would have. I know. I¡¯ve seen it. You lost her in a lot of worlds, tonight. Not all of them had mirror at their disposal.¡¯ She paused. ¡®You acted above your place, Ryan. You always act above your place.¡¯


    ¡®I did as any father,¡¯ he choked on the word. Surely a failure this extreme disqualified him from that role. ¡®Would have done. You cannot blame me for that, my Lady.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re going against your duty, angel.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s just one life,¡¯ he said in an attempt to rationalise the situation.


    ¡®Every life,¡¯ Death said, ¡®is just one life. Every person you¡¯ve sent to me is just one life. Every person you¡¯ve saved, every¨C¡¯


    ¡®I understand what you¡¯re trying to say, my Lady. I do.¡¯


    ¡®Are you sure? You truly understand the implications?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    She stood silently for a moment. ¡®If you understand, then take hold of the mirror.¡¯


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡®I already made the wish,¡¯ he said before catching himself as his hand began to drift towards the mirror.


    ¡®Take hold of the mirror,¡¯ she said again, and this time, he knew it wasn¡¯t just a suggestion.


    He knelt, grabbed the mirror, and forced his mind to blank. He kept all stray thoughts away ¨C any thought or wish out of place could rob her of the chance to come back. He gripped the shard tighter, the jagged edges digging into his palm.


    The power of the mirror was overwhelming. The potential bit at his skin, begging to be used. Leaked memories of the dead world flashed in his mind ¨C the mirror remembered where it had come from, but it desired to become something new.


    ¡®Now what?¡¯ he asked.


    Her voice went cold. ¡®Pull it out.¡¯


    One of his fears came to fore. The fear that the mirror itself was stopping her from coming back ¨C that if he removed it, it could then be used to repair the damage to her chest in the precious few seconds that she would live.


    ¡®Pull it out,¡¯ she repeated.


    He kept his grip tight, but he didn¡¯t dare begin to move the shard. ¡®Why?¡¯


    ¡®You said you understood.¡¯


    ¡®What will happen if I pull it out?¡¯


    ¡®Are you questioning me?¡¯ she asked, her voice the coldest he had ever heard it.


    His shoulders dropped, and he relaxed his grip on the piece of mirror. ¡®I just want to know, my Lady. Agents aren¡¯t without curiosity.¡¯


    She knelt beside him and placed a cold hand on his face. ¡®If you are very, very lucky, she will die.¡¯


    ¡®My Lady¨C¡¯


    ¡®Shh¡­¡¯ She removed her hood. ¡®You had to bring the doll, didn¡¯t you? The first time, when you went to my sister¡¯s realm, you just had to bring the doll.¡¯


    ¡®It was¨C¡¯


    ¡®¨Cso very unfair of you, Ryan. It was a bribe. It was a trick.¡¯


    ¡®I needed some leverage,¡¯ he admitted, ashamed.


    ¡®You brought the doll; you gave it back to her. It gave her a connection to that memory, something to store memory and dream in, something outside herself. Something private. Something safe. A memory no one else could touch.¡¯


    The doll hadn¡¯t been the only toy in Limbo. ¡®Should I have brought a ball instead?¡¯


    For a moment, Death smiled, then her sad expression returned, and she replaced her hood. ¡®Please, Ryan, pull out the mirror. It¡¯s the kindest thing you can do for her.¡¯


    ¡®But that will kill her?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®And if I don¡¯t?¡¯


    ¡®If ¨C yes, ¡°if¡± ¨C she wakes up, what do you think will happen? Angel you might be, but considering the consequences has never been your strong suit. Part of you once rallied an army against a king, but the past is past. In this life, you¡¯ve allowed yourself to trust too many traitors, granted too many second chances, and acted out of guilt too many times.¡¯


    ¡®My Lady¨C¡¯


    ¡®I cautioned you against this last time, angel, how many times will you take chances with her life? With her peace?¡¯


    ¡®I have considered the consequences, my Lady¨C¡¯


    ¡®No you haven¡¯t,¡¯ she snapped.


    He took a step back and bowed his head. ¡®No, I guess I haven¡¯t. All I know is that I don¡¯t want her to die. I will not let her¨C¡¯


    ¡®What you will or won¡¯t allow means nothing, Agent. She is dead.¡¯


    He balled his hands again. ¡®And I can change that. I have to change that.¡¯


    ¡®There were worlds where you never met her. Worlds where you never followed her into Limbo. Worlds where you shot through the wardrobe. So many of you, without her. I want so much to add you to their number. You cannot even¨C There is so much you are not considering.¡¯


    ¡®I will not kill her. I know I can save her. I will not let her go ¨C not even for you, my Lady.¡¯


    Her voice turned sad. ¡®Even if it¡¯s the kindest choice?¡¯


    The kindest choice would have been assigning her to the tech department. The right choice would have been not bringing her on this mission. The smart choice would have been not letting her out of his sight on a night where so many died.


    There was nothing kind about killing her.


    A life ¨C any life, any chance ¨C was better than nothing.


    ¡®If by some chance¡­ If she does wake up, I know it will be hard. I have no misconceptions about this. I do not expect that it will be easy, or even that it would last¨C¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s the problem,¡¯ Death said.


    ¡®My Lady?¡¯


    ¡®If you do not entrust her to me this time, and you proceed as you want to, I may not get to take her at all.¡¯


    Confusion overtook him. ¡®Like one of Fortitude¡¯s souls?¡¯


    ¡®No, not an embargo. If she wakes, you cannot think of her as but anything but mortal. Once¡­that existence ends, she may just end. Her soul may fade into nothing, not come to the void with me. It¡¯s not just this life you¡¯re gambling with. It¡¯s also whatever comes next.¡¯


    That revelation stilled him. It was one thing for his wish not to work or for it to work for a limited amount of time. To have time to make peace and say goodbye was one thing. If he¡¯d picked up anything about his recruit in the last few days, he knew that ¡°goodbye¡± would probably include ¡°require copious amount of sugar in various forms¡±.


    Goodbye was one thing. To render her existence null and deny her the chance to go into the void and whatever lay beyond it¡­ He wasn¡¯t sure that he could do that. He wasn¡¯t strong enough to do that. He¨C


    ¡®Ryan?¡¯


    He thought of the way she¡¯d lit up when looking at new magic. The dozens of questions she¡¯d asked whilst he¡¯d read her fairy tales while knowing she had dozens more, held back by the simple want to see how the story ended.


    He wanted to see her smile again.


    His answer came haltingly but strong. ¡®I¡¯m not sure she would forgive me if I denied her the chance at life.¡¯


    Death put a hand on his shoulder. ¡®If you let her go, I will try and bring her to my youngest sister¡¯s realm so that you can say your goodbyes.¡¯


    ¡®My lady, I thought you did not bargain.¡¯


    A small smile graced her lips. ¡®You are a special case, Ryan.¡¯ She sighed softly. ¡®I¡¯m having the same conversation with you in a hundred different realities. The same words, the same look in your eyes, the same indecision shaking your hands.¡¯


    He looked at his hands for a moment, then slid them into the pockets of his jacket again ¨C it would make no difference to her. Still, it allowed him a little more false bravado to hide behind.


    ¡®Pull out the mirror. Let her go. Please.¡¯


    ¡®What¡­what am I deciding in those other worlds?¡¯ Teasing him with other knowledge of other worlds was something she had always done, ever since the first time he had tried to contravene the laws of life and death.


    She had thought it a way to help him make an informed decision, and it was ¨C though it made him hate many of his multiverse selves. The ones who made the rash decisions, the ones who acted without thought, or the ones who acted wrongly.


    And as many of them probably hated him.


    ¡®Perhaps, Ryan, you should view your curiosity as a curse, rather than a blessing.¡¯ She turned away from him, and as she did, he saw the glint of a scythe ¨C it was rarely visible, but it was never far from her side, just like his gun ¡ª the accoutrements of their duties.


    ¡®People¡¯s weapons define them,¡¯ she said, having picked his thought from his mind. She walked over to Stef and brushed some hair back from her face. ¡®If you bring her back, she may decide to fight with her mind, rather than with the gun you gave her.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s up to her. Jones would be happy to have her.¡¯


    ¡®Would she go willingly to your scholar, angel? Instead of contemplating the weight of your weapon, contemplate what it is in your recruit¡¯s chest.¡¯ She stared at him with grey eyes and waited for the thought to hit him. ¡®It¡¯s not only a way to bring her back from this¡­suspension; it¡¯s a piece of mirror. I credit you with being smart enough to realise that you will not be able to keep it a secret¡­ However, what if you cannot keep the secret from those who would weaponise it?¡¯


    ¡®We can only try.¡¯


    ¡®Thirty-seven of your other selves have pulled the mirror from the body and let her go. Eighteen are seriously considering it. Twelve have decided against it and asked me to accept that decision.¡¯


    ¡®And the others?¡¯ he asked.


    ¡®Twenty-seven are indecisive, one is blaming her ¨C telling her that she brought it on herself, that she deserves to die, that¨C¡¯


    ¡®Please,¡¯ he said, ¡®stop. I don¡¯t want to know.¡¯ He looked down at his hands, wondering how monstrous he could be in some of those worlds.


    A skeletal face grinned at him. ¡®As you wish. Just remember, no matter what your decision, the outcome you desire may not eventuate. The mirrors are¡­chaotic, as is everything they do.¡¯


    He looked at his inert recruit again, and he just wished she would sit up. Wished she¡¯d say something that he barely understood or an out-of-context sentence, continuing a conversation she had started in her head.


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to let her go,¡¯ he said, finally content with the decision. He stood and looked up at Death. ¡®For better or worse, I have to give her this chance.¡¯


    ¡®Just so you know, angel: in the end, it was never your decision.¡¯ She pressed a finger to his lips as the question formed in his mind. He deflated, knowing better than to ask for information that wasn¡¯t his to know. ¡®Now do it.¡¯


    ¡®But, if it didn¡¯t work the last time¨C¡¯


    She smiled, leaned down, and kissed his cheek with her cold lips. ¡®Trust me.¡¯


    He bent over his recruit, wrapping both of his hands around the piece of mirror, careful not to move it too much and cause further damage to her heart. Closing his eyes, he stilled his mind and wished for her to come back.


    Death touched his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. The mirror shuddered in his hands, and he released it. Backing away from the body, he watched as the mirror shook, making his inert recruit¡¯s body twitch. He reached for it, but a quiet warning from Death stopped him.


    Small pieces of moonlight hit the mirror and broke off, shattering into sparkles on the roof. All the small sounds were sucked away until the only thing he could hear was the heart beating in his chest. The mirror rose up a little, and he panicked, not knowing what would happen if it left her chest.


    ¡®Trust it,¡¯ Death said, her voice strong despite the sound vacuum.


    The ragged edges of the mirror rippled and became smooth. It slowly turned in her chest, and he tried not to think of the further damage it was doing. A sharp point rose out of it, and then it slowly melted down into her chest.


    He allowed himself to breathe again.


    Ryan forced himself to look at his recruit ¨C aside from the mirror no longer being visible, there was no apparent change. Her skin was just as pale, her body still without movement or breath.


    ¡®Now what?¡¯ he asked.


    ¡®Now,¡¯ she said, ¡®you wait. Think of this as a beacon being lit. She may find her way back; she may not. There¡¯s nothing simple about this.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, my lady.¡¯


    He stared at the mirror in her chest, through a hole that would hopefully repair itself once she awoke. Inside, he could see the silver of the mirror, sitting in the place where her heart should be - it hadn¡¯t repaired her heart, it had-


    If he was in System territory, he¡¯d be able to scan her, to see exactly what was going on, but here-


    He looked to Death, knowing she knew every thought and question in his mind. Without a word, she touched his shoulder, and for the briefest time possible, he saw a sliver of what it must have been like to perceive things as she did. A world wrapped in shadow and light, echoes and possibilities, thoughts made real, chances and options as real things, impossible to describe, but tangible all the same.


    Before his mind collapsed, everything dropped away. The only thing that remained was his perception of Stef - the world was dark, holding nothing but his sleeping daughter, and the heart-shaped piece of mirror in her chest. The mirror glowed rainbow at its edges, pulsing and rippling with impossible-to-discern magic.


    It wasn¡¯t an anatomical heart, a machine designed for pumping blood; it was the simple depiction on cards and children¡¯s drawings.


    He stared at it and wondered if, in a hundred years, someone would write a fairy tale about it; not the farmer and the flower, but the angel and wish-made-heart.


    His vision became normal again, and when he looked for Death, she had disappeared.


    The sounds of the world came back - whatever time and grace Death had given him was gone, and now he had to deal with the fallout of-


    There was a buzzing sound, and he looked around. A drone - one with traditional rotors, rather than a program that appeared as a bird, zoomed in to head-height, and he cursed Jones¡¯ diligence.


    Their normal drones couldn¡¯t function in blackout zones. Without a System connection, they simply went into incognito mode, acting like real birds as until their connection came back.


    Rotor drones were sent in when someone important - someone like a Director, someone like him - was lost in a blackout. They could be controlled through standard infrastructure until a System connection came back. Within seconds of real time, Jones had deployed a rotor drone to locate him and assess his condition.


    Jones had done the right thing but had exposed everything at the same time. Stef lay in a circle of mirror shards, her chest torn open, all for the high-definition cameras to see.


    He had seconds to decide what to do - he could face the Agency and beg for their leniency. Or he could fall, grab Stef¡¯s body, run for the nearest entrance to Faerie and chance that he¡¯d live through withdrawal, all while trying to keep a comatose girl safe.


    Duty and love were in conflict, and there was no right choice.

 02 - Ripples

    Ryan stared at the drone, each second as slow as eternity.


    Between each eternity, he felt like he could still see like Death. Could still see all the possibilities and consequences as part of him tried to calculate which was the best way to go. And he knew, that in a hundred other worlds, other Ryans were just as frozen, just as overwhelmed by the decision.


    With each breath, a new reality was born. Doppelgangers who ran for Faerie. Men who snatched up another shard of mirror to wish their way out of it. Agents who were frozen by the gaze of the drone.


    Reynolds had always described him as careful - a stark contrast to Rhys. His former probably never lived in a moment of indecision, probably never-


    A rectangle of lights lit up on the bottom of the drone - the small cargo area, and he automatically reached his palm out as the doors slid open. A headset fell into his hand, and he numbly fit it into his ear.


    ¡®Don¡¯t run, Director.¡¯


    Three words that made his choice for him. Three words that showed how much Jones trusted him. An ordinary director, a good director, one who would never consider falling for any reason, would spend an hour chewing out a subordinate who even suggested that they were considering such an action, such a treasonous affront to Duty.


    Good agents didn¡¯t fall. Good agents didn¡¯t even think about falling. You lived for your Duty, and took all your fulfilment from that.


    Good agents didn¡¯t make wishes with mirror, either, but in that regard, he¡¯d long since been tainted - as enabling a wish was probably as bad as making one yourself.


    He¡¯d never regretted it. The action had felt like one of his first real choices. One of the first things he¡¯d done to try and break himself out of the newborn mould, out of the shadow of Rhys.


    Enabling a wish had been one of the first things he¡¯d ever done, and now, making a wish might be one of the last.


    ¡®Ryan?¡¯


    No title, but the deference was still there. Jones, always polite, always respectful. Respectful, even now, when a lesser agent would be reporting their director to Central, just by how things looked - vying for leverage even before understanding the situation.


    He knew - he trusted - that Jones wasn¡¯t doing that.


    But that still didn¡¯t really improve things, the reprieve of a few seconds meant everything right now, but would mean little in the long run. It was delaying the inevitable, and he couldn¡¯t even think fast enough to make these extra moments count.


    No clever defences came to mind. No citations of Agency procedure that would allow for what he¡¯d done.


    There was nothing but the truth and the girl who lay dead at his feet.


    He started to lift his hand towards his ear, noticed it was trembling, clenched it for a moment, then touched the button on the headset. ¡®I¡¯m here, Jones,¡¯ his voice flat, resigned and waiting for whatever would come next.


    He¡¯d made a choice. Made this choice, and now whatever happened wasn¡¯t up to him.


    ¡®The closest edge to the blackout is about a hundred and fifty metres, but I wouldn¡¯t suggest-¡¯


    ¡®It won¡¯t be necessary.¡¯


    ¡®Director-¡¯ Jones began, his voice pleading. ¡®I-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not running,¡¯ he said, the choice solidifying as he said the words.


    He could run, and it might work out. There were some things in his favour. He had Fairyland citizenship, done as part of a pilot program decades ago to try and more fully integrate the Agency with certain Fairyland government departments. With that citizenship, he¡¯d be able to access some benefits.


    And there were always people looking to hire fallen agents. People who would barter for secrets and insider knowledge. Others who wanted the noted reliability of an agent working for them. Niche markets who simply wanted agents around for the aesthetic.


    He¡¯d be able to find his feet. He could find a job that would pay well enough to allow them to live comfortably - but all of that was predicated on surviving withdrawal.


    It all hinged on living through the hell that was every last drop of blue becoming fully and finally inactive. The most hopeful estimates were that forty per cent of agents trying to fall survived, with the actual numbers probably depressingly lower.


    And if he died, there¡¯d be no one to look after a comatose girl.


    He knelt, lifted Stef¡¯s dirty hand from the ground and kissed it. ¡®Please, this isn¡¯t one of those times you can sleep in.¡¯ He wrapped her in his jacket and settled her onto his shoulder, his heart heavy at how still she was, how much it felt like he was carrying a corpse home.


    The edge of the blackout was too far - he couldn¡¯t safely carry her that far without the chance of interference. It would only take the jacket slipping for a moment for a careful fae to notice the shine of mirror.


    There were a dozen more shards of mirror on the ground around where her body had lay - he picked up the closest, caught a glimpse of his reflection, then stood.


    In a hundred worlds, he was making a decision that would change his life.


    In those hundred worlds, there would be Ryans who wouldn¡¯t live till morning. Stefs that would never open their eyes again.


    And even with mirror, there were only so many consequences he could escape.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Stronger men, smarter men, could likely come up with the perfect sequence of wishes to lead to a perfect storybook ending.


    All he wanted was for things to go back to normal. To the new normal that he¡¯d had for a few blessed hours.


    There was no right decision, so as he had always done, as Reynolds had always chided him for, he made the safe choice, and put his faith in the Agency, in the only life he¡¯d ever known.


    He took a moment to clear his mind, then gently squeezed the shard of mirror and made two wishes. The first: that all unused pieces of mirror would disappear; and the second, that they would be transported back to his office.


    The world warped before his eyes, turning to rainbow at the edges, like the border he¡¯d seen around Stef¡¯s new heart. The scene in front of him then split, like the world had blinked, and the texture of the ground changed beneath his shoes, from hard concrete to soft carpet.


    He held Stef tightly for a moment, hoping that if it was the last hug he ever gave her, that some part of her would know it, then laid her on the couch.


    He took a few steps, then collapsed heavily into his desk chair, his hand already drifting towards the drawer that held a bottle of Scotch.


    Before his finger had even brushed the handle, there was a knock at his door.


    He looked at the door, raised a hand to his ear, removed the unnecessary headset, and looked at Jones¡¯ contact card in his HUD. [Come in,] he said.


    Jones opened the door, slipped in, and closed it quickly - there would be no recruits right outside, but for the level of secrecy required, it was appreciated.


    ¡®How can I help, sir?¡¯


    ¡®I made a wish,¡¯ he said, his voice hollow, ¡®and she won¡¯t wake up.¡¯


    There was a rush of air as someone shifted in - Parker-1. ¡®I got an alert that there¡¯s a dead recruit in here. That-¡¯ The doctor turned, saw Stef, and immediately knelt beside the couch, reaching to open the jacket with one hand, a monitoring electrode in the other.


    Panic rose as Parker-1 flipped back the jacket. Trusting Jones was one thing, the Parkers were another, and-


    A shimmering bubble exploded from Stef, throwing Parker-1 across the office, where he slid inelegantly to the floor, the monitoring electrodes still gripped in his hand.


    ¡®What, and I ask this sincerely, the fuck,¡¯ Parker-1 asked, his voice deadpan, sounding far more like his twin for a moment.


    Ryan stared at the bubble as it pulsed, beating in the exact way that Stef¡¯s heart wasn¡¯t, an opalescent oil slick of purples and golds, a shifting rainbow that seemed to threaten, even while being beautiful.


    The mirror had- Either it had seen Parker-1¡¯s approach as an attack, or- Or it wasn¡¯t going to let anyone near it, and if that was the case, then-


    Jones moved forward and helped Parker-1 to his feet. The tech spoke quietly with the doctor for a moment, then Parker-1 shifted away.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ he said belatedly, his mind feeling rusted slow, thoughts clunking and grinding, with no real forward momentum.


    With Parker-1 gone, the bubble seemed to settle somewhat, the shifting colours now almost...benign, the natural shift and slide of colours on soap bubbles, rather than magic that would throw a man across a room.


    Jones approached his desk. ¡®Sir, do you trust me?¡¯


    ¡®I-¡¯


    ¡®We need information, we need to know what¡¯s going on, I need to know what¡¯s going on, so that if there¡¯s anything I can do to help her, I can do it.¡¯


    ¡®I trust you.¡¯


    Jones turned away, then approached Stef and her bubble. Jones knelt, and slowly reached a hand towards the shifting, shimmeringly purple surface of the bubble. ¡®I thought you played a rogue,¡¯ Jones said as his fingers brushed the bubble, ¡®after this, I think you need to play a priest.¡¯ The bubble didn¡¯t throw Jones back, as it had done with Parker-1. Jones looked over his shoulder. ¡®If I¡¯m right, sir, it¡¯s you doing this. Trust me, so I can help her.¡¯


    He looked from Jones, to Stef, to his desk, then back at his tech. If he was a good director, a good agent, he would have treated Jones like his child, just as Reynolds had been a father to him. In a perfect world, they would have been family, but in this one, they were barely more than co-workers.


    But, he had no reason to distrust Jones, and a million little reasons to give him his trust.


    Slowly, he nodded, and the bubble dropped away.


    Carefully, but quickly, Jones placed monitoring electrodes on her, just as Parker-1 had been trying to do, then Jones retreated back a few steps and looked at the monitoring details on a tablet.


    ¡®Sir, this would be a lot easier in my lab, do I have your permission to-¡¯


    He nodded.


    Jones approached his desk. ¡®And you need to self-report to Central, now, you need to show as much willing as possible. You¡¯ve got my word no one will take her without your say so, but you need to bring them up to speed now, so this is kept as above-board as it possibly can be.¡¯


    He nodded, numb, and already feeling as though he was heading for the gallows.


    With a nod, Jones and Stef¡¯s body disappeared, leaving him alone. He couldn¡¯t to take a full breath, couldn¡¯t think. He was as frozen and as overwhelmed as when he¡¯d first seen the body and the pool of blood.


    So many mistakes, his life was nothing but an expose on his faults, and even in such an uneven life, this was sure to be a highlight of incompetence.


    The last small piece of unused mirror sat on his desk, just beyond his fingertips.


    It was nothing to look at, one tiny piece of mirror, like someone had smashed a compact without cleaning up all of the pieces, but it somehow made a weight in the world, drawing attention to it.


    There was a reason that pieces of mirror didn¡¯t go undiscovered for long. The fragments called out, without sound and without a voice, making their presence known, alerting the world to their potential.


    He¡¯d once heard someone remark that the third wish paid for the other two - it might have been in reference to the story of the monkey¡¯s paw - an ¡°old¡± story that was in fact, younger than he was, but it didn¡¯t quite align with the classic tale.


    In that story, the third wish undid the second, but the consequences of the first wish remained.


    The third wish paying for the other two, to him, had always meant that the status quo was returned. That the wish-maker got to peek at the results of wishing things were different, seeing the unintended consequences, then returning to how things had been. It left you happy with your circumstances, which, although not perfect, didn¡¯t twist your wish, didn¡¯t grant it in the cruellest way possible.


    Mirror wishes were different. In the same way that Death and her sisters could see your thoughts, in the way that requirements were shorthand for what you imagined, mirror wishes usually didn¡¯t go wrong.


    There could be unintended consequences, but there wasn¡¯t a payment extracted. You didn¡¯t wish for money, only to have that money come from a settlement as the result of a dead child.


    He wanted things to go back to normal. Or...what was going to be normal. Wanted time to roll back a few hours to stop himself from taking her into an operation well above her field rating.


    But there were so many things that could go wrong when you brought time travel into the equation.


    Beyond the countless unintended consequences, that came with casting new ripples into a pond; as he understood it, all wishes that had to do with going against the flow of time, or interrupting time had to be facilitated by Time himself.


    And whereas Death was ultimately fair, even if that fairness meant that kindness wasn¡¯t always possible, Time was a monster. Time would take the route of the monkey¡¯s paw whenever possible, twisting and interpreting a wish for the worst possible result.


    Jones was right though, the sooner he self-reported, the better it was going to look, and he needed every bit of goodwill that the Agency was capable of.


    He stared into his HUD, scrolled through little-used menus and found the option to contact Central. He flagged the message as important and requested both an Enforcer and an advocate for himself, someone impartial who would try and interpret policy and procedure to his benefit.


    With unsteady hands, he opened his bottom drawer, pulled out an old bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a glass.


    The rock had been thrown into the pond, now there was nothing to do but wait and see where the ripples went.

 03 - Shockwave

    Before the shatter


    Curt ducked behind a half-full industrial bin and the detritus that had accumulated around it. It would do for a few minutes - the collection of empty boxes, packing plastic and deep shadows would keep everyone off his trail for a moment at least.


    He kept himself silent and still for a moment, listening for any sounds of pursuit. Any start-stop footsteps that meant someone was trying to be sneaky, and pounding of heavy boots from Solstice tryhards wanting another kill.


    Nothing.


    Whatever fights were going on, there was nothing close enough to mess with him.


    With one more look around, looking for silhouettes in the dark, he quickly undid his belt, then carefully slid down his pants. With care, he peeled the left leg slowly over the large - but thankfully shallow - cut on his lower thigh.


    He tested a few of the discarded boxes, then found an intact wooden crate large enough to sit on, and sat, wincing in pain as he settled, fresh blood seeping up through the half-congealed wound.


    Slowly - and therefore quietly - he pulled the pencil-case-sized first-aid kit from one of his coat¡¯s inner pockets and began to clean the wound.


    It was probably enough to get a shift back to the Agency - the Parkers would be able to clean and tend to the wound a lot better and fast than he could. Still, there was always the possibility that they¡¯d bar him from returning to the field.


    There were more than enough people to handle the Agency¡¯s role in the night - which was to mostly stop fuckwits from murdering each other and to arrest any Solstice that dared to show their faces.


    But if he remained in the field, remained active, it would look better for him. Would make him look like less of a detriment to the team.


    The Agency didn¡¯t even deem him worthy of turning on the self-cleaning routines in his room. The fact alone told him he was still clearly in the category of having to earn every scrap of respect and recognition.


    He had to prove himself every day, every moment, every action.


    Wound clean, he bandaged it, and pulled his pants back up.


    He¡¯d remain in the field, but a thirty-second breather wouldn¡¯t hurt anyone.


    Two requirements gave him a water bottle, and a tablet - he guzzled half the bottle, then placed it on the wooden box beside him, then tapped over to the mission view of the area.


    There was still a small blackout area - it covered one building entirely - that was the building that would have held the explosives, with a few other buildings partially disrupted.


    An owl landed on a cardboard box across from him.


    {Hi} Raz said in a text message. {Stay quiet for a minute, there¡¯s a group of Solstice passing about thirty metres away.}


    On the tablet, it zoomed in, showing his location, that of the owl drone, and dots of six Solstice. The dot colour indicated that they were being tracked visually; each member of the party blacked out, so that they couldn¡¯t just be arrested with a simple shift.


    He stilled himself and clicked the tablet off. Even though the night was far from pitch-black, any sign of artificial light could lead detailed-orientated Solstice to his hiding spot.


    And he wasn¡¯t Magnolia, he couldn¡¯t hope to fight six people and win.


    After five solid minutes, Raz¡¯s voice appeared in his ear. ¡®You¡¯ll be fine now. Where are you-¡¯


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The sound died in his headset, and for a moment, the world was as bright as day, though the light was strange, pulsing, varying in colour.


    He looked up - where there had been stars and clouds, there was the impression of a slowly-moving shockwave, an expanding bubble of nothingness across the sky, its leading-edge a bright ribbon of rainbow-drenched clouds and light.


    And the tension was strong enough to choke him.


    He jumped from the box, grabbed the owl drone, clutched it to his chest, and hunkered against the metal side of the bin, his coat hiked up to cover his face.


    The light pulsed again, and the world seemed to explode.


    The bin in front of him jumped as the shockwave...became real, or touched the ground, or slipped into this level of reality. Windows exploded. People screamed.


    And all went as quiet as the first moment after the end of the world.


    When he was sure that nothing else was going to happen, he slowly straightened up, and let the owl go. The drone flapped a few times, moved to a cardboard box, and stood there, unmoving, indicating that it was receiving no active instructions.


    A quick look at his phone confirmed the blackout. Without the System connection, everyone in the field had a lot less information - only what could be carried over traditional human communications infrastructure.


    Human infrastructure was enough to keep the Vox mission chat going. Every message in the chat was some version of ¡°what the fuck just happened¡±. There were also a few photos that people had taken of the rainbow-shockwave-ribbon, presumably in case they didn¡¯t make it back, and every bit of data counted.


    A call from Raz appeared on his phone, and he tapped his headset to accept it.


    ¡®First, are you okay, Agent C?¡¯


    Agent C, a nickname he loved and hated in equal measures on most days. When they¡¯d first met, Raz had thought he was an agent - although an augment, rather than something grown in a vat; and the nickname had remained after the confusion had been cleared up.


    He loved it, because it meant the ¡°Recruit Curt¡± mask was working. That he seemed as organised, dedicated and proper as any proxy - any agent - which boded well for his future. For a future that contained his continued freedom, and not a future that ended in confinement or a firing squad.


    And he was trying - every day, every action, every nod and form signed. Even if his hard work went underappreciated. Even if no one saw how hard he was working.


    He hated it, because he didn¡¯t want to be associated with the boundless cruelty that some agents were capable of.


    Raz meant it as a friendly gesture, as a mark of respect. It was something that ¡°Recruit Curt¡± would accept, so he smiled and played into the persona when the nickname was used, because it was the best way to ensure that he saw freedom the next day.


    ¡®Yeah, I¡¯m fine, Recruit. I¡¯m going to echo the only question going on in Vox and politely ask what in the fuck just happened?¡¯


    ¡®We...don¡¯t know,¡¯ Raz said. ¡®Most of our drones are blind right now, and no-one was at the epicentre of whatever that just was.¡¯


    ¡®But it was definitely the mirror, right?¡¯


    ¡®Do koalas have-¡¯ Raz cut himself short. ¡®Almost certainly, Agent C. General evac is being called for Field recruits. I know where you are, so I can guide you to the closest edge of the blackout.¡¯


    He nodded, even though Raz couldn¡¯t see him.


    Getting out was sensible, but doing so in the middle of a blackout while in Agency uniform was less so.


    He quickly stripped his jacket, vest and tie. After a minute, he pulled his dress shirt over his head, leaving just the thick cotton T-shirt beneath. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but it would read less immediately like ¡°Agency¡± to any Solstice wanting to take potshots in the blackout.


    After a moment, he grabbed the water bottle, splashed a little bit of the remaining water into his hands and messed up his hair. It was small, but it took his appearance further from that of a sensible, well-presented recruit.


    He tried to imagine what he looked like, tried to figure out what level of threat he would present to a stranger, what level of ¡°should be left the fuck alone¡± he exuded.


    He was armed, but he¡¯d obviously been injured - the dark stain on his uniform pants from the blood was in the wrong spot to just be a case of accidentally pissing himself as the sky had turned into a rainbow vortex, and there were spots of blood on his shirt from his hurried first-aid.


    Overall, not very intimidating.


    Looking just human still had its downsides. Looking fae on the other hand - humans in a blackout zone couldn¡¯t do anything, but fae weren¡¯t impacted by them - Faerie was a natural blackout zone. So any fae wandering around in the open obviously believed themselves strong enough to take on all comers. That kind of confidence generated a certain level of deference.


    But it would make him a bigger target to any Solstice wanting a few more prisoners before the night was out.


    ¡®Hey, Raz, flip a coin for me.¡¯


    He heard a solid coin hit Raz¡¯s desk. ¡®Tails.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, then, fuck it.¡¯ He reached forward and picked up the owl drone again. With no active instructions, it barely reacted to his touch. He carefully positioned it on his shoulder - where its talons sank in deeper than he would have liked, then settled, content with its new perch.


    Now, at least, he¡¯d look fae from a distance - there weren¡¯t many normal humans who walked around with a bird of prey on their shoulder.


    He tapped a few times and disconnected his phone from his headset, then pressed the phone to his ear. ¡®Okay. Get me out of here, Recruit.¡¯

 04 - Status Quo

    Curt winced as the clipboard came down on his head.


    ¡®Who the fuck taught you first aid?¡¯ Parker-2 asked, apparently aghast at the job he¡¯d done of cleaning and bandaging the wound.


    ¡®You did, dickhead,¡¯ he retorted and smirked at the doctor. ¡®Shouldn¡¯t I be smacking you?¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t flirt, O¡¯Connor, besides, spanking costs extra.¡¯ Parker-2 grabbed a wheeled stool and sat. ¡®You did a decent job,¡¯ he said as he cleaned the wound. ¡®Could be improved though. You¡¯ve done the basic course, but you never came back for the advanced stuff. It would look really good on your aide application if you¡¯ve already got that squared away.¡¯


    ¡®Doc, I don¡¯t-¡¯


    Parker-2 shook a ¡°shut up¡± gesture in his direction. ¡®Don¡¯t bullshit me, boy. We know you applied, you¡¯ve done it once, you¡¯ll do it again. Ryan would be an idiot not to accept.¡¯ Parker-2 smothered the cut in antibacterial gel. ¡®You¡¯re a prince amongst pricks after all, who else is he going to pick?¡¯


    ¡®Stef, maybe,¡¯ he said without thinking.


    Parker-2 gave him a strange look. ¡®I think that¡¯s unlikely.¡¯


    ¡®Not every aide is Mags, not everyone is chosen for being hyper-competent. Sometimes it¡¯s just- Well, it wouldn¡¯t be nepotism, they¡¯re not related, but I¡¯ve been here more than a year, and this is the first time I¡¯ve seen him actually like a recruit.¡¯ He winced as Two scraped off the excess cream, then applied a dressing. ¡®And if I can make her brain calm down just a bit, and be the power behind the throne, she might make an okay aide in about six months.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve done a lot of work, Recruit,¡¯ Parker-2 said, with a surprising amount of sincerity in his voice. ¡®I think you need to give yourself more credit in how much you¡¯re valued around here.¡¯


    ¡®Doc-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m eight-thousand times smarter than you, Recruit, so stop fucking arguing with me. And either pull up your pants or pull out your dick, and if it¡¯s the latter, it best be enough for me and my other half, so I¡¯d choose option A, wouldn¡¯t you?¡¯


    He hopped off the bed and required a new pair of pants. ¡®That¡¯s what I love about coming here, the five-star service.¡¯


    Parker-2 grinned. ¡®Get the fuck out of my infirmary, I¡¯ve got other unlucky SOBs to treat.¡¯


    He ticked off a sarcastic salute and headed through the door that lead to the primary Tech floor.


    There were a lot of techs out and about - though the mood was far from the joviality that the floor usually exuded - small groups stood talking, going over reports, or moving towards the common areas.


    The major operations were as draining on the operators as they were on the recruits in the field. But...there were far too many active recruits who didn¡¯t appreciate that. Too many who simply saw a recruit operating from within the safety of the Agency, without understanding that the operators bore as much responsibility for keeping a combat or field recruit safe as any other member of their team.


    Bad agencies had a high burnout rate - tech agents who worked their recruits like dogs, making them take shift after shift with no regard for their mental health.


    Brisbane, which often seemed to be in the running for ¡°dead fucking last¡± on people¡¯s lists of good Agencies, at least had Jones. Even as much as he disliked agents, it was impossible not to see that Jones was one of the good ones, so far as that was possible.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Even if there was probably more to the skinny, nerdy agent than most people seemed to think.


    No one seemed that innocent without a thousand skeletons in their closet.


    Except maybe Stef.


    As fucked up as whatever was going on in her head, and the stop-start way she¡¯d go about sentences, she seemed to wear her heart on her sleeve.


    He¡¯d left her alone in the local court for twenty minutes while he slipped off to a Rose Room rendezvous only to come back to find her giddy over an advertising banner for a fae candy company. Even then, her attention had been split while she seemed to try and catalogue every fairy that walked past as if she couldn¡¯t take in the world fast enough.


    It wasn¡¯t anything like the experiences he¡¯d had with the other recruits Ryan had had him chaperone.


    Some were just as taken with the wonder of the world but clammed up around him. That reaction was only right, only to be expected - he was Solstice - ex-Solstice - though the distinction didn¡¯t seem to register with most people. They ditched him as soon as they could, which did make things somewhat easier. It was always easier to keep up the bright cheerfulness of ¡°Recruit Curt¡± with someone he only had to interact with for limited periods.


    All it had taken was some basic human kindness. Kindness, and some skills he¡¯d honed with a non-neurotypical sister - for Stef to see him as okay enough to not run screaming from. And that was worrying in its own way - speaking to a life without a lot of gentleness.


    And it was one of the few times he¡¯d been grateful for the cover story that the Agency allowed him. The lie that sidestepped his actual, violent history with the Solstice for one that cast him in the role of Red Shirt Nobody.


    He slipped into the command centre - unlike the sombre, ¡°thank fuck it¡¯s over¡± mood of the hall, this room was still all business. No-one on duty could relax until the last recruit was home.


    Jones stood in the opposite corner of the room, near a table that had been set as part-snack, part-buffet-dinner, consoling a recruit sitting in a chair. Jones gave him a nod, a smile settling easily onto her face - and once again, he had to admit that Jones was really cute when she was a girl.


    Some recruits liked the almost-anime-pretty-boy long blond hair Jones had when male. Still, there was just something...quietly pretty about Jones¡¯ brunette form, hair up, or with a messy bun poked full of misplaced pens.


    He returned the smile, then walked across to Raz¡¯s desk - keeping himself back, just in case Raz was still operating for someone, but when he saw nothing but paperwork, he walked up to the desk.


    Raz turned him, a huge frozen drink in his hand, took a sip, smiled, then a chair popped into existence. ¡®Have a seat, Agent C, how can I help?¡¯


    He smiled, and this time, it was genuine. ¡®I just wanted to thank you for getting me home.¡¯


    ¡®Of course,¡¯ Raz said. ¡®And at least we could shift you once you were out of the blackout.¡¯


    Curt fought his first instinct to say ¡°huh?¡±, and thought about the bright shockwave. ¡®The shatter messed with things?¡¯


    ¡®You know how it can be dodgy to try and shift fae sometimes? That times ten. Signal disruption across the board for people closer to the epicentre. We¡¯ve got people back who technically aren¡¯t showing up, so we¡¯re doing a manual recount.¡¯


    ¡®The Director? Mimosa?¡¯


    ¡®Agent Ryan was in the area of highest disruption, but he¡¯s back. No recruits that were in that band are registering properly yet, but there¡¯s no MIA report, so indicators are positive.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    ¡®Some of us are going to the pub to unwind,¡¯ Raz said. ¡®You¡¯re always welcome to join us.¡¯


    And he knew the offer was genuine, even if it might not go as well as Raz thought. There were just as many techs as field recruits who saw him as the piece of shit that he was. He¡¯d lucked out with Raz as an operator - but that had only been after going through several other operators - at least one of which had been so deliberately slack in their guidance and information that he¡¯d nearly died.


    Part of what had attracted Raz to the role was, well, attraction - the recruit had a crush on him, which the tech had categorised sadly as ¡°you¡¯re not the first straight boy I¡¯ve had a crush on, and you won¡¯t be the last¡±.


    Incompatibility aside, they still had a good...friendship probably wasn¡¯t the right word. Colleague-ship, co-worker-balance, professional working relationship. It worked. He had a good, solid operator who didn¡¯t try to get him killed, so there was no need to complicate that with trying to be friends. Trying to expect more out of his life as a recruit than he already had.


    Expecting more was dangerous. Wanting more was dangerous.


    Everything already seemed to hang by a thread, so it would be stupid to disrupt the balance.


    ¡®Maybe next time,¡¯ he said, and they both knew it was a lie.


    Raz smiled. ¡®Then get some rest.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®I will, goodnight recruit.¡¯

 05 - A Step Towards an Ending

    No news, it was said, was good news.


    Central was taking their time to respond to his request. He¡¯d spent a long hour in his office, alone and waiting for judgement, before deciding that if these were his last moments alive, he didn¡¯t want to spend them alone.


    Ryan had walked through the halls of his Agency, making what might be his last memories, before joining Jones and his comatose recruit in a hurriedly-assembled lab on level four. Four was primarily unused, except for a bit of secondary storage, and some supplies for ¡°end of the world¡± scenarios.


    It was the right choice - a safer option than having a piece of mirror close to recruits, even behind closed doors. There was very little chance that it would hurt anyone - but he also hadn¡¯t expected it to throw Parker-1 back, so all precautions were wise, and he expected no less of Jones.


    The lab space was bright and white, Stef lay on a wide examination table at the far end, dressed in a surgical gown. Two long benches had dozens of printed photos and pages of data, and Jones sat on a stool, slowly sorting through data.


    There was no conversation, no questions that he could help with, no answers he could give.


    He stared down at his hands, at the mug of tea that Jones had handed him sometime in the last hour, and wished he wasn¡¯t so useless.


    He spent most of his time keeping his life within precise boundaries, keeping himself where he felt capable and...content.


    Contentment was something he didn¡¯t often consciously think about. It wasn¡¯t something you had reason to question until you felt its absence.


    And it was, for an agent, something that was very much by design.


    You were born into a role, you were aware of your duties and your Duty from the moment you first opened your eyes, and growth was natural. You could specialise in an aspect of your role if you showed a natural aptitude, but a wholesale change was rarer.


    It was rare for an agent that was generated as technical to move to field, or for a combat agent to run field operations.


    There were expectations of life as an agent, and most of the time, it was easy enough to live life within those boundaries.


    Jones gently pulled the mug from his hands and replaced it with a small glass containing a sweet-smelling fae liquor.


    By design, agents could adapt to changes with grace, to continue on with their Duty without significant interruption. Family, friends, love, hobbies - those were to be enjoyed, to be treasured, but Duty had to come first.


    And Duty was all he¡¯d had for a long time.


    Duty and basic contentment. Day in and day out, there had been orders, paperwork, operations, routine, and a life that was nothing but the Agency.


    And it had taken just a few days to show how empty those years had been.


    He hadn¡¯t had reason to question his contentment; but in an ice-cream parlour, with a young woman, nose spotted with hot fudge, he¡¯d felt happy for the first time in a long time.


    Ice clinked in the glass, and he sipped at the floral-tasting liquid.


    Standard notifications continued to appear in his HUD as though the world hadn¡¯t stopped, as if one gunshot hadn¡¯t changed everything. As if-


    In the bottom-right of his HUD, a social media alert appeared.


    If - when - Reynolds woke, Ryan imagined that his director would be the kind of person with hundreds upon hundreds of connected individuals. Lists and bubbles and hillocks of carefully curated friends and acquaintances.


    He, on the other hand, engaged with it for a select few people, but primarily for Alexander and much more recently, Arisa. As of her most recent birthday, his granddaughter was apparently now old enough to post online herself, rather than just appearing in her father¡¯s posts.


    Alexander didn¡¯t want anything to do with him. Still, he¡¯d never found it in himself to cut every tie with his son - so a few photos and posts a week kept a tiny flicker of a connection going.


    And Arisa, most of her posts that weren¡¯t pictures of herself and her friends were the incomprehensible in-jokes of children. Still, she was happy and well-cared-for, and that was the most important thing.


    He opened the alert and found it to be an update on Alexander¡¯s latest extravagant fish tank project - a fantastic construction to keep what seemed to be a veritable reef of tropical fish.


    The ongoing project was impressive, but he much preferred Arisa¡¯s updates where she stood next to the tank, gave the fish ridiculous names, and made up dramas that supposedly took place in the tank.


    For years, posts from his son had been enough. Had been part of his contentment, something he¡¯d been used to. It had been enough. He had thought it had been enough.


    He looked from the drink in his hand to the- He wished he didn¡¯t think the word ¡°corpse¡± didn¡¯t come to mind when he looked at her, but it was a word he couldn¡¯t avoid.


    He¡¯d been content, he wanted to be happy.


    Another alert appeared in his HUD - this one, rather than a gentle hint in one corner, covered everything and informed him to return to his office to meet the requested representative from Central.


    ¡®Jones?¡¯


    His tech looked up, attention drawn away from the two tablets he was holding as he compiled information about whatever was going on with Stef. ¡®Sir?¡¯


    ¡®I-¡¯


    ¡®They¡¯re here?¡¯


    ¡®Just the Enforcer, no advocate had been assigned as yet.¡¯ He finished off the drink. ¡®I guess there¡¯s no point until they determine if-¡¯ He dismissed the glass. ¡®I¡¯m sorry I was never what I should have been to you. I¡¯m sorry if you feel you¡¯ve worked without recognition. I¡¯m sorry-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve never held it against you, sir.¡¯


    ¡®You deserve more, Agent. You¡¯re one of the finest people I¡¯ve ever worked with, and I don¡¯t express that enough.¡¯


    Jones slowly put down the two tablets he held. ¡®You¡¯re not perfect sir, but there¡¯s no one else I want as my director. Whatever I can say in your defence, whatever I can do to help, I¡¯ve got your back.¡¯


    He stood, walked to Jones and shook his hand, then moved to the examination table and lifted Stef¡¯s hand.


    Jones had done his best - for the most part, Stef looked as though she were merely sleeping. Cords for the monitoring equipment had been slipped through slits in the surgical gown, rather than leaving the ragged wound in her chest exposed.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    It was the strip of wide ribbon across her eyes that broke the illusion that she was merely sleeping.


    Agents had their traditions - some were easy to understand, like the habit of forming family groups from those you worked with. Others were far stranger, and whose origins had been lost to time.


    There were the traitor¡¯s marks - two parallel lines cut down the outside of the upper arms of agents deemed to have gone against their Duty in some heinous way. It said something to the mindset of fallen agents that the marks were common as tattoos amongst those who had fled the Agency.


    And it would be up to Central as to whether or not he deserved such an indignity before he was recycled, if the wish was seen as such a betrayal of the Agency.


    And then there was the ribbon. This tradition lay halfway between understandable and unknown. The known was easy - it was obviously a form of shroud, but no one knew why ribbon, or why it was just the eyes that were covered.


    But it was only something you did for the dead.


    It was a mark of respect, something Jones had likely done without a second thought. Still, he wanted to tear it away, but seeing glassy, unblinking eyes would be worse.


    ¡®Please,¡¯ he whispered as he clutched her hand in his. ¡®Please wake up.¡¯


    He bowed his head and shifted back to his office.


    Things were already as tidy as he could make them - this would be a time when small details counted, and he needed to be as professional as possible. A requirement refreshed his uniform, and another added water and glasses to the coffee table in the seating area.


    Now, the only thing that set his office apart was the unused piece of mirror on his desk.


    There was a rush of air in front of him as the enforcer shifted in, and the moment almost seemed to hang as the reintegration process finished, giving him one more moment to grab the mirror, make another wish, try to change the situation, try to-


    His train of thought was interrupted as he realised that he recognised the man in front of him - Enforcer Crawford.


    Crawford had been at least an acquaintance of Reynolds - likely more. His director had been blessed with so many friends and lovers that it was impossible to keep track of everyone.


    He was a little taller than Ryan was, handsome, his uniform black, his tie the subdued silver reserved for those who worked in Central.


    He quickly bowed his head in Crawford¡¯s direction. ¡®Sir,¡¯ he said, ¡®I need to self-report a breach of procedure.¡¯


    In a few seconds, it would be real.


    And it was already too late to turn back.


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ Crawford said, his voice neutral, ¡®that was the nature of your request to Central. Please describe the nature of this breach, Agent.¡¯


    ¡®We had a mirrorfall operation here tonight,¡¯ he began. ¡®I used a piece of mirror.¡¯ He looked down at the small remnant on his desk. ¡®In all technicality, sir, I made three wishes, though the latter two aren¡¯t why I self-reported.¡¯


    ¡®I laid a bet with your advocate,¡¯ Crawford said. ¡®Nights like this, an operation like this. It¡¯s always a wish. Tell me what happened. Tell me what you did.¡¯ He held up a hand for a moment. ¡®If two of the three wishes are inconsequential in your eyes, tell me about those first.¡¯


    ¡®One was to transport myself and my recruit out of a blackout zone. You¡¯ll understand why that was necessary in a moment. The other was to destroy every unused piece of mirror.¡¯ He swallowed and knew that he wasn¡¯t laying out the information in the most efficient way possible. ¡®The mirror was shattered, there was no way that the Agency was going to be able to collect and destroy every unclaimed piece. That wish, at least, I feel was in line with my Duty.¡¯


    ¡®And the wish you¡¯d like to report?¡¯


    ¡®My recruit was the one who shattered the mirror, she was in the way of- She died, sir. I made a wish to try and rectify that.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, Agent,¡¯ Crawford said, his voice somehow full of judgement and sympathy at the same time.


    ¡®I won¡¯t apologise, sir. I-¡¯


    ¡®Some free advice, Agent, let your advocate do the arguing for you.¡¯ Crawford turned his head, looking around the office in a very obvious way. ¡®We appear to be alone, so where is this recruit? I need to know exactly what I¡¯m dealing with.¡¯


    ¡®She¡¯s with my tech, sir.¡¯


    This seemed to be the first thing that he¡¯d said that surprised Crawford. ¡®Why your tech, Agent?¡¯


    ¡®It would be easier to show you than to explain.¡¯ He hung his head. ¡®I don¡¯t even know if I can explain myself.¡¯ He sent a shift invitation to Crawford and shifted them both to Jones¡¯ makeshift lab.


    ¡®Sir,¡¯ Jones said, then nodded to Crawford. ¡®And sir.¡¯ He pointed to Stef. ¡®I can tell you a lot of nothing, but nothing useful right now.¡¯


    Crawford walked towards the examination table, and he quickly followed, unsure of what he would do if the enforcer made a move towards the mirror. Uncertain if he should warn of the bubble effects, or if he should try and control whatever protective urge had seemed to manifest it in the first place.


    ¡®Someone,¡¯ Crawford said, ¡®start talking.¡¯


    Ryan nodded and begun the story. As he spoke, he held Stef¡¯s hand, for whatever small comfort it could bring her.


    Haltingly, he explained what he knew - what very little he knew. That despite her condition, despite the shroud ribbon across her eyes, that there was a chance that she¡¯d find her way back, that it...wasn¡¯t a simple wish.


    ¡®I can confirm what Director Ryan is saying,¡¯ Jones said when silence filled the room. ¡®So much as that¡¯s possible in these circumstances. I can tell you that this is Recruit Mimosa. There is approximately one kilo of mirror in her chest, shaped very much like a heart emoji,¡¯ he said, holding up a scan of Stef¡¯s chest. ¡®Beyond that- I cannot tell you if she is alive or dead. There are no functions that indicate life, but- But I also hesitate to state conclusively that she¡¯s dead, her body isn¡¯t cooling, there¡¯s not- So, I concur with everything my Director is saying.¡¯


    Crawford turned to Jones. ¡®What if we were to remove the mirror?¡¯


    ¡®I do not have enough data to extrapolate what could happen, sir.¡¯


    ¡®Very well. Could you give us the room, Agent Jones?¡¯


    Jones nodded, gathered a tablet and a few of the printed pages, then shifted away.


    Crawford walked away from the examination table and began to look through the remaining printed pages and photos that Jones had scattered along the benches.


    Ryan sat in the plastic chair beside the examination table, holding his not-dead-not-alive daughter¡¯s hand.


    Silent minutes passed, with only the hum and beep of Jones¡¯ monitoring equipment to break the heaviness of words unsaid.


    ¡®Who is this person to you?¡¯ Crawford finally asked as he came back to the examination table, and sat in a chair on the opposite side to Ryan. ¡®I can¡¯t imagine that you would do this for any recruit. You did get dispensation for full augmentation for another recruit a few years ago, that was a romantic relationship, I believe?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, sir, that¡¯s correct.¡¯


    ¡®And this?¡¯


    ¡®Stef is- I want to be her mentor, her father, her family. For whatever good or ill it may bring, I would ask that she be treated like my daughter in this, as I can attest that she felt the same way.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t guarantee that will help, Agent.¡¯


    ¡®Nonetheless, sir, it¡¯s my request.¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯s your Duty, Agent?¡¯


    It was probably a question meant to throw him, meant to make him beg, but of all the things in this never-ending night, it was one of the few answers he had. He stood, and faced Crawford, not defiant, but certain. ¡®Sir, I¡¯d like you to consider how much mirror I had access to. I could have fallen, could have made myself human and gone to Faerie, I could have hidden her away in an oubliette. Of all the things I could have done, I am here, and I hope that counts for something.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s a pretty answer, Agent Ryan, but what would you say if I asked you, to answer truthfully if you considered any of those alternatives.¡¯


    Lying was pointless. Truth, absolute truth, could be pulled from him if it was deemed necessary, and it would hurt much more than choosing to say something now.


    ¡®Of course I did,¡¯ he said, after the briefest moment of hesitation. ¡®Wishes, possibilities, a hundred different ideas occurred. Every possibility in the world occurs when the worst happens.¡¯


    ¡®Agency policy is to destroy mirror, Ryan.¡¯


    ¡®I know, sir.¡¯


    ¡®We don¡¯t break policy for recruits, Ryan.¡¯


    ¡®I know, sir.¡¯


    ¡®What do you want to happen? What do you expect to happen?¡¯


    He¡¯d been asking himself the same questions for hours. Since he¡¯d seen Stef lying in a pool of blood. As he¡¯d picked up a shard of a dead world. After he¡¯d made a wish. The whole time he¡¯d stared at the one remaining piece of mirror that still sat in his office.


    He wanted things to go back to normal. He wanted this to have never happened. He wanted a second chance.


    He expected, deep in his heart, that he¡¯d be physically restrained while technical agents from Central extracted the mirror. He expected he¡¯d be arranging a funeral.


    He expected he¡¯d be lucky to live another twelve hours.


    He met Crawford¡¯s gaze, unable to give an answer.


    Crawford stared at him, and he felt like the Enforcer was reading his mind. ¡®Good,¡¯ Crawford said. ¡®At least you know the height of the pile of shit you¡¯re in, Agent.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, sir.¡¯


    ¡®I need to discuss this with your advocate. Someone will be along in the morning-¡¯ Crawford paused and checked his watch. ¡®Well, later this morning anyway, sometime after the sun has risen. I can¡¯t promise you a positive outcome, and I don¡¯t want you to expect a positive outcome.¡¯ Crawford took a step forward, and he flinched. ¡®For my friendship with Reynolds, I¡¯ll do my best. If you have goodbyes you want to make, if you have a will you need to see to, you¡¯ve got a few hours.¡¯


    ¡®Sir-¡¯


    ¡®Not another word,¡¯ Crawford said. ¡®For your own sake, not another word.¡¯


    Compared to the relatively neutral tone Crawford had been using, this rebuke was sharp. A warning not to press, that one more word might be the tipping point that lead to a snap decision.


    And as a man already facing the gallows, he needed every ounce of leniency that Crawford and his advocate were capable of.


    Numbly, he nodded to Crawford, then let his head hang.


    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crawford shift away.


    It took a long moment to lift his head again, his thoughts a jumble, his heart heavy, tears already on his cheeks.

 06 - Last Requests

    Every tiny detail seemed blown out of proportion.


    The sensation of his own breath. The brightness of the lab lights. The touch of fabric against his skin. Every pinpoint of information that was never otherwise considered.


    Ryan wiped his cheeks, aware of every line on his palm touching the skin. Every unnoticed detail of hands he¡¯d had for over a century. Hands he¡¯d always feared shared too many details with Rhys.


    So much - too much - of his early life had been in the shadow of a man simultaneously gone and not gone - as was probably the way with other templated agents. Other templates though, he knew, were generally made for objective reasons - that the recycled former had instinctive knowledge too valuable to be lost forever.


    Not many were the result of guilt, as he was. Reynolds hadn¡¯t enjoyed playing executioner to one of the last Duskers, so giving part of Rhys new life as an agent had been his imperfect solution.


    Some of Rhys, too much of Rhys. Enough that he¡¯d spent his early years with Reynolds looking for signs of the Dusker peeking out from his eyes, of ascribing his behaviours to a dead man, of trying to treat him like Ryan and Rhys at the same time.


    It had left him unsure of exactly what had been himself. Uncertain of what really constituted ¡°Ryan¡±, wondering if every flash of emotion belonged to another, if every impulse was legacy code.


    He¡¯d spent decade upon decade distancing himself from Rhys. Distance that wasn¡¯t always easy, especially when he had to occasionally deal with people who had known his violent former. People who saw him as nothing but Rhys in a cheap mask.


    Rhys was a detestable part of his history, something akin to a shameful family member he was unable to get away from.


    But for the first time in the longest time, he wondered what Rhys would do in his situation. What Rhys would have done, faced with a dead girl and the power to make whatever wish he wanted.


    Duskers were part of the social and emotional transition in the history of his people. Knowing too much about their history was discouraged, which was why what most agents knew of older forms of constructs and heralds were largely mythologised. All most knew were a handful of stories and legends, told, retold and reinterpreted over the years.


    It wasn¡¯t in question though, that older forms had been far from what agents were - that those in their history hadn¡¯t been allowed the freedoms that he had. Friendships, relationships, families, those things had been unthinkable. Constructs of their day, whatever the form had been, were to remain neutral, emotionless, beings of pure logic and duty.


    Somewhere along the way, that method of operation had become untenable, with emotion being seen as necessary in order to perform tasks with the utmost dedication.


    Duskers had emotions, but from all reports, most seemed to heavily skew into the negative. Boastful, violent, cruel - and in this respect, Rhys had been a poster child.


    He couldn¡¯t entirely condemn the man, no matter how much he hated him - Rhys¡¯ still-living son relayed stories from his mother. Julia had told her son all the stories of a father he¡¯d never met. An ill-tempered man who, despite everything, protected those otherwise ignored by authorities.


    Rhys wouldn¡¯t have recruited Stef, that at least he knew was something ¡°Ryan¡±.


    Rhys, however, would have likely been able to hold his own better against an enforcer. Been able to make a stronger case. Wouldn¡¯t be staring at a wall, unsure if he was breathing.


    In his HUD, another minute ticked over.


    Crawford had to warn him of the worst possible case, that was the only fair thing to do. It would have been cruel to promise a positive outcome, only to hand down a death sentence a few hours later.


    And on some level, he knew what he did in this time was a test.


    His fate hadn¡¯t been decided - that was why he was still free, unaccompanied, and without apparent restraint. He was sure, though, that Crawford had placed blocks and injunctions in place that would stop extreme actions that he would have otherwise been capable of.


    If Crawford had known for sure - even before consulting the advocate - that there was no chance of a positive outcome, then at the very least, he¡¯d be accompanied by a Central representative, stripped of his ability to shift and require whilst he was granted limited time and scope to finalise his affairs.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    The worst wasn¡¯t guaranteed, but he had to act as though it was. He couldn¡¯t waste time.


    More minutes ticked by in his HUD.


    Something crashed into his midsection, and he shook his head, trying to see who had attacked him. Instead, all he saw was a pair of hands reaching skyward, and old instincts took over, and he hoisted the child up and onto his hip before he fully realised what he was doing.


    An oversized lab coat, messy hair and a pair of goggles told him that he was holding Merlin.


    ¡®You needed a hug,¡¯ the boy said and wrapped his arms around Ryan¡¯s neck.


    ¡®Sorry sir,¡¯ Jones said from the door. ¡®You know what he¡¯s like. He needs to get better at asking before hugging,¡¯ the tone a gentle admonishment.


    Merlin clung like a koala, and he was glad of the comfort.


    ¡®Sir?¡¯ Jones asked, the single word asking everything.


    ¡®I¡¯ll have the answer in a few hours,¡¯ he said. He walked to his tech and transferred Merlin to Jones¡¯ arms. ¡®If I-¡¯ He paused, then put his words in order. ¡®If I were not your director tomorrow, is there anything I could put into place today that would help you? Any outstanding requests, any paperwork you need expedited, any-¡¯


    ¡®No, sir, there¡¯s not. If you¡¯ve got a few hours though, I¡¯d ask that you be selfish, sir. Think about your own needs, what you want- What you need to do. In the meantime, I¡¯ll put together every report that can possibly help you. Please let your advocate know that, or if you want me to directly contact Enforcer Crawford, I can do that as well.¡¯


    ¡®I will let you know,¡¯ he said.


    A few commands and a shift brought him to the empty hallway outside of Reynolds¡¯ office. The disconnected hall always felt like a mausoleum, a tomb, dry and still and empty.


    Something was different.


    He kept himself still, his breath quiet, and focused on the details of the world around him - the door to Reynolds¡¯ office was open, and someone was in there, talking without a response.


    The fact that it was Taylor¡¯s voice shocked him more than anything.


    Taylor was talking too quietly for any words to be adequately discerned. Still, he recognised the timbre and growl, the strength behind the words, even ones spoken softly.


    Knowing he was intruding, knowing he should back away and give Taylor space with the man that had been a father to both of them, he knocked on the door and walked in.


    Taylor stood in front of Reynolds¡¯ desk, in a textbook at-ease stance, as if he were giving a report - which, Ryan realised after a moment, he might very well be doing.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry for interrupting.¡¯


    Taylor looked at him, nothing on his face other than the usual slight annoyance.


    Not for the first time, though maybe for the last, he wondered if they had done the right thing by resurrecting the man. Whether what had been saved outweighed what had been lost.


    Death and rebirth had fundamentally changed who Taylor was. Had turned a brother into a stranger. Had changed one of his closest friends into someone he couldn¡¯t have a conversation with.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t know you visited,¡¯ he said, not willing to let the moment pass without comment, not willing to go to his death without trying to reach out one more time. A goodbye for what their relationship had been, if not for what it was now.


    Taylor, several large bandaged wounds visible - along with a patch on his chest making an outline in his t-shirt. Signs of first aid given by Magnolia, rather than Jones, stood silent and said nothing.


    An apology would start an argument. Old memories couldn¡¯t be discussed. Best estimates were that memory reconstruction had allowed Taylor to keep barely more than ten per cent of his original memories. However, they¡¯d done the best to fill the gaps in other ways using other sources.


    He could offer a truth, something he¡¯d held close to his chest for the longest time. Something Reynolds might refute when he woke, but more likely would shamefully acknowledge.


    ¡®There were three of us,¡¯ he said as he moved to sit on the couch, leaving the doorway free if Taylor wanted to storm out. Three. Samuels. Another friend lost. A technical agent that had defied the odds in the saddest way, proving that those that spent most of their lives within the walls of the Agency weren¡¯t always safe from a stray bullet.


    ¡®There were three of us,¡¯ he said again. Samuels had been a loss, but one grieved long ago - and Jones had been more than a competent replacement. ¡®And you were his favourite.¡¯


    These words, so true that they hurt to say, seemed to have no impact on Taylor.


    Ryan stared down at his hands, and Taylor made a move towards the door. ¡®Stay,¡¯ he said quickly, not wanting to be alone, not wanting to give up so fast.


    ¡®Is that an order?¡¯


    ¡®Please. I need to- Please.¡¯


    ¡®He chose you,¡¯ Taylor said, staring out towards the empty hall.


    The directorship. The last and final proof he had that he was the less-favoured son. Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. ¡®Just as I said, you were-¡¯


    ¡®He. Chose. You.¡¯ Ryan looked up at Taylor, who was gripping the doorframe so tight his knuckles were white. ¡®He chose you. A lie isn¡¯t-¡¯


    ¡®He didn¡¯t want to give you this burden,¡¯ he snapped, cutting Taylor off. ¡®He wanted to spare you the scrutiny. The work. The stress. Eilise and Alex were gone, I had nothing; you had Grigori. He always thought you¡¯d transfer, he wanted to give you that freedom. There are more limits than freedoms with this position, Agent.¡¯


    Taylor said nothing, released his grip on the doorframe, then walked out into the hall.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ Ryan whispered. ¡®You know I¡¯m sorry for what happened.


    Taylor¡¯s footsteps stopped for a moment, then restarted, then disappeared, presumably as he shifted away.


    He looked to Reynolds, to the gently sleeping man, and wondered how much of a disappointment he was. Wondered what it would be like for Reynolds to wake into a world where two of his agents were gone, and the third far from the man he remembered.


    Wondered what Reynolds would have done in his place. How Reynolds would be reacting to a possible death sentence, to be pondering the choice of run or die.

 07 - Why Can’t I?

    I can do this.


    ...


    ¡­


    ¡­


    -


    ¡­


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡­?


    ¡­?


    ?


    .


    .


    I-


    ¡­


    .


    I can-


    .


    I can do this.


    .


    What?


    What can I do?


    .


    I can do this.


    What was I doing?


    I was doing something.


    I-


    It was a long time ago. It felt like a long time ago. It felt- Nothing felt. Nothing-


    Why-


    Why can¡¯t I-


    Why can¡¯t I feel anything?


    Why can¡¯t I-


    ¡­?


    ¡­?


    ¡­


    ...

 08 - Disrupted Perfection

    Curt opened his eyes, rolled over, and looked to the phone on his bedside table and grinned at the perfect timing. One minute before his alarm was due to go off - that meant his meds had worked exactly right.


    The latest formulation that Two had come up with was working well. There were still nightmares, but not always - and importantly, he was able to wake up, rested, and ready to face the world as ¡°Recruit Curt¡± again.


    He grabbed his phone as the first vibration started, and killed the alarm. As the screen went black, the room went back to semi-darkness, lit only by the lights of the few electronics.


    Some recruits had windows - though the majority were false windows, and were sims projected onto glass, showing a real-time view of the outside world.


    The false windows gave the same quality of light, so there was no real downside, unless you craved fresh air. For that small downside, there were several advantages, like being able to change your view. You could have the real-time view of an expensive penthouse apartment or a view out onto your favourite beach.


    It was a cool piece of tech that Raz had been more than happy to show off. Raz himself rotated through popular options, like the intense lights of the Hong Kong city night, or Sydney fireworks, but mostly defaulted to the standard view of the world outside.


    As a barely-tolerated, forever-on-probation Solstice piece-of-shit, he got bare walls. No windows. No view.


    ¡®Computer, lights.¡¯


    Require: lights.


    He closed his eyes as the lights came up. He lay back on his pillows for a moment, staring into his eyelids before braving the harsh brightness.


    He could have slept in, but there was no point ¨C it would throw off his routine for the rest of the week, and he could always nap later if he felt the need.


    The day after a major operation was usually pretty dull. All non-essential activities were pushed back, and the usual events of the day, like training, didn¡¯t occur at all.


    Rumour had it even Magnolia slept in on mornings like this.


    He wasn¡¯t convinced that Mags was capable of sleeping in - he wasn¡¯t even sure that she slept at all.


    No training meant that meant at least he wouldn¡¯t have to bruise his hand, pounding on Newbie¡¯s door to wake her up.


    He threw back the quilt, stood, and made the bed with a thought.


    The other recruits had rooms that took care of themselves. His room only had the barest few basic subroutines. More small ways of telling him he didn¡¯t belong, that he didn¡¯t deserve the usual comforts of the Agency, that he had to work for what he had.


    He went to the bathroom, relieved himself, then opened his shower door, positioned his head under the shower, and turned on the water for a few seconds. The cold was enough to ensure he was awake and to beat back any ideas of going to back to sleep.


    A requirement wrapped a towel around his shoulders and let the water drip down his short hair as he took stock of himself in front of the mirror.


    Tired. He looked tired, but at least within these four walls, he didn¡¯t always have to keep up the bright and chipper appearance of ¡°Recruit Curt¡±. In his room, he could be tired, could...feel some of the emotions he packed down like gauze into a gushing wound.


    He grabbed the front of the soft shirt he slept in and required it away, hoping again that his tattoos had disappeared overnight.


    There was no logical reason to hope for it, but hope was always illogical.


    There was the...wish that somehow the cosmic karmic balance would see that he was trying to make amends. Trying to somehow balance out the scales for the fae he¡¯d tortured and the lives he¡¯d taken.


    Black ink and shame remained both stains that he¡¯d never be able to get rid of.


    He stared at the twisting vine, the first tattoo he¡¯d gotten. The ink his Solstice colleagues had insisted on. The reward after his question-and-answer session with a nymph that had been nothing but a giant mass of writhing vines and tendrils.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    One of the leaves was out of place in the design - something the artist had done to try and cover up how he¡¯d been wriggling around and taking shots with his- With people he had thought were his friends.


    With people who had encouraged him to murder a sentient creature. With people who had been drinking to celebrate that something ¡°unnatural¡± had been purged from the world.


    And he¡¯d thought he¡¯d done something brave, something heroic, slain a monster like a knight from a fable.


    Even if he got rid of the tattoos, he didn¡¯t deserve to let go of the shame.


    With the same moment of hesitation he felt every morning, he required a fresh uniform. He held his breath as fabric slid over his skin, only starting to breathe again when he saw the proper black and blue of an active uniform, not the grey of someone with no rank or rights.


    He grabbed the towel, dried his hair, then required it tidy. His hair, like every other part of his appearance, was a critical facade. The style had to be the perfect amount of professional without being stiff, tidy without aping how an agent looked - casually cool without looking like there was effort involved.


    It took a lot of effort to make Recruit Curt look so effortless.


    A few requirements tidied the bathroom, then he stepped back out to the main area of his quarters.


    He pulled open his fridge and looked at the contents. A small baggie of candy - leftovers that Newbie had shared with him. Half a dozen bottles of cheap gnomish beer, a gift from Raz. A wedge of cheese he¡¯d required in his first week to test the theory that required food never rotted when stored. A container of brikini, probably a little past its expiration date. He reached in, touched the container and dismissed it, then closed the fridge and stared at the perfectly-haphazard magnets there, before retreating to his bed.


    He leaned up against the pillows, required an English muffin with bacon. He paused, then required a small, rich hot chocolate ¨C a little treat for surviving, even though he hadn¡¯t come away entirely unscathed.


    He reached down and rubbed at his leg - there was no sign he¡¯d ever been injured, no residual pain, nothing but perfect skin beneath the fabric of his pants.


    The Parkers never left scars, and always gave him the same medical treatment as any other recruit. He still wasn¡¯t sure he could use the word ¡°trust¡± to describe any relationship he had with an agent - or would ever be able to - but if anyone made that list, it was Two.


    Parker-2 just...didn¡¯t give any fucks, and his honesty in every situation was refreshing. If ¡°trust¡± was the word, then it wasn¡¯t because Two seemed human, it was the opposite.


    Muffin finished, he required his laptop and began to lazily check his emails.


    He clicked through a few low-priority notifications first ¨C planned outages of various systems that didn¡¯t affect him, except for the elevators. However, he doubted he was going to need to use the lift at two in the morning for the next three nights.


    Next was an invite to the Tech recruit movie night of the week ¨C he wasn¡¯t on the standard mailing list, but Raz insisted on forwarding it to him anyway.


    He finished off the hot chocolate, wiped his mouth, then navigated into the intranet and accessed the casualty list ¨C which was still marked as being ¡°in progress¡±. ¡°In progress¡± wasn¡¯t unusual after a major operation - it meant it would contain confirmed deaths and confirmed injuries.


    MIA recruits and those that died in treatment today would be on the final list, after all the smoke had cleared and there had been a chance to find anyone who might have slipped into Faerie or a bolt hold to hide.


    Only two deaths so far ¨C both Combat recruits ¨C which was on the ¡°acceptable¡± part of the spectrum and minor injuries sustained by two dozen recruits, with two requiring overnight observation.


    His phone buzzed, and he saw the notification of a schedule change before the screen winked out.


    He clicked into his calendar - which was always easier to deal with on the computer anyway.


    By default, he¡¯d set his calendar view to show just the current day. It wasn¡¯t the most efficient view, but sometimes just focussing on one thing at a time made it easier to be ¡°Recruit Curt¡± - but the change hadn¡¯t been to that day, so he clicked to show the rest of the week.


    All of his shifts - previously a greyish green, indicating that they were scheduled with no issues were now white, crosshatched with red - indicating that one a schedule conflict or unavailability.


    A quick look down confirmed his uniform was still blue, so the availability must have been due to Stef.


    It had been stupid to of Ryan to allow her into the operation. Any idiot could have seen that it was too much for a newbie to handle, especially one like her. Now she had either quit entirely, switched departments, or just asked to be removed from field work.


    In any case, if she was still in the building, it probably warranted being taken out for a morning of fluffins, debriefing and de-stressing.


    She¡¯d make a good tech, and it was lunacy that she was in Field. Maybe today was just putting right what once had gone wrong.


    He clicked into Vox, scrolled down his list of recent chats and clicked her icon.


    All of his previous messages were there, but the options to send anything new were greyed out, unavailable, and-


    When someone quit, there was an icon and a redirect to a civilian email address or phone number for the following week. The fact that she was listed as unavailable, and that she¡¯d been removed from the roster-


    A cold feeling settled in his chest. ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    He scrolled through his contacts, hit the voice option for Parker-2, and carefully balanced his phone in his palm, trying to keep himself calm.


    ¡®Is it important?¡¯ Parker-2 asked as the call connected. ¡®I¡¯m about to be hip-deep in something important, and when I say-¡¯


    ¡®Doc, I need the full casualty list.¡¯


    ¡®Looking to see if-¡¯


    He gripped his phone tighter. ¡®Doc, is Stef on the list?¡¯


    The three second pause told him everything he needed to know.


    ¡®Status,¡¯ he said, his voice strained. ¡®Tell me.¡¯


    ¡®Currently listed as MIA.¡¯


    He ended the call, jumped to his feet, and ran from the room.

 09 - Come Crashing Down

    Curt wasn¡¯t even sure he was breathing as he sprinted down the hall.


    It was easy to ignore the looks his fellow recruits gave him as he ran - they were always giving him weird looks for one reason or another. Well. One reason. The defining reason. The only thing about him that mattered anymore. Solstice. Ex-Solstice. Monster.


    The same kind of monsters likely responsible for Newbie being MIA.


    He pounded his fist against the door of Ryan¡¯s office - this wasn¡¯t the polite and cautious knock of ¡°Recruit Curt¡±. This wasn¡¯t the knock he gave when he secretly hoped that Ryan wouldn¡¯t open the door.


    His phone buzzed, but he ignored it.


    He slammed his fist against the door again and wondered if it was possible to kick in the door of an agent¡¯s office when they didn¡¯t want to be bothered.


    If Ryan was there - he¡¯d made an assumption and-


    ¡®Fucking idiot,¡¯ he growled to himself as he yanked his Agency phone out of his pocket, ready to do a quick search and see what Ryan¡¯s current listed location was, and if-


    The buzz had been a text message from Ryan. He double-tapped it to open it, and anger started to twist around the panic.


    {I¡¯m otherwise engaged, Recruit. Please return at another time.}


    He shoved the phone back into his pocket and grabbed the door handle. ¡®I¡¯ve seen the full MIA list!¡¯ he shouted through the door. ¡®I know she¡¯s missing!¡¯ He shook the handle. ¡®Goddammit,¡¯ he said, more to the door than Ryan, ¡®let me help.¡¯


    After too many thundering heartbeats, he felt the door unlock, and he stumbled over his feet as he rushed into the office, slamming the door behind him.


    Something was wrong.


    Everything was wrong.


    Something he¡¯d always prided himself on, something that had always been a point of praise from his superiors, had been his ability to read a situation. Pick out if there was something suspicious about a person¡¯s body language. It wasn¡¯t magic, it was...an over-developed gut-instinct, thin-slicing, a natural talent for reading micro-expressions, some combination that made him far more useful than he seemed at first.


    And every instinct in his gut was screaming at him.


    Ryan sat at his desk, perfect in a way that the agent usually wasn¡¯t. Everything looked...staged somehow. Like a tableau put up for public consumption, rather than being whatever he¡¯d really interrupted.


    Both Ryan and his office looked like they¡¯d just been pulled out of plastic - nothing was out of place. Ryan was usually...the most agent-y of the agents he interacted with on a daily basis, but this was a step beyond. There were usually...cracks in Ryan¡¯s armour, edges where he wasn¡¯t so perfect - as could be expected for a man run ragged doing two jobs.


    And the agent in front of him was as pristine as newborn, signing paperwork with a shiningly-new pen, each file in perfect piles, or opened on angles that made them look like magazines in a display home.


    Whatever was going on didn¡¯t change the list.


    ¡®Sir,¡¯ he said as he approached, ¡®sir, I¡¯ve seen the full casualty list and- What can I do to help? What can I-¡¯


    ¡®I was worried you would knock a hole in my door,¡¯ Ryan said casually as he signed a form. After a moment, he carefully set it within its folder, closed it, then pulled the next sheet from the far-too-perfect pile. ¡®Can I assume you didn¡¯t get the message I sent to your phone?¡¯


    Not emotion. No hint that- That he was doing anything other than interrupting the mildest, dullest paperwork session that Queen Street had ever seen.


    ¡®How¡­¡¯ he let his voice trail off and die as he watched as Ryan mechanically complete paperwork. He let his gaze skate across the forms. There might be something to do with bargaining with Solstice, with prisoner exchanges, with...anything that could be involved in getting Stef back.


    He saw nothing but leave requests and shift transfers. The lowest of low priorities. The kind of paperwork that Ryan threw his way a lot of the time - paperwork that an aide would do, not something that needed the attention of a Director.


    Not something that would help rescue the newbie.


    ¡®Sir-¡¯


    Ryan continued the paperwork like a robot, and again, his words died.


    Whatever was going on, Ryan didn¡¯t want to engage - and this stonewall was a polite ¡°fuck off¡±. Ryan was giving him a chance to back off without confrontation - further confrontation.


    But he couldn¡¯t take the out, couldn¡¯t- Couldn¡¯t leave Newbie to die without trying.


    He took a step forward, and closed the rest of the distance between himself and Ryan¡¯s desk, then slammed his hands down on the too-neat, too-perfect paperwork. ¡®Look at me,¡¯ he demanded, his voice far more steady and authoritative than he felt.


    Ryan tugged a leave form from under his hand, consulted a small desk calendar, then wrote something in the notes.


    Something about the ease of the action, the carefree way that the agent was performing mundane tasks while- While-


    ¡®I thought,¡¯ he said, every choked word shredding a year off his life, ¡®you cared about Stef, sir.¡¯


    It was probably the only thing that would make Ryan listen, and he was running out of time until- Until-


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    If she wasn¡¯t already dead.


    ¡®I¡¯m busy,¡¯ Ryan said, but there was something in his voice, something that wasn¡¯t the dead, emotionlessness of a newborn agent, of a robot. A crack he could-


    ¡®Do you have any idea what they could be doing to her?¡¯ he shouted. ¡®Solstice and recruits, they-¡¯


    ¡®Unlike yourself, I¡¯m no expert, Lieutenant.¡¯


    His heart froze, and he looked up at Ryan, unsure of when the man had risen from his chair. When they stood straight, there wasn¡¯t much of a height difference between them, but right now, Ryan seemed to tower over him.


    Lieutenant. His Solstice rank. A term no one had used since Petersen had been-


    The stonewalling had been a polite invitation to back off. This was every klaxon on the Enterprise bridge blaring.


    This was another warning. Another get-out-of-jail-free card. One he couldn¡¯t take, one he had to ignore, no matter what. The agent needed to know what the situation was. Even if the cost outweighed the lesson, someone had to speak up. Someone had to say something.


    No one had spoken for him. No one had fought for him.


    And there was little difference in what Petersen had done to him, and what some Solstice interrogator would do with a recruit. There were so many worst-case scenarios. There were fae drugs that interrogators could use to extend a victim¡¯s life beyond where they should have given up, just to keep the ¡°fun¡± going.


    He had to fight, had to stand his ground, had to-


    He balled his hand into a fist, ground his knuckles against Ryan¡¯s desk. A second, a breath, then he threw his hands forward and grabbed Ryan by the coat, half-dragging the agent across his own desk, bringing them face-to-face.


    ¡®She could still be alive!¡¯ he shouted. ¡®Why don¡¯t you want to help her?!¡¯


    Ryan disappeared from his grip.


    For a moment, he expected the feel of a gun to the back of his head, cold hands around his neck, some short, sharp blade across his throat.


    He¡¯d pushed, and this was the moment he died.


    Ryan appeared in front of him, grabbed him, lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing, and slammed him into the wall.


    Blue plaster cracked, and his shirt tore as Ryan¡¯s grip twisted. A second slam and he cried out in pain as his head cracked against some interior brace beneath the plaster. Somewhere, he heard himself begging for mercy as Ryan shoved him again and again.


    He heard Petersen laughing, and his bladder let go.


    Ryan wasn¡¯t Petersen. He¡¯d had to believe that. Ryan wasn¡¯t Petersen. He¡¯d always been reasonable.


    Ryan was an agent. Petersen was an agent.


    He was Solstice, and he was going to die.


    He let his head loll to the side, let his body go slack, and waited for Petersen to finish the job he¡¯d started.


    Petersen dropped him, and he crashed to the dirty carpet, crumbling plaster falling onto his back. He closed his eyes ¨C his only defence against the violence of an agent, and waited for whatever was to happen next, only vaguely aware that he was crying.


    He was weak. He was pathetic. He was stupid to think he had a chance. It had always been going to end. Death had been inevitable. He¡¯d just had a moment of sweet freedom to make it all the worse.


    He curled into a ball. Petersen hated it, but he couldn¡¯t stop his body from trying to protect itself.


    Petersen retreated, walking towards the windows.


    He was going to get a gun. A knife. A chain. Some toy to make it more fun.


    He was going to die, and it was going to hurt, but at least it would finally be over.


    He wept, barely breathing between choking sobs. If he was lucky, he¡¯d hyperventilate and die before Petersen could cut into his skin again.


    Light flooded into the room as the blind was raised, and he looked towards it, trying to see the sky one more time ¨C but his view was blocked by another building.


    It was still freedom. It was still something to look at other than the agent.


    Petersen laughed, a knife twirling in his hand.


    Ryan stepped forward, blocking his view of the window. Curt blinked, trying to make sense of everything. Ryan took another step forward, and he scrambled back on his hands and knees, needing to escape the agent ¨C even if that agent wasn¡¯t Petersen.


    ¡®Stay away,¡¯ he whispered, holding out a hand that was no defence at all. ¡®Please.¡¯ Petersen hated it when Curt had tried to keep him at bay and had taken great pleasure in breaking all the fingers on the hand that had been extended to beg for mercy.


    Ryan didn¡¯t come any closer, and Curt forced himself to breathe.


    He took a moment, required a fresh uniform, and stood - if nothing else, he¡¯d rather die on his feet if Ryan came at him again.


    ¡®She might not be dead yet,¡¯ he said, his voice shaking badly. ¡®If she wasn¡¯t found, then- They like to take their time. Especially with recruits.¡¯


    Ryan didn¡¯t say anything.


    ¡®I know people,¡¯ he said, ¡®I know people who know people. If she¡¯s still alive, then- Then- There¡¯s a chance of getting her back.¡¯


    ¡®This isn¡¯t something we¡¯ll be pursuing.¡¯


    No emotion. Nothing. As if the violence of a moment ago had been a blip, had meant nothing to the-


    He was bleeding, Stef was being tortured and-


    And he¡¯d hoped an agent would care. Would have returned the affection and adoration that had propelled one stupid newbie into a situation so far above her head she wouldn¡¯t have been able to see the metaphorical daylight.


    ¡®Do you even know what they could be doing?¡¯ he asked and hoped he wouldn¡¯t have to elaborate on all the worst-case scenarios. Hoped Ryan was cognizant of how some - most - Solstice hated recruits even more than agents. Recruits, after all, had chosen to work against humanity, fae were just born monsters.


    That he wouldn¡¯t have to explain the pure evil that was a Swirl. Blades capable of grinding up cow carcasses, a hatch and a pneumatic wall.


    At first, there was room to stay away from the blades. The watching Solstice would take bets as the wall pushed the victim close and closer to the blades. An inch a minute. Time to beg. To plead. To negotiate.


    And then they¡¯d lose a toe, or a hand, then a leg.


    And every person jumped in head first when they¡¯d lost enough of themselves. Killing themselves because it was the less painful way to die.


    And now-


    And now one stupid newbie, one-


    Tears dripped down his cheeks.


    ¡®We won¡¯t be pursuing this,¡¯ Ryan said again.


    ¡®Don¡¯t you at least want me to reach out? If there¡¯s any chance of saving her¨C¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t tell you what to do in your free time.¡¯


    ¡®I need Agency backing!¡¯ he screamed. ¡®I can¡¯t negotiate with nothing!¡¯


    Ryan¡¯s was neutral, emotionless. Ryan was nearly impossible to read ¨C he was so close to the Solstice ideal agent: the emotionless, passionless, stiff-lipped imitation of a man. A thing ¨C to quote his old captain ¨C that wore skin but had no life.


    ¡®Recruit, you¡¯ve got your answer. I need you to leave.¡¯


    The Agency was supposed to be better than the Solstice. They were, for lack of a more grown-up descriptor, the good guys. He knew it was bullshit ¨C any group that allowed Petersen to continue to live weren¡¯t the paragons of light that they tried to pretend to be. Still, they were supposed to be several shades of grey better than the Solstice.


    If they weren¡¯t better, he¡¯d jumped from a fire into an even worse fire.


    Stef had been following Ryan around like a puppy, excited and eager to please. It wasn¡¯t something the agent seemed to have appreciated at all.


    A high tech score. A field operation she shouldn¡¯t have been on. A stupid, pointless death. Hopefully a quick death. She wouldn¡¯t have lasted a minute under torture, and Solstice hurt the helpless the worst. No point in keeping a person in something resembling one piece if they had no valuable information.


    His stomach twisted again at the idea of the newbie strapped in a chair. Bleeding, crying, and dying at the hands of some psycho.


    He looked back to Ryan.


    Even beating the hell out of the agent wouldn¡¯t do anything. It would feel good but mean nothing.


    ¡®Sir. Please. If there¡¯s a chance she¡¯s out there, doesn¡¯t she deserve¨C¡¯


    Any emotion. Any remorse. Any sign that Ryan felt sorry for getting her killed. Any indication the death meant something.


    He saw nothing. A thing that wore skin but had no life.


    And Stef had deserved so much more.


    ¡®Recruit, I have things to do.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll get out of your way, sir.¡¯


    No one had come for him, no one had saved him from the hands of a sociopath.


    And there was no way he¡¯d let history repeat itself.

 10 - I Wasn’t Alone

    She couldn¡¯t open her eyes.


    She wasn¡¯t sure she had eyes.


    .


    .


    Someone said-


    I can¡¯t remember what they said.


    I can¡¯t remember who said it.


    .


    .


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Am I dreaming?


    .


    .


    .


    .


    I was doing something.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    I was somewhere. I was doing something.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    Sometimes she was. Sometimes she wasn¡¯t. Sometimes her name was there, but it was writing from a dream, refusing to resolve itself into letters her brain could make sense of.


    She knew who she was, of course she knew who she was, she just couldn¡¯t...express the answer right now.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    Fractured and refracted, reflected and mirrored and thoughts doubled in on themselves.


    She wanted to open her eyes, wanted to-


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    She¡¯d been doing something.


    .


    .


    .


    It would be better if she knew she was breathing. Better if she could open her eyes. But things were never ideal. Things never went her way.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    Stef.


    The answer came without fanfare or revelation, but it was finally a point to hang the rest of the distorted memories around.


    Stef. She¡¯d always been Stef, even when she¡¯d only known her name was Stephanie. Even when she¡¯d been too young to start to hide parts of herself under a different name, there¡¯d been some...Stef-ness hiding beneath the surface.


    And it was her anchor, to the world and to herself, something she had forged for herself, something she knew she had created, even when she¡¯d been alone, because she was always-


    .


    .


    .


    .


    A record skipping, a file not found, a pixelated image refusing to become clear.


    .


    .


    .


    Darkness. A red ball. Blue, someone keeping her safe.

 11 - Cruel World

    He couldn¡¯t breathe.


    Every breath felt mechanical. Felt artificial. Felt unreal.


    Curt stared at the footpath, at the dirt, at the worn patches in the concrete, touched by thousands or millions of shoes, and did his best not to think.


    And as much as he tried to clear his mind, every breath brought screaming static. Every breath brought up memories, made assumptions and inferences about what would happen to a recruit in the hands of a sadistic Solstice.


    There was a scream in his chest, and he wished it would crush his heart.


    He squeezed the Genie phone in his hand and watched his knuckles go white. Every second counted. Every second meant-


    No other recruits from Queen Street were still MIA, but it had been a joint operation, and he hadn¡¯t had the time or presence of mind to check the lists from the other local agencies.


    More than that, there had been a lot of fae in the area - and not all of them would have made it home.


    With how late it had been, it was likely that anyone taken prisoner would have just been thrown in a cell for the night.


    Overnight capture teams loved leaving presents for their morning interrogation counterparts. Still, it was more than that, more than just a lack of someone willing to take a knife to a suit in the middle of the night.


    Leaving someone in a cell overnight allowed the fear to completely take over the mind of anyone staring at a brick wall covered in old, dried blood.


    Gave the hopeless time to scratch a message into the floor with whatever debris had been left by a previous occupant.


    And it was popular entertainment.


    There was a certain type of...connoisseur amongst the Solstice, who loved nothing more than watching the raw footage of a prisoner being held overnight.


    Of watching screaming defiance turn into despair, then acceptance as their thoughts and fears broke them before any bastard had laid a hand on them.


    He looked at the phone, eyes blurred with tears or rage, and willed Carmichel to send an update. To let him know he was seconds away. To send a ¡°I¡¯m here, where are you?¡± text so that he could- So that he could breathe. So that he had help. So that-


    So that he could have hope.


    It was the best possible scenario that a captured recruit would have been left for the morning crew. And, logically, there was a good chance that¡¯s what would have happened.


    A good chance, but it wasn¡¯t the only possibility.


    Fae were fae, and it was the primary mission of the Solstice to destroy anything non-human.


    But there were so many Solstice who saw the Agency - who saw recruits - as something even worse. Humans who had chosen to side with monsters were the worst monsters of all.


    Part of the information compartmentalisation that had kept him loyal had kept him in line. Made him someone willing to take a knife or a pipe to a monster...was that they had only ever shown him monsters.


    They had only given him things with tentacles or too many arms to interrogate. They had only made him kill things that in no way bore a resemblance to anything you could think of as a person.


    And it had made sense. You killed monsters. You saved people. It had been clear cut. Simple. He¡¯d felt like a...if not exactly a hero, then someone who was doing their best to protect humanity.


    The Agency had been...a bogeyman. Something he¡¯d consumed more through memes and secondhand information. He¡¯d known things, but knowing was different to understanding.


    It was one thing to think about inhuman things that wore human faces and protected monsters. It was another thing to deal with agents as people.


    It was one thing to think of recruits as traitors, collaborators, something no better than the monsters with the dozen eyes and teeth that could rip flesh.


    But then he¡¯d come face to face with a recruit, and none of the information compartmentalisation could compare with what he was seeing.


    It was one thing to think about recruits in the abstract. It was another thing to stare into the eyes of a woman who had silently given birth in a cell. A new mother, holding a child she knew would be killed as soon as anyone knew it existed.


    He¡¯d saved the child. He could assume what had happened to the recruit.


    A message appeared - Carmichel saying he was just a few minutes away.


    There were too many variables. Too many- Anything could have happened. Anything could be happening.


    Stef had gone missing in the blackout caused by the mirror exploding. It had been powerful enough to shatter windows and shake a bin full of pallets and construction waste. It would have been more than enough to knock out, or at least impair, one small nerd.


    That meant that she probably hadn¡¯t fought back. Objectively, that was a good thing - recruits that were too much trouble to capture were just shot on sight.


    You didn¡¯t want to take the chance that their agent would show up while you were fighting with them, so they were just put down.


    That meant she¡¯d lived long enough to get thrown into a van and transported to processing.


    From there, it was a matter of the work ethic of the overnight crew, if there was someone who really felt like testing mettle with metal; or else someone who saw a helpless recruit in cuffs and knew there was more than one way to fuck the System-


    He bent over and puked bile into the gutter.


    All of this, any of this, could be happening as he stood on the side of the road.


    All of this, any of this, could be happening while Ryan sat in his office and did nothing.


    He wiped his mouth and took a moment before standing straight, woozy from both vomiting, and the probably-should-have-seen-the-Parkers still-bleeding gash on the back of his head.


    He¡¯d had worse, much worse. A little cut like this hadn¡¯t even been an opener for Petersen, who didn¡¯t feel as if he¡¯d really started a session until there was at least one broken bone.


    He hadn¡¯t survived Petersen. There¡¯d been so many trips to the Adelaide infirmary to bring him back from ¡°just barely dead¡± to ¡°alive enough to be tortured again¡±. He hadn¡¯t survived, mentally or physically, and that was just at the hands of one bored monster.


    Petersen, at least, had been acting alone - whoever had Stef would have friends egging him on, a Greek chorus of suggestions of what cruelty to perform next.


    A car pulled up in front of him - not one of Carmichel¡¯s usual understated-yet-elegant cars he drove himself - this was a tough-looking four-wheel-drive. Both the driver and passenger wore casual clothes. Still, they had the same look that a lot of combat recruits did - that no matter what they wore, they always seemed to exude the aura of being in a military uniform.


    Carmichel jumped from the rear passenger side door and clamped a hand on his upper arm as soon as he was close enough. ¡®Here? Or do you need privacy? What do you need right now?¡¯


    He sank against Carmichel, allowing himself one tiny moment of despair, the scream in his chest turning against a sob.


    ¡®Help,¡¯ he said to the man who¡¯d been his first friend in this new, post-Solstice life, ¡®I need help. Office. We need- Privacy.¡¯


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Carmichael squeezed his shoulders, then pulled him into the car. He said something to the driver, who pulled off, even before Curt had pulled the door closed.


    ¡®I brought backup,¡¯ Carmichael said, ¡®thought it was best to have all hands on deck. What can you tell me, kallabrae?¡¯


    Kallabrae. A term of affection for a younger sibling. Translated, it meant something like ¡°of all my siblings, I dislike you the least¡±. The word was generally used with the same kind of older-brother love that lead you to grab a sibling and noogie their head.


    And Carmichel was the closest thing he had to family.


    He¡¯d saved Carmichel¡¯s life, and in return, had asked for language lessons and friendship. Something to ground him. Something that represented his attempt to make progress in this new life. Something that was in line with the ideals of a recruit, without being directly tied to the Agency.


    Too many people took too much for granted. And he never, ever let himself take his friendship with Carmichel for granted. He never asked too much of his friend. Never forgot to give his thanks, or to check in, even when he wasn¡¯t asking for a favour.


    He¡¯d already lost too much to squander one of the few good relationships he had, with one of the only people who truly knew how rotten he was.


    Ryan knew and would always hate him. Magnolia knew, and he¡¯d earned her trust. Carmichel knew and called him brother.


    Raz didn¡¯t know. Raz thought he was some blameless redshirt. And Stef would have been put in the same boat as Raz - it was dishonest, but it was survival.


    He¡¯d never have wanted Tara to be disappointed in him. Although Stef wasn¡¯t different in the same way Tara had been, she¡¯d still brought out the same big brother instincts that had been dormant for so long.


    Carmichel squeezed his hand. ¡®Curt?¡¯


    He¡¯d tried to practice what he was going to say, to lay out the facts in a dispassionate and sensible order for the maximum of clarity, for the best efficiency.


    But now, in the moment, his mind and mouth were barely working.


    ¡®A friend.¡¯ Inaccurate. Presumptuous. ¡®She¡¯s gone missing.¡¯ Wrong. ¡®She-¡¯ He swallowed and tried again. ¡®A recruit colleague of mine went missing last night. I think Solstice got her.¡¯ He looked Carmichel in the eyes. ¡®Agency¡¯s not doing anything.¡¯


    Carmichel nodded and handed him a tablet. ¡®Name. Description. Whatever detail you can give me.¡¯ Carmichel handed him a water bottle. ¡®Breathe, kallabrae, I¡¯ll do everything I can.¡¯


    He required Stef¡¯s file and handed it over with shaking hands. ¡®This is everything.¡¯ He leaned his head against the window and slowly sipped from the bottle of water. The label on the bottle slipped between English and Glyph as he focussed on it, trying to let it be the only thing in the world.


    Carmichel¡¯s office was a good half hour out of the city. A room in a suite of private offices used by fae who needed to do business on Earth, but didn¡¯t want to use either the Local Court facilities or pay the expense of space in the middle of the city.


    By the time they¡¯d reached the office, Carmichel had already made a half-dozen calls, each one a jumble of words he¡¯d been unable to take in.


    The driver parked, and Camichel led him like he was a sleepwalker, through reception, down the hall, and into the small nest of rooms. His security stayed in the outer office seating area, while they retreated to the large main office.


    ¡®No luck yet,¡¯ Carmichel said as his wings unfurled. The night he¡¯d had saved Carmichel, those beautiful wings had been barely more than bloody scraps of skin.


    Carmichel had been unable to fly without a kite rig for months, and even now, they bore the scars and prosthetic patches that would likely remain for the rest of his life.


    ¡®Solstice?¡¯


    ¡®You can check yourself, and I encourage you to do so, but they¡¯re saying they don¡¯t have any recruits.¡¯ Carmichel handed him a phone. ¡®But you know more secret passphrases than I do, so try, I¡¯ve got a few other avenues I want to explore.¡¯


    Curt took the phone, and retreated to one of the other rooms in the suite - this one far less well-appointed, which had a much more basic table and chairs.


    Hands shaking, he laid Carmichel¡¯s phone on the table, then withdrew both his Agency phone and his own Genie-branded phone from their usual pockets.


    The Genie phone had been one of Carmichel¡¯s ¡°thank you¡± gifts for saving his life. The phone, the flagship model at the time, would have been more than enough in conjunction with the language lessons that he¡¯d asked for. Still, it had been far from the most generous thing that Carmichel had done.


    There was a knock at the door, and he jumped. Carmichel¡¯s driver looked at him through the glass and waited for a nod for him to enter. When the nod was given, the driver brought in a tray of food - all of it fae, probably procured from the cafeteria that the office suite ran.


    He nodded his gratitude, and the driver left without a word.


    He had to make the phone call, to confirm what Carmichel had found out, but-


    Every second where it wasn¡¯t confirmed was one more second before hope died.


    He stared at the sandwiches for a moment, mesmerised by their mundanity, and wished Stef would poke her head around the door, and ask for an explanation of the Fairyland meat industry.


    And he wished, desperately, that all of his actions that morning had just been about her.


    In a large part, they were, or at least, they were at the centre of the complicated web of actions, inactions and mistakes he was weaving.


    She was a friend - as much as he could talk around the word, as much as he wasn¡¯t sure how she¡¯d felt about him, they¡¯d been acting like friends. And he didn¡¯t want a friend tortured and killed.


    But it was also so much more than that. It was what her disappearance represented.


    She¡¯d spent three days bouncing around like a little kid. Spent every hour fascinated by the smallest stuff, all while trying to impress Ryan like he was her favourite teacher or one of her parents.


    She was gone, and Ryan didn¡¯t give a shit.


    She was gone, and it meant nothing to the agent.


    And if Ryan couldn¡¯t bring himself to care about someone like Stef, then- Then- Then he had no chance. Whatever second chance Ryan was mandated to give him, he¡¯d never be able to expect more than the bare minimum. He¡¯d never get recognised for his achievements, never feel like he had a real place there.


    It just gave more credence to how he¡¯d always felt untethered, without a real place there - if Stef could come and go without leaving a ripple, then he was just existing. Just going through the motions without making a wave.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ he whispered as he put the wrap down, feeling guilty for examining his own life instead of confirming his friend¡¯s death. ¡®I¡¯m sorry, Newbie.¡¯


    He grabbed his Genie phone and dug into the bottom layer of some carefully-disorganised porn to find a selection of filenames that, taken together, gave him the phone number he needed to call.


    He set his phone aside and dialled the number on Carmichael¡¯s phone. He assumed that Carmichel had done all the fancy things to the phone that meant that calls were untraceable or routed or whatever wouldn¡¯t bring a bunch of Solstice knocking on their door.


    He waited through forty-five seconds of what sounded like a dead end, only to hear the cheerful music of what seemed to be a hotel reservation service. The music cut after a moment, and there was more silence. He searched his memory, then barked the Russian word for ¡°home¡±.


    The Agency had their terms and phrases, things that only made sense when you wore the suit.


    The Solstice used Russian as part of their vocabulary - a few words sprinkled here and there showed whose flag you apparently flew.


    A woman¡¯s voice came on the line. ¡®What city, please?¡¯


    ¡®Brisbane.¡¯


    ¡®Are you interested in hearing our deals for the weekend?¡¯


    Sometimes it was fun to play along, to see how far the main call centre staff could push their imaginations to come up with hotel-related metaphors.


    It wasn¡¯t the kind of morning to play.


    ¡®Inventory query from the special event last night.¡¯


    The operator gave a disappointed ¡°hmm¡±, and the hold music returned.


    He¡¯d had his own call centre role. Most members of the Solstice did something mundane in addition to their more active role - either working help organise things for Solstice operations, or working in one of the companies that helped pay for their activities.


    He¡¯d been a member of shipping & freight - so most of his calls were pissed off Solstice admins and middle managers wanting to know where their crate of weapons or light bulbs had gone.


    It had been easy enough - and if he ever had a non-Agency career, was actually something he could put on a resume, as ¡°terrorist¡± and ¡°secret agent¡± weren¡¯t things you could really list on your LinkedIn profile.


    The hold music continued for another three minutes. The phone couldn¡¯t be tracked, so he had no worry there, but there was always the possibility that the call recipient would get spooked and not answer at all. If that happened, he¡¯d either have to hope Carmichel had another burner, or risk using his Agency phone.


    The hold music finally dropped away, and a man spoke. ¡®Animal, mineral, or vegetable?¡¯


    ¡®Suit.¡¯


    ¡®Nothing new in the catalogue¨C¡¯


    ¡®Recruit,¡¯ he said bluntly. ¡®Did anyone local get a recruit last night?¡¯


    ¡®Kills only. Between the suits and the fae, nothing brought in is still breathing.¡¯


    Kills only. He hoped that meant that she¡¯d fought back. That she¡¯d bunched up whatever strength her tiny five-foot-nothing body could muster, and tried to escape.


    He hoped it had been quick. That maybe she hadn¡¯t even seen it coming. That she hadn¡¯t had time to be really afraid.


    His stomach clenched. ¡®You sure?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ the man said. ¡®And I also checked outside the local area in case something got misclassified. Who wants to know, anyway?¡¯


    ¡®You know this is better when it¡¯s anonymous. Thanks for looking.¡¯


    ¡®Keep strong,¡¯ the voice said, then the connection cut.


    Numbly, he placed the phone onto the table, next to the tray of food and automatically smoothed the lines of his suit ¨C he had to look perfect, after all.


    Anything less wasn¡¯t acceptable. Anything less meant he wasn¡¯t grateful that the Agency had given him a second chance. Anything less than perfect could give Ryan a reason to¨C


    His skin itched. Still-recent memories of being tortured were all too easy to call to the surface. He slowly patted his body down, feeling the uninjured skin beneath the fabric of his uniform. He was fine. He was breathing. He could see the sun.


    He was fine, and Stef was dead.


    Knowing she was dead was different to having a chance.


    He wondered briefly if Ryan had called in himself, made his own queries, and made peace with the situation in the early hours of the morning. It wasn¡¯t impossible, but it was unlikely. Making his own inquiries wasn¡¯t the correct procedure, and Ryan stuck to Duty like a lover.


    And now, he had to go back, pick up his paperwork, and continue working like none of this had happened.


    It would hurt for a few days, but self-preservation would take over, and he¡¯d numb himself to everything again. Until they decided to release him, he had no choice but to be as much of an automaton as they were. As much of an unfeeling bastard as-


    He stood and kicked a hole in the wall.


    His foot cried out in protest as he kicked the wall again and again, but the pain made him feel human.


    ¡®Fuck!¡¯ He punched the wall. ¡®Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!¡¯ bloody marks covered the wall as he punched the wall, pretending it was Ryan, that it was Petersen, that it was whoever had put a bullet in Stef, that it was-


    The world wasn¡¯t fair. The world was cruel. It didn¡¯t always have to be so cruel.


    He punched another hole in the wall, something behind the plasterwork cutting a deep gash.


    He collapsed and hated himself for the tears.

 12 - Kindness

    There was a knock at the door.


    Ryan ignored it.


    There was another knock.


    Ryan poured himself another drink.


    His warped reflection stared back at him from the cut crystal of the glass that had been his only companion for the past couple of hours.


    Jones had made it clear he could come back to the lab whenever he wanted. Still, there had been things he¡¯d needed to do, things he¡¯d needed to organise, and weeping by Stef¡¯s bed was going to ensure a tidy end to his life.


    He could run. There was one last piece of mirror remaining, enough for a fresh start, enough to undo the mistakes he¡¯d made, but he couldn¡¯t bring himself to make another wish. So, for now, until Crawford or another Central representative claimed it, it sat in an unmarked envelope, anonymous except for the weight it created in the world.


    There was still dust on his fingers from his- From the inexcusable way he¡¯d treated O¡¯Connor. The wall had repaired itself, and the stains of blood and urine that the boy had left on the carpet were long gone. Only the particles of wall and paint on his hands and the shame of his actions remained.


    He didn¡¯t trust the young man, but such violence had been undeserved. It had been the wrong word in the wrong place, and it had been enough to sever all that had remained of his self-control.


    There were a number of folders on his desk - most were slim and contained last rights and requests. All that he was entitled to from service as a director. Bequests to his family, enough money to pay for any education Arisa wanted. A small will detailing the few objects he held in any regard.


    And a folder, containing the paperwork to promote O¡¯Connor to Aide.


    The finalisation forms were unsigned, but the groundwork had been laid. From a subjective point of view, he wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about O¡¯Connor. From an objective point of view, from the position of a life about to end, where lies and pretence found little purchase, he couldn¡¯t fault the boy¡¯s performance or loyalty.


    And if he was gone, the elevation in rank to Aide would help protect Curt¡¯s position in the Agency. Would preserve the second chance of someone doing his best every day to earn it.


    It was a sad commentary on his life, on how few friends he had that he had spent a portion of what might be his last hours and minutes ensuring the future for someone he second-guessed daily.


    There was a clink of glass, and he looked to his hand, but the ice had long ago melted, and he hadn¡¯t found the will or presence of mind to require more. Slowly, sluggishly, he looked around the room, saw a spoon on his coffee table, then registered the fact that he had a visitor.


    ¡®Jane?¡¯ He asked, staring at the handsome black woman. ¡®How long-?¡¯


    She smiled and placed her coffee cup down next to her spoon. ¡®I knocked, Newborn, but you didn¡¯t answer.¡¯ She brushed something off her purple tie, the deep and rich colour that made so many jealous of London¡¯s feature colour.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ he said. He put his glass down, shook his head, and tried to bring his mind into the moment. ¡®Please- Forgive me. I¡¯m not-¡¯


    ¡®I know,¡¯ she said. ¡®I know everything, Ryan, why do you think I¡¯m here?¡¯


    Hope, no brighter than a dust mote in sunlight, rose. ¡®Are you my advocate?¡¯


    She nodded and patted the couch beside her. ¡®As you can imagine, I wasn¡¯t the first choice, Crawford had to pull a few strings to allow someone from outside Central in on this case.¡¯


    More motes danced in the sunlight.


    He refreshed his uniform and appearance - whatever she had to say, he wanted to be presentable for his judgement.


    He almost hated that he still had hope, despite having spent hours preparing for the worst.


    The fact that it was Jane - that Crawford had assigned and sent someone familiar - meant one of two things. One, that Crawford had chosen someone sympathetic to get the best result. Or two, and the reason he hated the small sparks of hope, that the worst news should come from someone familiar, to lessen the impact somewhat. To have a friend - or at least an acquaintance - to talk you through the fact that you were to be executed.


    Reynolds had been that for Rhys - a story often repeated and regretted. He¡¯d always had the impression that Reynolds had been trying to apologise to whatever of Rhys remained, to explain that he¡¯d been unable to do anything to prevent it.


    This was his last chance. Whatever Jane said next would determine if he was to live or die.


    All he had to do was make another wish, and hope that it was the right one. Wish himself human and run to Faerie. Invoke Time and roll back the clock. Do anything except passively accept that he wasn¡¯t in control of his life.


    When the time had come for his life to end, Rhys had arrived promptly. He¡¯d spat and swore, had decried Reynolds as a poor replacement, but hadn¡¯t fought his fate.


    And he was doing the same. It was cowardice, it was loyalty to the System, it was his inability to be more than what he had been designed as. Imperfect, but loyal the end.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    He gathered all of the paperwork that he had worked on, then joined Jane. He set the folder in front of her, and sat on the edge of the couch, unwilling to even feign feeling relaxed in this moment.


    ¡®Do you need the formal words, or do you accept me as your advocate, Ryan?¡¯


    ¡®I accept you, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    ¡®Crawford shared everything that was conveyed to him. I also have, of course, been privy to sundry and supplemental materials, such as your recent records and the file of your recruit. A few hours have passed since Crawford was here, what do you have to add?¡¯


    The question was never ¡°do you have anything to add?¡±, it was always ¡°what do you have to add?¡±. As, unless you rendered yourself unconscious as soon as the Enforcer left, situations that required investigation were almost always fluid.


    The intervening time gave you time to reconsider your reasoning. To gather evidence if needed. To decide if you wanted to do everything you could to restore the old status quo.


    He could disavow Stef, and what he had done was a mistake. He could ask to be distanced from the recruit and the mirror holding her in suspension. It was technically an option - and he would be treated better than if he accepted everything he had done, and continued to beg for both of their lives.


    There were a hundred paths to take, but it hadn¡¯t taken him long to decide on his final ask of the Agency.


    ¡®One thing to add, one thing to request.¡¯


    Jane nodded. ¡®Go on.¡¯


    He touched the envelope that lay on top of the folder. ¡®This contains the last piece of mirror, Enforcer Crawford didn¡¯t retrieve it before leaving.¡¯ He moved it aside and laid a hand on the top folder. ¡®If you are here, as I fear, to give me bad news, I would ask that Stef be treated with all leniency possible. She didn¡¯t-¡¯ He paused for a moment, to keep his voice steady. ¡®She didn¡¯t deserve this, Jane, I don¡¯t want her to pay for my mistakes.¡¯


    ¡®And that¡¯s all you have to add?¡¯


    He folded his hands in his lap. ¡®Yes, ma¡¯am. I¡¯ve said all that can be said. I won¡¯t apologise, and I won¡¯t distance myself.¡¯ He looked at her. ¡®I¡¯d appreciate not being held in suspense, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    She laid her hands on his. ¡®I won¡¯t be saying goodbye to you today.¡¯


    ¡®What does that mean?¡¯ he asked, trying to tamp down on his impulse to hope for a good outcome.


    She adjusted how she was sitting on the couch, leaned forward and cupped her hand. A moment later, a bottle appeared - shifted in, as he doubted she would have required something that looked so old and dusty - and poured each of them a small measure.


    ¡®A lot of people love your father, Ryan,¡¯ she said as she handed him one of the glasses. ¡®This bottle was a wedding present from him. I only dip into it when there are moments to truly celebrate. Birth of my son, gold anniversary, not saying goodbye to an old friend.¡¯ She clinked her glass against his and sipped at the gold-flecked liquid. ¡®People owe Reynolds a lot of favours, and sleeping or not, they honour those markers.¡¯


    ¡®Am I alive through bribery, Jane?¡¯


    She smiled. ¡®A good advocate, Ryan, does what is necessary. For as old as you are, your record is relatively spotless. There are larger problems with your Agency that-¡¯ she swirled the liquid in her glass. ¡®Agreeing to an audit was part of this, say ¡°I agree¡± and let me continue with the important parts.¡¯


    ¡®I agree,¡¯ he said, almost on autopilot.


    ¡®You have good, consistent service. And...when agents get to your age, there are certain leniencies that...although they don¡¯t exist on paper, are understood by people making the decisions. You destroyed the majority of the mirror, excellent. You owned up to what happened immediately, excellent.¡¯ She lifted the envelope and shook it. ¡®You didn¡¯t step into the rather obvious trap and try to take the easy way out. And all you¡¯re asking for, really, is one life, and that¡¯s something that can be managed.¡¯


    ¡®Is Stef safe, then?¡¯


    ¡®As I understand it, right now, she¡¯s the next thing to a corpse.¡¯


    He fought for the words to argue, but it was the truth, so he nodded. ¡®Yes, ma¡¯am, I wish it wasn¡¯t the case, but-¡¯


    Jane smiled. ¡®Maybe avoid using that word for a while, Newborn.¡¯


    ¡®Please. Tell me. Is Stef-¡¯


    ¡®A lot of that is going to depend on precisely what happens when she wakes up. I need to introduce you to a few people-¡¯ she waved a hand as he looked up. ¡®Not today, not even tomorrow. Surely you can¡¯t imagine that this is the only time the Agency has touched mirror, that your recruit is the only recruit to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.¡¯


    ¡®I hadn¡¯t-¡¯ saying that he hadn¡¯t had time to research wasn¡¯t exactly true. Still, it wasn¡¯t something that he had considered, wasn¡¯t something that he¡¯d been calm enough to think about. ¡®Whatever you want me to do, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    She gathered the files and stood. ¡®What I want you to do, Ryan, is for you to prepare for an audit. Spick and span, top to tail, put your best foot forward, please.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    ¡®Ryan,¡¯ she said as she lingered near the door. ¡®A lot of people love your father. A lot of people would do anything for Reynolds, even after all this time. I love him like a sibling, but I did this for you. I¡¯ve always owed you my gratitude, and I¡¯ve never found a way to show it.¡¯


    Speaking the truth - saying anything specific - would be dangerous while in System territory, would divulge old crimes, and put Stef at further risk.


    Forgiving a Director an indiscretion was one thing. The crime of a much younger agent, especially one covered up for more than a century, would be viewed with much less grace.


    He hadn¡¯t made a wish back then, only stolen a piece of mirror, ferried it to Jane so she could save her wife. It had been impulsive, a bold, kind act, something Rhys never would have done. Something he was sure would be attributed to Reynolds by the few people who knew why Jane continued to have a happy marriage.


    It had been the right thing to do, and he¡¯d known that, even under a hundred layers of repressed and double-guessed emotions. It hadn¡¯t been his Duty, hadn¡¯t been what the Agency would have allowed, but it had been right, and that was all that mattered.


    And after he¡¯d left Jane in the church, healed wife curled in her arms, they¡¯d never spoken of it.


    ¡®Besides,¡¯ she said, a shine of old tears in her eyes, ¡®you¡¯re not allowed to die without meeting your namesake.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯ he asked, choking on the word.


    ¡®We wouldn¡¯t have a son without you, it was only right.¡¯ She stepped back towards him, laid a small photo on the coffee table, then left the office without another word.


    The photo was of a young man graduating school, resplendent in cap and gown, holding a framed certificate, his name written in an ornate font: Ryan Alejandro Cortez.


    Agents weren¡¯t meant to be noticed. The Agency was, by deliberate design, to be anonymous as possible - any humans you interacted with were to have as little impression or memory of you as possible.


    It was why Stef remembering him had been so...significant, so wonderful. For better or worse, he¡¯d left an unintentional mark on the world.


    Having a child was an obvious legacy. Whether or not that child chose to remember you, decided to include you in their life...that was never a certain thing, as his relationship with Alexander showed.


    Reports came and went, medals meant nothing, and the Agency didn¡¯t make statues. You lived, you died, and you hoped that someone would remember you.


    Somewhere in their history - from before they were agents - it had become a practice to name a child after someone you wanted to honour, some gratitude you wanted to repay. A namesake was another way a little part of you survived, a little way in which you could be remembered.


    And no one had ever loved him enough, felt indebted enough to give him a namesake - and the fact that he wasn¡¯t even hidden as a middle name - tears welled in his eyes, and for the first time since the previous evening, they weren¡¯t born from misery.

 13 - Running from the Mask

    Curt stared at the ceiling, his bloody hand cradled in his lap.


    At least here he could breathe properly - it was always so hard to breathe in the Agency. Anywhere outside of those four walls still seemed...safer.


    The first months had been the worst - expecting Petersen to appear at any moment and finally finish the job. To kill him one more time without calling on Agency medical technology to bring him back from the brink.


    As time went on though, the odds of that happening anywhere outside of his nightmares dropped further and further. A tiny bit of safety, even if he only had the words of an agent to rely on as to that decreasing likelihood.


    Farnshaw, Adelaide¡¯s medical agent, though in no sense the equivalent of the Parkers - had explained agent emotions to him. That they might burn bright sometimes, but they burned out just as quickly.


    It was one of the first real conversations he¡¯d had with anyone in the Agency. Words had been exchanged with Petersen, but begging for death and recounting his sins could hardly count as conversation.


    Farnshaw had been cold, saw him as a monster, but was at least willing to acknowledge him as...someone that might be capable of change. Even if he¡¯d never wipe out the crimes he¡¯d committed.


    It was one of the areas where the Solstice were...almost right when it came to agents. The more he¡¯d learned about the Agency, the more he¡¯d found that either the Solstice purposely disseminated false information, or knew precisely jack and squat about their enemy.


    Probably a combination of both.


    Agents were always presented as inhuman, as unfeeling, as...robots in suits, capable of only hate and murder.


    What Farnshaw had explained was that agents were capable of every emotion that humans were. But, because of what they were, allowing strong emotions to linger could be detrimental to their work - an agent couldn¡¯t lie around for weeks after a bad breakup.


    He¡¯d been the single-minded target of Petersen¡¯s rage for weeks. The change had been slow, but as the agent had reached the end of the catalogue of cruelty it was possible to visit upon a human body, Petersen had grown bored.


    No longer interested in stripping flesh from bone, Petersen had been left with a toy he no longer wanted to play with. Without a second thought, Petersen had flung him halfway across the country - out of sight, out of mind.


    Going from Petersen to Ryan had been a shock - not night to day, but maybe Tuesday to Wednesday.


    Whereas Petersen had just been rage, Ryan had been...blank.


    He touched the back of his head and felt the dried blood. All this time, Ryan had been capable of the same rage as Petersen, the same violence, the same-


    In a sick way, he felt validated - he¡¯d been right to be afraid of Ryan all this time.


    And now he needed to put on his good-little-recruit face and go back to work. Pretend nothing had happened. Bury himself inside the mask until-


    Bury himself until...


    He couldn¡¯t.


    He just couldn¡¯t.


    There was a knock on the door, and Carmichel let himself in, a first aid kit in his hands.


    Wordlessly, Carmichel sat in front of him, took his hand, and started to clean the blood away.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry for your loss,¡¯ Carmichel said. ¡®If you want me to attend any death observances with you, just give me the time and location.¡¯


    He winced as Carmichel spread cream across his knuckles. ¡®Might be a few days,¡¯ he said, ¡®status has to change from MIA to KIA, then- I mean, shit, I don¡¯t even know if she¡¯s got arrangements made.¡¯ He gave his friend a lopsided grimace. ¡®Not everyone has a will with their preferred burial methods.¡¯


    ¡®When I have to take care of the arrangements for someone, I default to a good scatter, don¡¯t go with a cheap provider, you want something beautiful.¡¯


    He stared at the fairy. ¡®Carmichel,¡¯ he said flatly, waiting for the cultural mismatch to register.


    Carmichel returned the look, then chuckled. ¡®Right, I guess involving nymphs in an observance isn¡¯t common for your people.¡¯ He tapped the covered wound. ¡®Done. Want to help me clean this wall?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, and I¡¯ll pay for-¡¯


    ¡®You never have to pay for anything, kallabrae.¡¯


    ¡®Except time in your establishments,¡¯ he teased.


    ¡®You get the same number of employee passes as anyone else, giving you more would just be bad business.¡¯ Carmichel stood and offered a hand. ¡®I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t help you with this.¡¯


    ¡®You did more than the Agency did.¡¯


    ¡®Curt, my offer still stands. If you ever want a different job, then-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve told you. It¡¯s not that easy for them to let a monster go. There¡¯s a reason there¡¯s no current time limit on my probation. I think it just keeps going until they feel I¡¯ve paid my debt to society. It¡¯s purgatory, it goes forever, except at some point it stops.¡¯


    ¡®When I die,¡¯ Carmichel said, ¡®I plan on asking for the grace of Lady Limbo, to be allowed to wander her forest for a time. To make peace with myself before whatever comes next.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ll ever be able to make peace with myself,¡¯ he said as he scrubbed at a bloody mark on the wall. ¡®I¡¯ve told you this before, but I feel...trapped. I know I¡¯m- I¡¯m whatever you want to call me. Monster. Murderer.¡¯


    ¡®Deceived child,¡¯ Carmichel said mildly.


    ¡®I know I deserve whatever punishment they want to bring down on my head, but- Fuck, I¡¯m trying. And I never- None of my actions seems to mean anything.¡¯


    ¡®Come work for me. Ask your agent. I¡¯ll pay whatever they¡¯re asking to release you from purgatory.¡¯ Carmichel grabbed his shoulders and turned Curt to face him. ¡®You¡¯ve done bad things, you¡¯re not a bad person. I don¡¯t think you¡¯re a bad person.¡¯


    Curt hung his head. ¡®I can¡¯t face Ryan. Not right now.¡¯


    Carmichel wrapped an arm around his shoulders. ¡®Then use your apartment for a night or two. Relax. Process. Grieve.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t want them to think I¡¯m running.¡¯


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡®I¡¯ll deal with that. The question is, do you want to?¡¯


    He nodded slowly. ¡®Please. Yes- Please.¡¯


    Carmichel stood, and dialled a number on his phone. ¡®Good morning,¡¯ he said smoothly. ¡®This is Cresta Lan Oca, and I need to talk to your Director. He should ask you to put me right through.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Thank you.¡¯ Pause. A slight roll of eyes indicating hold music.


    ¡®I understand, Director,¡¯ he said, turning on the charm, ¡®ten seconds of your time is all I need. Well, ten seconds and your recruit for a couple of days.¡¯ Pause. ¡®O¡¯Connor, of course, he served me well the last time I danced with your Agency. Two full nights, I¡¯ll get back to you if I need him longer.¡¯ Pause. ¡®Wonderful. Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll see my gratitude for this. Wonderful. Thank you. Have a lovely day, Director.¡¯


    He ended the call and smiled. ¡®You¡¯re free for a couple of days. Go kiss a spring, I¡¯ve got a couple of quick things to finish up, then we¡¯ll head home.¡¯ Carmichel offered him a hand, and he stood. ¡®Breathe, kallabrae, you¡¯ve got no worries for a few hours.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s hard,¡¯ he said, as if admitting weakness.


    ¡®I know, but try,¡¯ Carmichel said, then left the small room, already making another call.


    After a minute of trying to breathe, he slowly made his way down the hall to the bathroom.


    ¡°Go kiss a spring¡± was roughly the equivalent of ¡°go splash your face¡±, but with a different attitude. The human version had always seemed to him to be to shock yourself back into normality, to reset your face after crying. The fairy equivalent had seemed to encourage being in the moment, to just be still for a few seconds and work through whatever emotion you were feeling.


    He turned on the tap, cupped his hands, filled them, then lowered his face into the water. He tried to count to ten as the cool water covered his face. Tried to listen to the slight trickle as rivulets of water found the cracks between his hands and fingers, tried to enjoy the ticklish sensation of letting a stream of bubbles from his nose into the small pool of water.


    He didn¡¯t feel any better, but he didn¡¯t feel any worse.


    He split his hands and let the remaining water splash into the sink.


    A wet recruit stared at him from the mirror - but he didn¡¯t have to be Recruit Curt for the next couple of days.


    Angrily, he twisted two handfuls of his dress shirt and felt it rip as he dismissed it. Dress shoes were replaced by simple boots, slacks for cargo pants, shirt and tie replaced by a simple T-shirt.


    Somehow, he didn¡¯t feel more relaxed.


    And he felt so alone.


    With one last look at himself, he made his way back to Carmichel¡¯s main office and found the fairy already packing to leave. ¡®We need to make a couple of stops,¡¯ Carmichel said, and handed him a leather satchel, which he accepted without thinking. ¡®Your agent might not think you¡¯re good enough to be an aide, but I think you¡¯ve got potential.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s measuring trust against competency,¡¯ Curt said as they walked down the hall towards the car park. ¡®And he¡¯ll never trust me.¡¯


    ¡®His loss,¡¯ Carmichel said.


    There were two stops before they headed into Fairyland.


    The first, to empty Carmichel¡¯s post office box - something that one of his assistants should have done the previous week, a comment that was made with a significant look.


    And it gave him hope that the offered job wouldn¡¯t just be a useless, do-nothing nepotism paycheck.


    He had the skills to be an agent¡¯s aide, he could apply at least some of that to be one of Carmichel¡¯s assistants.


    It always amazed him that he¡¯d somehow ended up friends with someone that others had to wait days or weeks to see.


    Carmichel wasn¡¯t one of the significant top-tier players when it came to the world of information and liaisons. Still, he was solidly somewhere in the upper-middle.


    He was a man that, through the various pies that he had fingers in, employed dozens of people in one way or another. Had worked with the Agency on a dozen operations, and had his chain of sexporiums.


    Carmichel was capital-I-Important, but he always had time for him.


    The second thing they did was change cars. Carmichel let his security detail go and then selected a Fairyland town car from the garage.


    The drive was quiet - Carmichel let him sit with his thoughts - something that was easy enough to do, even with the radio on.


    The apartment had been the gift that he still couldn¡¯t believe. In Carmichel¡¯s eyes, it had been the real repayment for saving his life - both in terms of monetary value and in following with tradition.


    The monetary value was easy enough to understand. Carmichel had explained that anyone who had known who he was would have milked him for far more - that they would have seen nothing but his bank account and taken him for all that he would give.


    Tradition had been harder to understand. There was a fairy saying that didn¡¯t translate very well, generally being rendered as ¡°life needs a home, home needs a life¡±, but in practicality, it was something like the fairy version of a life debt.


    ¡°I saved your life, now you have to serve me forever¡± had no place in fairy cultural history. When you were a people who had been, until a few centuries before, a popular snack for larger fae, life-long debts could be a matter of weeks.


    Offering a place to live, to someone who had saved your life, on the other hand, was something far more manageable.


    With how many family members tended to be eaten, and how many tiny houses were destroyed by giants wanting that perfect addition to a stew, there had traditionally been a healthy mix of people needing home and homes needing people.


    Their society was no longer like that, but the tradition had remained in some forms. When you were rich enough, as Carmichel was, that meant buying your saviour a damn apartment.


    It was in a building of serviced apartments. Carmichel owned a few other rooms in the same building - mostly being used by employees that needed to be in town overnight, or won an office raffle for a weekend getaway.


    Carmichel pulled into the curved driveway and waved away the valet as they approached. ¡®Call me if you need anything, all right?¡¯


    ¡®All right.¡¯


    Carmichel reached across and squeezed his shoulder. ¡®This will have passed. This passes. This passed.¡¯ Another phrase that didn¡¯t translate with all of its cultural history, but the meaning and intent settled into his chest.


    ¡®Nylae,¡¯ Curt said as he laid his hand on Carmichel¡¯s. ¡®Nylae, Cresta.¡¯ Nylae, a form of ¡°I love you¡± that siblings used. Cresta, Carmichel¡¯s real name - even though it amused him to use a human nickname, sometimes...sometimes a moment called for a real name.


    Names had power, even when the world wasn¡¯t built on the fairy magic from stories.


    ¡®Nylae,¡¯ Carmichel said, then pressed the button that popped open the passenger door.


    The doorman nodded and let him into the building. The receptionist signed him in with the tenant app on his Genie phone - a convenience that meant he never needed to have the physical room key on him, then he headed for the elevator and up to the apartment.


    He tried not to spend too much time in any part of Faerie that wasn¡¯t explicitly asked for and approved by the Agency. He was entitled to his time off, even as a scumbag on probation, he had some rights, and not being on-call twenty-four-seven was one of them.


    But he couldn¡¯t take the chance that they thought he was running.


    He sipped his water bottle.


    If they thought he was running, they might-


    He pressed the bottle to his head.


    Petersen had put a bomb in his head. No one had ever confirmed that it had been removed.


    But if they let him go, if Carmichel paid out his debt, his contract, whatever they wanted to call it, they would surely have to-


    They were the Agency, they would do whatever they wanted.


    The only comfort he had was that they wouldn¡¯t charge Carmichel full price for his life, only to have his head explode ten days later. They didn¡¯t care about him, but they cared enough about maintaining a good relationship with Carmichel as to not fuck him over in the deal.


    He stepped off the lift and walked down the luxuriously carpeted hall to the door that displayed the number ¡°158¡± in Glyph.


    He tapped his phone against the security scanner, the app cycled and the door unlocked.


    The apartment always smelled like a new hotel room - which wasn¡¯t surprising, even the unoccupied rooms were regularly serviced to avoid the build-up of dust and to stop the air from going stale.


    The entry table was covered in letters, with a stack of small packages beneath - it had been a while since he¡¯d been there, so gifts from Carmichel tended to build up. Most were little things - he got entered into the same weekly giveaways as the employees, and sometimes by random chance, he would win; and there were the small statutory gifts for a dozen Faerie holidays.


    Faerie as a whole has a lot more ¡°present giving¡± holidays than the world he was used to. Still, most of them had traditions of a single gift, and most times, that gift was something edible - chocolates, flowers, cheeses. A moment with something delicious given by someone who cared about you.


    He kicked his shoes off and pushed them into the little ¡°shoe house¡± under the coat rack by the door. After a moment of staring at the gifts, he grabbed the top couple that likely contained something edible, and walked into the apartment.


    It was much larger than his room at the Agency, and the colours were far from the sterile corporate-ness that invaded every corner of Agency living. Each room of this apartment had a deep, richly coloured featured wall - it felt cozy, like a space he could really make a home.


    He sat at the dining table, ambient light above coming on as to not leave him sitting in a puddle of darkness. He slowly unwrapped the top box - expensive chocolates in a box with a lenticular cover, shifting between various fae languages, giving greetings and well wishes for whatever the holiday was that the chocolates had been a gift for.


    This could be his life, this could be his home, and he hated that such small wishes seemed so out of reach, so impossible to attain.

 14 - Soft Mornings

    There was softness, and there was safety.


    Waking up was rarely a slow process. Being able to ascertain her immediate situation upon waking was a skill she¡¯d crafted over a life of uncertainty. A life where safety that had existed upon going to sleep might have disappeared overnight.


    Magnolia stared at Screen¡¯s soft back, adjusted the blanket, and snuggled in further, slipping one leg between Screen¡¯s, trying to meld with her best friend¡¯s marshmallowy form.


    Sleeping rough, sleeping around people she didn¡¯t trust, sleeping next to people who didn¡¯t respect her...all had given her a comprehensive roster of skills. To ability to recognise what a change in breathing might mean, what harsh whispers in the night might mean for the morning, and what someone entering or leaving a bed might mean.


    This moment, right here and now, was probably as close to heaven as she could ever find.


    Soft light filtered in from three windows. The central one was a real window, showing the city outside the Agency, the other two were false projections, sims that showed a view down to the ocean from a high vantage point - like that from an expensive hotel.


    ¡®Morning,¡¯ Screen mumbled. ¡®Just warning, I am not awake yet.¡¯


    ¡®No problem,¡¯ she said, ¡®neither am I.¡¯ She closed her eyes and let herself drift. Not going back to sleep, but allowing herself to wake up far more slowly than normal. To slowly run through all of her thoughts and duties, rather than jumping in and acting on instinct, as she did most mornings.


    There were few things officially required of her today - though that largely meant nothing. Most of her job, most of the things she did day in and day out weren¡¯t officially required of her, or were suggested duties, rather than part of an aide¡¯s formal job description.


    She was simply everything her commander needed from her. An ever-changing list of that could be as broad and straightforward as training recruits to far more subtle needs, like just being a presence when Taylor had something on his mind.


    ¡®Don¡¯t get up,¡¯ Screen said as she stood, a casual dress and leggings appearing on her body. ¡®I¡¯ll be pissed if you leave before I get back.¡¯


    ¡®Mmmpf,¡¯ she mumbled, and pulled one of the pillows over her head.


    The door to Screen¡¯s opened, then closed as the tech left.


    The world could wait for a while. Today was one of those mornings when everything could wait. Unless her commander called for her, she was more than content to listen to the sound of waves coming in through the windows and bask in the warm morning light.


    She was sure it was an image of her that wouldn¡¯t gel with most of the recruits. The ones that only knew her as That Bitch to be Feared. An ambulatory pair of boots precision-crafted for ass-kicking. And the only recruit in their Agency that spoke with the authority of an agent.


    The rumours and assumptions were never far from her ears - and she did little to discourage them. The people who believed that she slept in some sort of spikes-and-whips, all-black, all-leather BDSM dungeon were most often the people who would only ever see one side of her.


    She had the respect of her recruits - most of her recruits - but few friends amongst them. More fuckbuddies than friends. The kind of relationship that was used for a quickie in a supply closet, rather than anything more intimate.


    Some theme parks rides had signs that said ¡°you have to be this tall to ride this ride¡±. Her tiers of friendship and fucking had a similar bar before she¡¯d allow someone to see soft whites and dusky pinks of her room. Before someone could be lit by the strings of fairy lights and photos that belonged on a damn Instagram post. Before they could see the dozens of other little items that indicated that she was a full damn person, not some one-dimensional authority figure in a cute dress.


    To little surprise to anyone with the capacity to reason, it was far more often the techs that achieved the friendships tiers where she felt comfortable to be some version of her real self.


    On those rare nights that she went out with friends, it was generally a group comprised mostly of techs. People who had spent long stretches of their lives being misunderstood or misplaced.


    Hewitt was the most significant exception when it came to friends amongst her own recruits. Their friendship had been easy, shared looks when the other Combats were being absolutely too fucking straight to handle.


    Gay/bi solidarity and being the only queers in a room when heteros were being upsetero was a good foundation to a lot of friendships. And now, friendship and good work lead to her thinking of him almost as her own aide.


    The morning he¡¯d shown up to training, glitter still in his hair from Pride the day before, she¡¯d had to defenestrate one of her recruits to make them understand that certain pieces of language were, under no circumstances, okay - whether or not she was around.


    The defenestrated recruit - who had only dropped a few metres before being auto-shifted by the building¡¯s security macros - still seemed to be uncomfortable with the ¡°icky gays¡±. However, after multiple rounds of sensitivity training, he was finally moving into a more passive ¡°so long as they do it away from me¡± mindset. It was slow progress, but it was still a better attitude than one that unthinkingly slung words that hurt more than some of her smaller knives.


    It was always sad that some people seemed to have less trouble wrapping their heads around the idea of mermaids being real than that sometimes boys kissed boys.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    And when girls kissed girls, it wasn¡¯t just for straight boy spank bank material.


    She slowly sat up in bed, fingers brushing over the remaining warmth on Screen¡¯s side of the bed.


    Feathers scratched against the pillows - they¡¯d need to be cut soon. There¡¯d been too much going on lately that even such a quick task had fallen by the wayside.


    Some people would make a mental note of it and move on.


    Some people were idiots.


    With a sigh that acknowledged that her time of really, truly relaxing was over, she required her workbook - a large binder that was everything from current and future schedules to leave requests and her to-do lists.


    The to-do lists were split into three sections - ¡°today¡±, ¡°near future¡± and ¡°long term¡±. After a moment, she slipped the pen from its elastic loop and quickly wrote ¡°prune feathers¡± into the ¡°today¡± section.


    Objectively, it wasn¡¯t a high priority. Still, there was the potential for it to interfere with her sleep if they grew longer, and that couldn¡¯t be allowed. Most of her days were structured around the idea of attaining the exact optimal amount of sleep. Quality over quantity, and waking up to feathers catching on fabric would disrupt that precious algorithm.


    The door opened, and Screen walked in, carrying a drinks tray containing two tall plastic cups filled with a foamy pink liquid, and a paper bag.


    ¡®Pie cart was here,¡¯ she said as she climbed back into bed. ¡®Had to.¡¯ She handed over one of the pink drinks - the label indicating that it was a tala fruit milkshake. Screen tore open the bag, revealing four doughnuts - each half-dipped in green chocolate.


    If the bakery had been from Earth, the colour likely would have indicated some kind of matcha flavouring, but since the ¡°pie cart¡± was a rotating series of Faerie bakeries, it was more likely to be grass chocolate.


    A slight sniff of the proffered doughnut caught the fresh sweetness of grass, and she gladly bit into it.


    ¡®Plans for today?¡¯ Screen asked as she popped her milkshake open and mixed in some boba pearls.


    ¡®Damage control mostly,¡¯ she replied, then wiped some chocolate from the corner of her mouth. ¡®See if there¡¯s any fallout from the final lists I need to deal with, that kind of thing.¡¯


    The shatter - something that hadn¡¯t been entirely unexpected, given what they knew of previous mirrorfalls, had continued to fuck with the tracking on some recruits long after the explosion. They¡¯d been able to shift the majority of recruits back - though some had needed signal boosts. Still, others had been reliant on just...driving home, something that felt oddly old-fashioned and vulnerable.


    She laid her workbook across her knees, set her breakfast aside, and required the final lists - her aide access bypassing the need to ask an agent for them.


    The lists showed all Agency members that had been involved in the operation - both from Queen Street and their outposts. Unbidden, her eyes scanned for the Caboolture outpost first. It was unlikely - unthinkable - that her father would have gone into the field, Katie and Darren, on the other hand¡­


    Agent Dazza and his wife were fine - and as such, she could continue to not think about them, to ignore that part of her life. Family - blood and adopted - were challenging at the best of times, and that part of her life was far from the best of times.


    She reached for Screen¡¯s hand and squeezed it tight, not letting go as she continued to go through the lists. The friends she had now, they were the family she¡¯d live and die for. Nothing else mattered.


    The lists weren¡¯t at all surprising. There were the KIAs she already knew about - and the expected number of injuries - all those recruits and agents highlighted in soft yellow.


    There was only one outstanding MIA, highlighted in orange - Recruit Mimosa, S.


    ¡®Huh,¡¯ she said quietly, then leaned over the side of the bed - grinning as Screen took the opportunity to kiss her exposed bum. She grazed her fingers over discarded clothes and toys, found a dictionary that had been thrown as part of a play argument, then found her phone under one of her boots.


    She righted herself on the bed, unlocked her phone and hit the WTFA shortcut on her home screen - an app that immediately showed Where The Fuck the Agents were. Everyone was within the building - and at this precise moment, they were all listed as ¡°Pos 0¡±, meaning everyone was in their office, or the area that functioned as their office in the case of people like Applebaum and Natalie.


    ¡®What¡¯s your nose crinkle?¡¯ Screen asked after a moment.


    ¡®Ryan¡¯s new recruit is missing, and he¡¯s in his office, something doesn¡¯t scan right about that.¡¯


    ¡®Stef?¡¯ Screen asked.


    ¡®Yeah, her.¡¯ She flipped across the rest of the list, then scanned through some detail on her phone. ¡®I know Ryan was caught pretty close to the epicentre, so he was fuzzy on tracking, and if she was with him¡­¡¯ She looked at the lists again. ¡®No, everyone else has come back online, so to speak, it¡¯s been hours, whatever was fucking with System tracking has faded.¡¯


    ¡®Search party?¡¯ Screen asked, her tablet appearing as she set aside her shake.


    ¡®I¡¯ll check.¡¯


    She opened up the activities app - something that with her aide access allowed her to see the status of every active, on-shift recruit.


    Everyone that was working was listed as either standard or follow-up. There were no unusual or high-priority missions flagged, as would have been expected with a search party for a missing recruit.


    So far as the Agency was concerned...it wasn¡¯t concerned with a missing young woman.


    ¡®Well, that¡¯s fucked,¡¯ she said, then reached for her shake. ¡®Can you check with Jones?¡¯


    ¡®Sec,¡¯ Screen said and tapped something out on her tablet.


    Magnolia sipped on her drink and signed off on a couple of leave request forms, unwilling to waste any moment of empty, unused time.


    ¡®Jonesy says the situation is resolved to the Agency¡¯s satisfaction but is unable to comment further.¡¯ Screen narrowed her eyes. ¡®Which sounds a lot like a copypasta, not a real response. Like, how, ¡°police action¡± on the train line means someone went smoosh, but they¡¯re being polite.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re pretty spot on,¡¯ she said. ¡®It generally means there¡¯s good reason to believe a recruit is dead, but they¡¯re waiting on final confirmation. Something like, there was a Solstice live feed of an execution.¡¯


    ¡®Jesus Christ.¡¯


    ¡®This is the kind of shit that happens when you take untrained recruits into the field. I¡¯m sorry for her, but decisions like this are why I question Ryan. Good man, not good agent.¡¯


    Screen set her drink aside. ¡®Guess my schedule¡¯s opened up for the week. And I hate that that¡¯s my first thought.¡¯


    Magnolia leaned over and kissed Screen¡¯s cheek. ¡®Agency life, right? I¡¯m going to check in. Want to do lunch?¡¯


    ¡®Sure, babe.¡¯


    Magnolia leaned against her friend for a moment, taking in the warmth and softness of the moment, then steeled herself for the day ahead. Even on what was technically a light day, nothing was going to be as pleasant as this precious morning had been.


    She signed off on the last couple of leave forms - one job ticked off for the morning, then stood and required herself into a fun, but subdued outfit. A plain black corset bodice, a skirt with only a few ruffles, and her usual crush-the-world boots.


    Her hair itched as it rearranged itself, a short, tight braid falling either side of her face, black ribbon brushing against her cheeks.


    She knelt and pulled her knife and sheath from beneath the discarded clothes on the floor and set it into place, blew a kiss to Screen, then walked towards the dorm door.


    Her face set into pure ¡°don¡¯t bother this bitch¡± mode, she left the soft world and entered the real world.

 15 - A Love Story

    Magnolia knocked on the door to Taylor¡¯s office and waited the requisite four seconds. The door had two locked modes - locked to the entire world, and locked to everyone except her.


    By default, she was allowed in, but experience had taught her to give her commander a moment to consider whether or not he wanted company, or needed silence. After a silent count to four, she tried the handle, and it opened easily.


    People thought Taylor was simple. People were idiots.


    The recruit population at large saw nothing but an imposing hulk of a man with a penchant for snapping the necks of his enemies. They imagined him to be nothing more than a raging, shaved bear, a monster for the Agency to unleash when it needed a specific job done.


    They didn¡¯t see what she saw. They didn¡¯t know his tells and context clues. They didn¡¯t see a man who, by turns, craved and detested silence.


    In a way, it was understandable, you took an effort to get to know someone when you loved them.


    It wasn¡¯t a love that was ever going to be reciprocated, but it was a baseline fact of her life that she couldn¡¯t ignore.


    The door being unlocked was normal, the state of his office wasn¡¯t.


    Taylor¡¯s office was small - a comfortable size for a desk and two chairs, but not much more than that. It wasn¡¯t the expansive, visitor-friendly space that Ryan had. This was a space Taylor had deliberately made smaller - he had no need of art on the walls, shelves of unread books, or a couch for visitors.


    It was functional, and that was all that mattered.


    For three-quarters or more of every day, it was a desk and two chairs; for the remaining hours, it was a simple, barracks-style military bed.


    The bed was empty, but still in place, which meant that something was on her commander¡¯s mind.


    For every rumour or misconception that surrounded her, there were a dozen that followed Taylor around.


    ¡°Taylor sleeps to lull others into a false sense of security¡±. ¡°Taylor doesn¡¯t really sleep¡±. ¡°Taylor doesn¡¯t sleep, he waits.¡±


    None of the rumours, however, had ever hit on the strange truth that he slept naked - something she unfortunately only knew second-hand, though from a reliable source.


    All agents slept. It was something that weirded out new recruits, who either expected agents to be never-resting robots, or that - as some Solstice suspected - they just plugged into the wall for a couple of hours like a charging phone.


    How that fact played out practically, for the agents she knew, was a matter of individual taste, and was very much reflective of the individual in question.


    Darren had a bed, one large enough to hold him, his wife, and any of their gaggle of children who came crawling to their parents after a nightmare. Ryan seemed to crash on his couch, which was both practical, but impersonal - basic, like the way he was with most comforts.


    Jones had a suite of rooms - though neither he nor his son spent much time sleeping in beds. Jones seemed to mostly go into an extended, low-intensity state while he played video games with his recruits. Merlin, sadly, was still most comfortable curled up in a cardboard box under a desk.


    And Taylor slept alone, on a barely comfortable bed, under a scratchy blanket.


    She continued through the door at the back of his office into his private gym - light, honey-coloured wood and the sim of frosted skylight windows gave the large room a welcoming feel.


    A small set of bleachers - each tier a wide wooden bench - sat to the left, and the rear wall was a series of sliding panels that hid Taylor¡¯s personal armoury.


    The leftmost panel of the armoury was open, and the weapon that usually sat pride of place - the axe of King Ursur, lay across Taylor¡¯s knees as he methodically sharpened it.


    Whatever was on his mind, he hadn¡¯t been so distracted as to stay naked - though he was shirtless. Shirtless, but not naked was the best compromise in terms of taking a gentle perv over the man she was in love with - strong, broad shoulders, and enough scars to show he was a survivor.


    Naked Taylor was more distracting than alluring. Another fact that had failed to make the rumour mill was that he was as smooth as a Ken doll, lacking the anatomical correctness that most agents had.


    The rumours, in fact, tended to stray in the other direction. Drunken recruits tended to speculate that he was hiding a foot-long cock in his pants, because anything less wouldn¡¯t fit the image they held of him.


    He lifted his head a little as she approached - enough to know that she was welcome in his personal space - but he continued on seeing to the axe without looking at her.


    She fetched the first aid kit - knowing that in part the reason for his lack of a shirt was so that she could go over his injuries from the previous night. That told her something else - that he hadn¡¯t been to see Jones in the intervening time.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    That wasn¡¯t unusual, but it was something to note. As a rule, unless gravely injured, he seemed to prefer her ministrations over going to get treatment from ¡°the Scholar¡±, as he called Jones. And in general, her knowledge of how to administer first aid to an agent kept him up and running. However, it was far from as pretty or as neat as Jones would accomplish.


    It was for his own good, however, that he check in with Jones at least every few days, so she tried to gently point him in that direction when she could - when he seemed amenable to what he saw as outside assistance.


    Without needing to ask, he effortlessly moved and repositioned himself as she cut away bandages and tore off dressings - almost all revealing new and perfect skin. One wound that had been a deep cut had left a scar near his elbow - something that was merely met with a grunt when pointed out, meaning that he was fine to keep the reminder.


    After everything had been tended to, she turned herself sideways on the wooden bench, exposing her back to him. ¡®Feathers, sir, if you don¡¯t mind.¡¯


    Taylor stood, laid Ursur¡¯s axe and a polishing cloth across her lap, then took a seat directly behind her, his knee pushed up against the small of her back.


    His fingers curled around the collar of the corset at the nape of her neck. There was a tingle as he shifted it away from her body, then a soft noise as he lay it beside her, one tier up on the bleachers. On top of it, a long, skinny plastic box appeared - the usual container for her feathers once they¡¯d been cut from her body.


    In fiction, hybrids were beautiful things - especially when it came to birds or other winged creatures. You ended up with something ethereal, something...angelic. Functional wings, and sharp nails, perfect fursonas for a reader to slap their identity onto.


    In real life, any mixture of fae and human - or fae and fae, or fae and agent, could lead to the most bizarre of babies. She had a half-brother, half a world away, whose mixture of magpie and fairy genes had given him useless boney scaffolding instead of wings. More than a few magpie/human hybrids ended up with cloacas, or pointed mouths that were made of flesh instead of the hard material of a beak.


    She was lucky, relatively speaking, that the worst of it was that she had to trim feathers.


    And even that had its upsides.


    His hand curled into a loose fist against her skin, and he pushed her forward with his knuckles, giving him the perfect angle to work on her back. His other hand, finger pads rough but warm, touched each spot that held a feather that he was going to deal with.


    All people saw was the beautiful violence that he was capable of, few - if any - even guessed that he had a gentle side. Would imagine him doing something so caring and intimate as what he was doing right now. Could not conceive that for every action he took, there was consent sought.


    Both of his hands settled around the area of the first feather, one lifting it away from her body. Sometimes with enough pressure at the right angle, they would slide out - the ones that didn¡¯t were the ones that needed to be trimmed.


    He worked on it for a moment, then she felt something break free. One of his hands went to curl around her left shoulder, bracing and keeping her steady as he pulled the feather free with precise and consistent motion.


    There was wetness as the feather was freed and blood ran down her back. Like a scratched pimple, the holes left behind by extracted feathers bled at a disproportionate rate - aesthetic, but annoying.


    The feather was placed in the plastic box beside her, and a patch of gauze taped over the bloody spot - enough to keep the area clean for now, when they were all dealt with, he¡¯d use the rest of the first aid kit to keep her fighting fit.


    The next refused to slide free, so she bent over with his touch, lifted the polishing cloth, and tried to concentrate on the task he¡¯d given her.


    Ursur¡¯s axe was a historical artifact that probably should have been in a museum. However, so far as she knew, no one had dared ask the man who had decapitated the tyrant with his own axe to make the donation. As a spoil of war, it went to the victor.


    The king had been one of those rare occasions when there¡¯d been a problem bad enough for Faerie authorities to ask for Agency assistance. Taylor had volunteered and had led the team to victory, taking no pleasure, no reward, no accolade, just the axe.


    He didn¡¯t talk about it. He didn¡¯t talk about...anything. His lack of verbosity, unfortunately, led to the pervasive idea that he was stupid, nothing more than a gun to be pointed at a problem.


    He clipped the feather free, dropped it with the first, then moved to the next.


    She wished she didn¡¯t covet the feeling of his hands on her bare skin, wished she could hate the roughness of his fingers, instead of imagining riding each to climax.


    Hated how safe he was.


    The statement ¡°Taylor has never hurt me¡± would lead to nothing but looks of confusion if said to all but the few right people. Everyone knew how violent their training could get - how often she was in the infirmary after a spar or had seen her with cuts and bruises walking down the hall.


    All of that was strictly confined to training, to situations where parameters had been established, and expectations had been set. None of it had been to hurt or punish her simply for the joy of it.


    He¡¯d never hit her because he was angry. Never broken a bone to prove a point.


    She was his favourite weapon, and you treated your prized weapons with respect.


    Another feather was clipped free, and she polished the one imperfect area of Ursur¡¯s axe.


    During the fight, or after it, the axe had been slammed into the marble floor of the king¡¯s throne room, chipping away a section from the bottom of the blade.


    The chipped piece of the axe had been turned into a knife. A knife he¡¯d thrown at an angry new recruit with no fanfare or explanation, leaving her to find out its meaning on her own. At the time, she¡¯d seen it as nothing more than a fancy bit of kit. A fae weapon that was actually killing an agent - though as angry as she¡¯d been in her early days, she¡¯d never done more than cut him with it.


    As much as she¡¯d never wanted to be his recruit, as combative as their beginning had been, even then, some part of her had appreciated the respect, the challenge, and the small hope that she could reach long-abandoned potential.


    Another feather was pulled free.


    He¡¯d been alone and needed a recruit. She¡¯d been in the right place/wrong place at the wrong time/right time. A criminal he could coerce into being a recruit in lieu of prison time. The only one in her gang who¡¯d had the guts to fight instead of run.


    Their beginning had been far from perfect.


    And they weren¡¯t defined by their beginning.


    He finished with the last feather.


    One by one, he removed the gauze pads, treated each spot with antibacterial cream and a small dressing.


    ¡®Stretch,¡¯ he commanded, when he was done, and she extended her arms to the side, slowly moving through a full range of movement at his instruction. As she moved her arms, several of the dressings moved or pulled at skin, so he repositioned them, making her as comfortable as possible.


    When he was done, he lifted her corset from the bench and it appeared back on her body.


    ¡®Thank you, sir,¡¯ she said, as she folded the polishing cloth, then laid it on top of the axe.


    He made a small noise of acknowledgement, then stood and lifted the axe and cloth from her lap. His own shirt was back in place, uniform blue, just like his pants.


    ¡®Spar?¡¯ he asked as he hefted the axe onto his shoulder.


    ¡®Yes, sir,¡¯ she said, unable to keep a slight smile from her face.

 16 - The Intent to Achieve More

    Grief and sleep were old bedfellows.


    Ryan opened his eyes. The quality of the light coming in through the wall of windows at the far end of his office told him it was mid-afternoon, something his HUD was kind enough to confirm as he sat up and felt himself speed back up to full function.


    As he usually did, he stood, stretched, and refreshed his skin and clothes with requirements. To the outside world, he was sure he looked like a perfectly ordinary agent, not one who had barely escaped the worst tragedies it was possible to befall a man.


    Or had hopefully escaped.


    Stef was safe for now. But with the way Jane had spoken, there had definitely been an implied asterisk in that safety - maybe not malice from the Agency, but just in how mirror wishes worked.


    He rubbed at his eyes, then moved to sit at his desk.


    A few menu options in his HUD accessed his inbox and required paper copies of all automated requests - simple things like leave requests, schedule changes, changes or extensions to rooms.


    All simple things that an aide could do with little supervision.


    Almost without thinking, he opened his contacts list and hovered over the option to contact Curt - only pausing when he saw that Curt¡¯s contact card was listed in yellow - meaning he was unavailable.


    More of the morning came to mind, including the phone call from Cresta Lan Oca - Carmichel - and his request to borrow Curt for a couple of days.


    There were more than enough reasons to assume this was simply Curt seeking forty-eight hours of refuge in Fairyland after the events of the morning, which was more than fair - his actions had been...inexcusable.


    If it was more, however, Carmichel¡¯s interactions with the Agency had always been to their benefit, so at worst, the situation would be a net neutral gain.


    He did need to find a way to apologise though. He¡¯d been exhausted, grieving, and awaiting a death sentence. Still, as many reasons and excuses as he had...he needed to rectify the situation. The wrong word at the wrong time - especially words that had been borne of an attempt to rescue Stef - shouldn¡¯t have led to violence.


    In a way, it would have been simpler if Jane had handed down the order to end his life, and escorted him to the recycling chamber. Death was neat in a way that life never could be. Apologies and gestures done from beyond the grave could tie a bow onto relationships, be an ending. Living on was far messier, where even grand gestures could seem hollow.


    He¡¯d written up paperwork that would have promoted Curt to aide, paperwork that had only been missing a final signature. Paperwork that had disappeared along with the other end-of-life requests that he had made - all of which, he was sure, would factor into Jane¡¯s final assessment of him and his Agency.


    If he were to offer Curt the position now, there was no telling how the young man would react.


    Their working relationship had always been fragile - he, unwilling to trust someone who had worked for Solstice; and Curt seemingly unwilling to trust any agent. Trust or no, Curt was in most other ways a perfect recruit - and for better or worse, the only recruit he had that deserved the aide position.


    But if it was offered now, Curt might see it as nothing more than an apology for the violence. A conciliatory gesture to stop him from making a report - even ex-Solstice recruits were guaranteed a life free from violence from the agents around them.


    Worse, though, might be dead-eyed acceptance of the position, a simple ¡°yes, sir¡± with no real change in their working relationship.


    As an end-of-life boon, it would have been appropriate; as a consequence to live with...they weren¡¯t there yet.


    It would be something to ask Jane. To request that she kept off the table - another small grace that she could grant, on top of the mercies she had already shown.


    Ryan neatly gathered the simple paperwork into a pile and laid it under a glass paperweight on the far corner of his desk. With no one obvious to shunt it to, it could wait for a while.


    The emails from Jane came next - one was a simple reminder that he would have to explain the situation at the six PM meeting. Three hours to put everything into words. Explanations that would have to cover the simple and complex aspects of what was going on. Words would have to convey the current situation, as well as his wishes for how to move forward...even though that was largely dependent on one sleeping young woman.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    His father, dreaming without death; and his daughter, dead without dreaming.


    The next few emails from Jane were meeting invites - surely the beginning of the audit, each of which he accepted.


    The last email held the subject line of ¡°The Least of It, Newborn¡±, and was a series of file extracts.


    He clicked to open the first, closed it, then retreated to his couch, paper copies of the file extracts appearing on his coffee table, along with a glass of scotch.


    Each file held the story of a recruit, agent, or Agency-adjacent person who had come into contact with mirror. And few of them were stories with fairytale endings.


    So far as the extracts showed - though, if he could infer from the subject line, this was only the first set of examples - there wasn¡¯t a one-to-one reflection of Stef¡¯s situation. No-one in this batch had been killed by the mirror piece they¡¯d encountered.


    Injured, yes. Maimed, yes. The ultimate cause of an early death, yes. But...no one left cold and bleeding on a rooftop as Stef had been.


    The effects ran the full gamut from almost mundane to amazing. In some situations, the mirror encounter had essentially granted a superpower - being used up by whatever momentary wish had been on the victim¡¯s mind as they¡¯d made contact.


    These were - generally - the happiest of cases. With no lingering presence of mirror, the situations were a lot more stable. They, therefore, could be judged with seemingly all factors taken into account.


    Recruits who could teleport. An agent¡¯s spouse who could shapeshift. An agent who could manifest their wings without pain or consequence. In most cases where the mirror had been used up to grant the wish, there was simply some internal re-categorisation, sometimes a new job better suited to new powers, or just some additional rules to follow in order to keep within Agency guidelines.


    Small, ultimately mundane events, logistically not far from a part-fae recruit coming into power later in life.


    And it didn¡¯t take a genius to realise that these were going to be the happiest of the stories the files contained.


    The cases where mirror stayed spread more of a continuum of outcomes. Recruits that had been...euthanised as a last resort, to individuals who were able to maintain some sort of working relationship with the Agency.


    There was more to dig into, more to understand, but none of it would help him explain to his colleagues the situation they found themselves in. Would help him find the words that would help him ask for compassion and patience.


    He required a legal pad, uncapped a pen, and began to scratch down some notes. Some basic facts. What he knew, what he was comfortable saying.


    There was also a matter of playing to his audience - the six PM meeting was designed for primary department agents, along with their aides. In an ideal Agency, that was one director, at least one agent for Field, Combat and Tech; their respective aides; a Liaison agent, and possibly even a Director¡¯s administration officer.


    Ten, possibly eleven - more, if that Agency had secondary agents for any of their primary departments.


    In a full room, he held court in a room of five people, including himself.


    Jones would be no issue - he¡¯d already well and truly proved himself. Taylor would¡­.in all likelihood, take his cues from Magnolia. Magnolia would need to be convinced of the safety of their Agency in regards to the presence of mirror, and the worth of the project overall.


    Clarke would make trouble, as he always did.


    Most Directors loved their Liaison agents and praised their work for making inter-intra-and-extra Agency affairs far easier. Most Liaison agents, it seemed, actively loved their jobs - finding the mix between diplomat and PR manager, an interesting and intricate task that both challenged and rewarded.


    Most Liaison agents weren¡¯t small-minded, venal men who could barely see past their need for personal gain.


    Bribery mostly kept Clarke quiet and content, but he was most often more trouble than he was worth.


    Notes began to pile up on the legal pad sheets. Simple, black and white facts and timestamps pinning down the timeline before he had to embellish the situation with emotions, with vulnerability. With the fact that he still didn¡¯t know if Stef was ever going to open her eyes again.


    He looked at the chair across from him, imagined Reynolds sitting there. Reynolds would urge caution, even while gleefully living his own life to the fullest. ¡°Caution,¡± when Reynolds had said it had really meant more ¡°are you sure it isn¡¯t Rhys doing this?¡±.


    Reynolds had sought emotion in him, and just as readily rebuked it. Had seen every action as a reflection of a dead man. Had wanted a newborn to not fight against the grain too much. Impossible contradictions. Care and worry that had come from a place of love, even if too much of that love was spent venerating someone long since gone.


    In a careful hand, he wrote down something Reynolds had been fond of saying when discussing the Agency - ¡°without family, what are we?¡±. It was a simple platitude, and one Reynolds had repeated joyously.


    To Ryan, it had always seemed more morose than rewording it as ¡°what are we without family?¡±. Reynolds¡¯ words had almost seemed to posit that ¡°without family¡± was the default state, that it was something you had to earn.


    For agents, that was true enough, though the intended hierarchy was supposed to provide something of an in-built family, it was never a guaranteed thing - as he himself had proved with his treatment of Jones. But Reynolds, beloved by all, had never acted as though being alone was even a possibility.


    ¡°Without family, what are we?¡± he knew the answer. He knew long years of loneliness and the fear that came with reaching out when you finally found someone to connect with.


    ¡°Without family, what are we?¡± Stef knew the answer, knew so much pain for such a young life. Seemed to know what it was like to be rejected by the entire world.


    Reynolds would never have looked twice at Stef, wouldn¡¯t have done more than treated her as a witness to be kind to before dismissing.


    Reynolds wouldn¡¯t have seen an amazing, slightly grimy young woman, who¡¯d never been able to show the world how brilliant she was.


    He laid down his pen and required a photo of Stef, a moment of joy and understanding, of...simply shining while being told how the Agency drop box system worked. Another requirement had the photo in a simple frame, and he set it atop the stack of folders of stories with sad endings.


    They both had a chance for something more than sad, lonely years, and he¡¯d do his best to make that come true.


    ¡°With family,¡± he wrote beneath Reynolds¡¯ platitude, ¡°we can be more.¡±

 17 - The Simplicity of Touch

    When nothing else called her attention, she liked to spend the hour before any relatively important meeting near Taylor, so that she could ensure that he was on time. Not that it was something that Ryan commented on - he knew better than to start shit over something so petty. Still, she was sure that Clarke kept a record of every tiny transgression, for the day he needed blackmail.


    Magnolia casually ducked the thrown knife, then ran forward on the balance beam, dipped and tagged the finish line, listening for the second knife as she turned to run back towards the starting position.


    As she headed towards the start position - a simple stripe of blue tape wrapped around the wood, the beam warped and changed under her feet, coinciding with a knife flying harmlessly to her left.


    The thrown projectiles - dulled knives and rubber beer bottles - were little more than flavour in this exercise. The point of this, as so many of her personal training sessions with Taylor were, was to try and find the limits of what her magpie powers were.


    She couldn¡¯t fly, she¡¯d never be able to fly, even if gravity seemed to be a little kinder to her than regular humans. Preternatural balance though, that was something she¡¯d had, even as a kid who¡¯d had to ignore the fae half of her.


    Being able to perch and brood though, was entirely different to that balance being something functional, something that could save her life in the field. As such, it had been years and years of balance beams, jumping challenges and changing terrain. Exercises to make her trust and train her sense of balance. To understand her centre and how to rely on it.


    One foot on the blue tape, she turned, shook the sweat from her face, and...paused.


    Sometimes new recruits, or idiot Solstice, expected agent shifting to be something like Star Trek - a big and obvious swirl of magic in the air preceding and following a teleport. Others went to the other extreme, imagining that it was so instantaneous that couldn¡¯t be perceived.


    The ¡°instantaneous¡± guessers were closer to the truth than the Trek guessers, but still wrong. It was subtle, something easier to see the more you were around the Agency, and the more you trained yourself to look. Still, there was a definite distortion in the air.


    Some people said it looked like a cheap camouflage or invisibility effect from a show, nothing more than a slight texturing of the air. Still, it was enough of a warning, if you needed one.


    And right now, someone was shifting in right behind Taylor - or rather, failing to reintegrate right behind Taylor. There was the usual distortion, the size saying it was probably just one person, rather than a squad or a piece of equipment, but-


    ¡®Sir,¡¯ she said, her eyes focussed behind him, so he knew to turn.


    Two steps forward, then she leapt from the beam, landing a few feet behind him, her knife already in her hand.


    Shifting was near-instantaneous. There were a few specific circumstances where it could take longer to cycle - coming in and out of places like the Marches - sections of Fairyland that had a limited System connection. Or cases where they were trying to shift fae, and the conflict between magic types lead to a lengthy load time.


    But neither of those - nor the few other long shift reintegrations that she knew of should have been happening here and now. The fact that Taylor hadn¡¯t called for a stop to their session meant the guest was uninvited, and few people dared intrude of Taylor¡¯s space without asking.


    Grigori did, all the time, but he tended to enjoy bursting in through the front door, rather than directly coming into Taylor¡¯s space. Grigori might not have been as gentle with Taylor¡¯s space - he never seemed to knock. However, if there was one other person on the planet who cared as much for her commander as she did, it was the blond with a chronic case of oops-my-shirt-came-off.


    If Grigori was coming in like this, it could mean trouble.


    ¡®Who?¡¯ she asked, coming up to Taylor¡¯s side.


    He extended a hand down, palm towards her, a signal to back off - but one that indicated that there wasn¡¯t immediate danger - whoever was coming, he knew who it was.


    As she looked at his palm, he curled his hand into a fist, then extended his index finger, telling her that she could leave this to him.


    She backed away a couple of steps, taking a second to look at his face as she did so.


    Taylor could say a thousand things with his hands - from subtle praise and approval to signs that he was so angry that he wasn¡¯t sure how to process it. His face, even to her, was a far more challenging book to read.


    He didn¡¯t smile, he never smiled. Not to be nice to recruits, not to feign good working relationships with other agents, not when they had a successful mission. Whatever had rendered Taylor as he was had taken away any wish to smile.


    Even in her deepest desires, even in moments where spank bank imagery was so real it was possible to imagine that it was his fingers, and not her own, driving her towards an orgasm that would leave her blind and dehydrated. Even in those moments, she¡¯d rarely been able to imagine him with a smile that fit his face.


    Part of it was because it felt so artificial, that if she loved him, she should accept him without a smile.


    Another part hoped that if it ever happened, that if she were ever to straddle him, and take him inside, that he¡¯d have a small smile for her as their scarred bodies touched.


    Taylor didn¡¯t smile. The closest he came was a small narrowing of his eyes and the slightest crease of his brow. Even this rare gesture was reserved for something more akin to joy for a worthy challenge, rather than simple happiness.


    His eyes were narrowed, his brow was creased - whoever was coming in was going to gift him with a good fight.


    She ran to the bleachers, giving him space, and dismissed her workbook. There was no way she would look away from whatever was happening next, and there was no need to dirty it with blood and viscera.


    The shift distortion began to move across the room, then an agent appeared, inertia from the multiple shifts rocketing her fist into Taylor like he¡¯d been punched by a god.


    He fell back, toned ass hitting the floor, his hands splayed to the side as he looked up at his opponent.


    Magnolia let her gaze follow her commander¡¯s - the agent was tall, muscular and flat-out gorgeous. The athletic wear was black, with a purple stripe that ran the length of the sleeveless shirt - Europe.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    The newcomer leaned forward and offered a hand to Taylor, which he took, before transitioning the help action into a throw that tossed the agent halfway across the room.


    Magnolia required her phone as Taylor pursued the agent, and pulled up the Vox function to identify nearby personnel. Agent Jane, Combat Division leader from London.


    Torn between knowing more about someone comfortable enough to intrude like this, and watching the clash of titans, she set her phone aside. Whatever replay was going to be caught on the security system wasn¡¯t going to compare with seeing it live.


    Taylor knocked Jane¡¯s legs from under her and brought his knee up to meet her falling face, breaking her nose and bloodying her lip. Jane, in return, shifted onto his back and tore a piece from his shirt to wipe her face.


    Almost waltzing, the next few moments were a series of pitch-perfect moves and counter moves. Standard combat agent programming, each apparently waiting to see who was going to make a custom move next.


    Taylor¡¯s effortless flow was something of beauty. There were moments like this, moments when he could act on instinct where he seemed utterly untroubled. Where he had no time for second-guessing himself or to assume he was going to be judged by someone outside his circle.


    As they shifted around each other, Taylor made a grab and Jane¡¯s hair came loose from her ponytail, loosely curled hair spilling across her shoulders.


    ¡®Not fair, love,¡¯ Jane murmured, then jumped on Taylor, bearing him to the ground, thighs wrapped around his neck to keep him in place while she fixed her hair.


    Christ, I am too bi for this. Each position was just as enviable as the other - to be either the one straddling Taylor, or the one being smothered muscular thighs.


    ¡®Fuuuuck,¡¯ she murmured as Jane twisted, snapping Taylor¡¯s neck, and stood, hands still fixing her hair.


    Taylor, for his part, disappeared and respawned immediately - looking fresh, uniform clean.


    ¡®Jane,¡¯ he said, by way of greeting.


    ¡®At least someone in this Agency knows how to greet someone,¡¯ Jane said with a grin. ¡®Your tech and your director didn¡¯t even offer to show a girl a good time.¡¯


    Taylor¡¯s hand fell to his side, clenched once, then relaxed - encouraging her to approach.


    ¡®Field and Tech speak a different language,¡¯ she said as she reached the two agents. ¡®Magnolia, ma¡¯am. Business or pleasure?¡¯


    ¡®...does anyone come to Brisbane for pleasure?¡¯ Jane asked, genuine bafflement on her face.


    ¡®You¡¯re not just here for a fight,¡¯ Taylor said.


    ¡®I wish I was, but no.¡¯ Jane slung a towel over her shoulders and looked at the smartwatch on her wrist. ¡®Meeting¡¯s in fifteen. I¡¯ll be seeing you there. And...probably a lot of the both of you over the next few weeks.¡¯


    ¡®Ma¡¯am?¡¯ Magnolia asked.


    ¡®Spoiler alert, Recruit, but I¡¯m here to audit this place. Any skeletons in the closet, start thinking if you¡¯re going to hide or reveal.¡¯ She punched Taylor in the shoulder. ¡®I like this one, but the newborn you have running this place is already taking up a lot of the institutional goodwill that I¡¯m able to offer.¡¯


    No one else would have noticed the straightening of Taylor¡¯s posture. It was so subtle that it was barely more than the sound of cloth moving, but it meant he was apprehensive.


    She stepped forward, allowing her torn skirt to brush against his hand as she did so - it was a small enough motion to seem like an accident. Still, at the same time, sometimes a small physical gesture could centre her commander more than a hundred words in its place.


    ¡®Has Ryan offered you an office?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m fine on that score, Aide.¡¯


    ¡®Magnolia is fine, ma¡¯am. I¡¯d make a joke that ¡°Aide Hammond¡± is my father, but it¡¯s literally true and not that funny.¡¯


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ Jane said, ¡®I noted that in your file. But all of that will come later. I¡¯m going to catch a shower. I¡¯ll see you both upstairs.¡¯


    Jane shifted away, and Magnolia made sure to stand as still as possible, letting Taylor dictate how she should act next. As many thoughts as she had running through her head, he¡¯d have just as many, though their trains of thought would be on different tracks.


    They¡¯d known nothing of an audit - or anything that would have sparked one - it wasn¡¯t the kind of thing that Taylor would keep from her. And to the best of her knowledge, they¡¯d simply been chugging along, far from perfect, but in no way that was out of the ordinary.


    It could have been a random thing - spot checks were performed as a matter of course, but then it would have been some auditor from Central, not a Combat agent from the other side of the world.


    The fact that it was Jane and not some random said that there were possible - probable - personal stakes involved. That-


    ¡®Advocate,¡¯ Taylor said, his voice a rumble. ¡®All the Scholar will say.¡¯


    That lined up that it was personal, but- ¡®Who the fuck needs an advocate?¡¯ she asked. Jones left the Agency pretty much only to get a morning coffee. Applebaum didn¡¯t leave Lost & Found unless someone fucked with his TV. And the only thing that was criminal about Natalie was how few followers her poly positivity Instagram had.


    Which only left Ryan.


    Jane was known to Ryan, that much was possible to infer - she¡¯d casually referred to him as a ¡°newborn¡±, something that said she¡¯d known him when he was young. That followed that she was his advocate, for whatever he¡¯d need one for.


    It was so easy to think of Ryan as so dull that he was incapable of making mistakes, but-


    She stepped away from Taylor, sat on the lowest tier of benches and required the casualty lists from the night before. Recruit Mimosa, S was no longer listed as MIA - she was no longer on the lists at all - something that didn¡¯t happen all that often.


    Another requirement brought up the recruit¡¯s schedule - which was nothing more than red, cancelled sessions with an invitation to ask Ryan for more information.


    ¡®I¡¯ve got a theory, sir,¡¯ she said, looking up at her commander as he approached. ¡®I could be wrong, but everything lines up so far. We¡¯ll know in ten minutes anyway, but- I think Ryan got his new recruit killed, and I think it was very messy.¡¯


    ¡®Us?¡¯ Taylor asked after a moment.


    It was a reasonable line of enquiry - if Ryan was fucked, they needed to know what the flow-on effects would be.


    She stared at the shine of fluorescent light in her boots. ¡®Realistically sir, the Agency doesn¡¯t give that much of a shit about recruits. We enable the running of the Agency, but we¡¯re secondary to it. Ten recruits die, it¡¯s nothing more than a rescheduling nightmare. One agent dies, that¡¯s the point where it gets serious.¡¯


    It was backwards, as a lot of elements of the Agency were. Recruits almost seemed to exist to protect agents, not the other way around. However much the Agency there was to protect humankind in general, recruits so often seemed like nothing more than cannon fodder.


    It didn¡¯t stop individual agents from caring for their recruits or being willing to sacrifice themselves. Still, wrongful recruit deaths - if investigated at all, were rarely punished with more than a slap on the wrist.


    And she wasn¡¯t telling Taylor anything he didn¡¯t know. The reason he¡¯d been so willing - desperate - to recruit her was that, in one day, in one operation, he¡¯d lost nearly every recruit he¡¯d had at the time. The others had quit or asked to be reassigned.


    Dozens of people dead, and it had been classed as an acceptable loss. Not his fault, and it hadn¡¯t been his call to throw more bodies at the problem. His loss as a commander, and likely the reason he considered each of their potential recruits carefully before accepting them. The best of the best, those that were the most likely to escape worst-case scenarios.


    Dozens dead, and he was expected to continue.


    One dead agent, he hadn¡¯t been allowed to rest.


    She didn¡¯t know the whole story - Grigori had only shared enough to ¡°help her understand¡± while stating that the rest was Taylor¡¯s tale to tell, if and when he was able.


    All she knew was that, around twenty years ago, Taylor had died. Not a detection of injury and respawn, as had just happened between Jane¡¯s thighs. Not a last-minute rush to a tech, bleeding from some fae injury, but a full, final death.


    He¡¯d done his Duty, he¡¯d died, and what Jones and Ryan had resurrected was - according to Grigori - barely a shade of the man he¡¯d been.


    It did explain how two men for whom ¡°polar opposites¡± didn¡¯t seem to be adequate, were best friends.


    She tried to bring her head back to the issue at hand - it was only a theory, but until the meeting started and the waffling was out of the way, it was the best one they had. Whatever Ryan had done, it was a fuck-up of momentous proportions.


    They would be safe under a general audit - objectively, Combat looked even better than Tech. Jones got better recruit satisfaction feedback, but he didn¡¯t have an aide, which always worked against him in terms of exterior analysis.


    If they got a new Director, then there might be problems - Taylor needed someone who...Ryan wasn¡¯t understanding, but was at least willing to look slightly to the side and let things slip when they weren¡¯t perfect. A new Director might not get his eccentricities.


    If they had a new Director, it would probably mean taking up Grigori¡¯s open-ended offer to let them transfer into one of his Agencies. An imperfect solution, but as Taylor would never fall. Never choose to be away from Duty and the only thing that gave his life stability and continuity. If it came to it, a transfer would be better than constant scrutiny that could lead to an execution.


    ¡®We¡¯ll be fine, sir,¡¯ she said as she gathered her things. ¡®We survive, it¡¯s what we do.¡¯

 18 - Far From Basic

    Ryan adjusted the blinds on the board room windows - the tinted glass kept out the majority of the glare. Still, it was something to fill the time, something to pass the seconds before everyone else arrived.


    A meeting macro had aligned the table, set out jugs and glasses - everything was in place, except for the participants.


    At his place at the head of the table sat several folders. Copies of both the basic outcomes of the night before. Under normal circumstances, these would be the meat of the discussion, as well as a preliminary folder with facts about Stef¡¯s condition.


    Jones walked in, nothing more than a tablet and a large travel mug in her hands. ¡®No change,¡¯ said, and took her usual seat.


    There was a change of texture in the air beside him, and he looked to his left, seeing Jane as she reintegrated. ¡®Ready, Newborn?¡¯ she asked.


    ¡®I hope so.¡¯


    She placed a hand on the window and peered out. ¡®Can you see any churches from here?¡¯


    He tried to show no reaction.


    It was an innocuous comment. Something a tourist might ask, something that would only mean something more to four people in the world and Reynolds was in no position to comment.


    Jane turned to him and smiled. ¡®You can do this, Ryan.¡¯ She squeezed his shoulder, then went to sit next to Jones.


    Clarke appeared, along with the phantom stink of cigarette smoke, phone in hand. He said nothing and took a seat at the far end of the table.


    And with two minutes to go, Magnolia and Taylor walked in.


    He gave everyone a moment to settle, to pour themselves water - or in Jones¡¯ case, to fidget with her coffee, then he sat in Reynolds¡¯ chair. Even after all this time, it was Reynolds¡¯ chair, would always be his Director¡¯s chair, and his occupation of it was nothing more than a pantomime.


    ¡®Thank you all for coming,¡¯ he said. He lifted the first set of folders and shifted one copy to each participant. ¡®First, I¡¯ll acknowledge the presence of Agent Jane, I know some of you are acquainted.¡¯ He let his eyes skate over Taylor, who gave no reaction. ¡®The reason for her visit will be discussed after the preliminaries.¡¯


    Jane gave him an encouraging smile.


    ¡®Now, in terms of operation last night,¡¯ he began. ¡®I¡¯ll ask you to join me on the first page of the report.¡¯


    The basics were dealt with efficiently. The fact that there was a guest seemed to be far more important than Clarke¡¯s usual need to make snide comments, or tangents that naturally came from discussing particular aspects or outcomes.


    As he finished with the last of the casualty lists, which included all the up-to-date details from the Parkers, he looked to his team. ¡®Any questions, before I continue?¡¯


    There was a brief exchange of looks between Taylor and Magnolia. No words - they rarely spoke directly to each other in meetings. Most often, it was Magnolia being the voice for both of them, unless Taylor felt like deigning to make a point himself, which was then often backed up and expounded upon by his aide.


    ¡®I¡¯d be remiss if I didn¡¯t point this out,¡¯ Magnolia said, leaning forward, her hands folded on the table. ¡®But there¡¯s a name missing from the lists you read. Your new recruit, Director.¡¯


    ¡®She fucking quit already?¡¯ Clarke asked, an unlit cigarette rolling between his fingers. ¡®That¡¯s going to look wonderful for your numbers, Director.¡¯


    He nodded to Magnolia. Curt had been the only one who had asked after Stef, so he had thought no-one else had noticed.


    ¡®Stef is,¡¯ he paused, gathered himself, then laid a hand on the next set of folders. ¡®What we¡¯re going to discuss next. Her absence from the casualty lists, Agent Jane¡¯s presence, and what that means for the immediate future.¡¯ A shift distributed the second set of folders. These were the ones with the cold, hard facts of what was going on with Stef. ¡®I¡¯d ask that you let me explain before perusing these. And that you hold all questions until the end.¡¯


    He looked to his notes one more time, held an image of a smiling Stef in his HUD, and braced himself for more outbursts.


    ¡®Recruit Mimosa. Stef. I know not all of all you had a chance to meet her, but I found her to be a bright and amazing young woman. We know that testing results can sell a person short, as their primary use is to initially categorise someone.¡¯


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Clarke was playing on his phone. Jones and Jane were neutral - they knew what was going on.


    Magnolia¡¯s black eyes were on him, waiting for a shoe to drop.


    ¡®I found her exceptionally curious, and that curiosity naturally extended to the events surrounding the mirrorfall. I took her to see the phoenix. She wanted to see the conclusion of all things, wanted to see the mirror fall. I took her into the field with me, as Director I...am expected to stay fairly safe during operations, so the risk was fairly nominal.¡¯


    He stared down at the file.


    ¡®I thought the risk was fairly nominal,¡¯ he amended. ¡®We were caught in a blackout just before the shatter and separated looking for a System signal to shift out. She...was the one who shattered the mirror.¡¯


    A few more words and it would be done. ¡®She was in the way of one of the shards. It- KIA.¡¯ Three letters were more manageable than three words. ¡®Instant. She was dead when I found her. No chance for medical intervention.¡¯


    ¡®With family, we can be more. The Agency knows this. Hierarchy makes parents and children. Peers become siblings.¡¯ He looked at Jane. ¡®Namesakes are precious gifts.¡¯ He looked at Jones. ¡®And children are treasures.¡¯


    He folded his hands.


    ¡®I made a wish. This has been reported, this is known. I couldn¡¯t- It wasn¡¯t fair that an accident snuff out a life full of potential. As to her current status, there¡¯s more on that in what I have provided, but we¡¯re treating it like a coma and waiting for her to wake up.¡¯


    The silence was worse than the uproar he¡¯d been expecting.


    ¡®With respect, Director,¡¯ Magnolia said, forming each word carefully, ¡®what the fuck?¡¯


    ¡®No¡¯ Clarke said, not looking up from his phone, ¡®there are easier ways to get something warm to fuck.¡¯


    ¡®Clarke,¡¯ he snapped.


    ¡®What?¡¯ Clarke asked. ¡®It¡¯s true.¡¯ He looked at Jane. ¡®And are you here to punish him, ma¡¯am?¡¯


    Jane paused for a moment before replying. ¡®One of the outcomes, discussed between Enforcer Crawford and myself was a general audit - specifically of Queen Street, though with an option to investigate the Outposts if deemed necessary. As I was Director Ryan¡¯s advocate through the proceedings, I¡¯ll be the one conducting this. You can all expect a number of meeting invites from myself - there will be several rounds of this. I know how unproductive meetings can be, and anything that can be an email will be an email, but I do intend on doing a thorough job. For starters, there¡¯s only one aide at this table, and that¡¯s unacceptable. There will be changes, and I ask for your cooperation to make this easier.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll have our cooperation,¡¯ Magnolia said.


    ¡®And my axe,¡¯ Jones said.


    ¡®I¡¯m going to call this for now,¡¯ he said. ¡®Please follow up with me if you have any further questions. And as Agent Jane said, please cooperate with this audit to the best of your ability.¡¯


    After a moment of the meeting participants shuffling paperwork and making last remarks to each other, he was alone - except for one other person.


    Jones wouldn¡¯t have been a surprise, nor would Jane.


    Taylor was the last person he¡¯d expected to stay. Taylor never stayed in meetings longer than necessary. Taylor never seemed willing to be in the same room as him - especially alone - for even a second more than he had to.


    ¡®Can I-?¡¯ he started. ¡®What can I do for you, Taylor?¡¯


    Taylor sat motionless in his chair for a long moment - not saying anything, but somehow bending the gravity of the room around him with things unsaid.


    Another long moment passed until finally, words came from the silent mountain of a man. ¡®You didn¡¯t ask.¡¯


    Taylor stood, movement slow, but somehow inevitable - some great weight that had reached its tipping point. He didn¡¯t fight as Taylor grabbed him, lifted him, shoved him into the wall. ¡®You didn¡¯t ask me.¡¯ Each word came with a shove, and for a moment, he felt a shade of what Curt must have felt in their unfortunate encounter.


    ¡®Taylor-¡¯


    Taylor yanked him away from the wall and threw him back into his chair, which slammed against the table, his arm knocking the folders askew.


    ¡®Don¡¯t,¡¯ Taylor said. ¡®Not again.¡¯ Taylor swept the messy folders off the table, and in their place, three photos appeared - all neutral, Agency personnel files. Stef, and two photos that fractured his already damaged heart.


    One was of Carol. Strikingly beautiful, even in such a bland photo. The other was Taylor - the old Taylor, a man so different from the one who stood before him.


    Carol. Taylor. Stef.


    His three attempts to change things. His three forays against the unfair nature of life. One mirror wish, one session pleading with Death, one push of Agency technology and magic beyond what it was designed to do.


    Three people he loved, three people he¡¯d been unwilling to lose.


    Two tragedies - and with Taylor¡¯s attitude, a third that was all but guaranteed.


    Taylor reached for the photo of - Ryan wasn¡¯t sure how Taylor felt about his old self, and it wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d ever felt brave enough to ask. He knew there was some degree of separation. Some deliberate effort on Taylor¡¯s part to separate who he was from who he had been - one of his first acts on being reborn had been changing his hair colour and style.


    The man in the photo was blond, not the angry redhead that towered over him now.


    Taylor crushed the photo in his hand. ¡®I didn¡¯t want this. You chose this.¡¯ The photo disappeared from his hand.


    Ryan stared down at the photo of Carol and watched as tears splotched the paper. ¡®I¡¯d already lost her,¡¯ he said, forcing himself not to think about that day, about the worst day of his life. About the blood. The screaming. The-


    He slammed his fists against the table and stood, coming face-to-face with Taylor.


    ¡®I couldn¡¯t lose my brother too. Not on the same day. Not when we could- We thought- We wanted to save you.¡¯ He dropped his head and stared at his feet. ¡®I don¡¯t know what you would have done in my place, you were always stronger than me. Your resolve, your Duty, you were better than me. I loved you. We loved you. We thought- We wanted to save you.¡¯


    ¡®You didn¡¯t.¡¯


    Two words tore his heart out.


    One hand covered his mouth, the other weakly reached for Taylor¡¯s arm. Taylor grabbed his hand, a grip strong enough to indicate he wasn¡¯t welcome, without crushing it, without being violent. Restraint on Taylor¡¯s part he wasn¡¯t sure he deserved.


    Taylor twisted Ryan¡¯s hand and slapped it down on the two remaining photos. ¡®Don¡¯t do it again.¡¯


    With one last inscrutable look - long-burning anger, resentment, unaired grievances - Taylor disappeared, leaving him more alone than he¡¯d felt in a long time.

 19 - The Death in Every Moment

    Ryan turned the coaster over and over in his hand, something just to keep his hands busy, something to dull his mind as he watched light reflect and refract through it.


    The resin was clear, with gold flakes here and there, but nothing that would overwhelm the rose petals - Carol had made them as a pair, one for each of them, something subtle they could keep on their desks, a reminder of each other, even when work pulled them apart.


    And now, it was one of the few things left of their relationship.


    They had loved, he¡¯d mourned, and time had passed.


    Cruelly, the guilt had left more of a mark on him than the grief - but Taylor kept that wound open, a constant reminder of everything he had lost, of the mistakes he¡¯d made.


    It hadn¡¯t been an unusual start. Carol had been recruited after initially being a witness to something they¡¯d been investigating. Unbeknownst to her, her lover had been fae and mixed up in matters far over his head.


    She¡¯d taken to the world easily, and just as easily to fieldwork. Not an unusual beginning at all.


    What had been surprising had been the way she¡¯d looked at him.


    She¡¯d made the first move, and he¡¯d reciprocated.


    And for a few years, they¡¯d been happy - he often suspected that she was in love with an idealised version of him more than his true self. However, it had still been a far happier time than his relationship with Eilise. Carol didn¡¯t insist he ignore his magic, instead embracing that side with a glee that Eilise never had.


    And then she¡¯d nearly died - one unlucky moment on a mission had nearly stolen the light in her eyes. He¡¯d petitioned to have her augmented - to be made into an agent, and as it was the ask of a Director for a recruit with an excellent track record, the request had been granted.


    She¡¯d taken some time to get used to the change, but before she could fully adjust, the world had ended.


    It had been an ordinary day - so many of the best and worst days were ordinary, as if the weather had no sense of the moment, no desire to add to the atmosphere.


    People shouldn¡¯t die when there were fluffy clouds in the sky, marriages shouldn¡¯t end in the light of a sunset as perfect as a painting.


    It had been such an ordinary day.


    And then Carol had plunged a knife into him.


    It had taken a moment to register, to feel the pain, to know that he was dying. He¡¯d fallen, bleeding out on the carpet of his office while Carol shouted about enemies, shouted for backup, called for him to be at his side.


    Whatever she¡¯d been perceiving, it hadn¡¯t been reality.


    All she could see, every person - recruit, civilian or agent - seemed to be an enemy. Seemed to be someone attacking her, leading her to fight back, even when in reality, recruits had been running for their lives.


    In all the investigations after the fact, it had been determined to be a rare kind of glitch. Not something unheard of, but something that had rarely led to so many deaths.


    Glitches were common enough - waking nightmares that you couldn¡¯t tell from reality. Everything seemed real, felt real - was real as far as your mind was concerned. The only way you knew it wasn¡¯t when you woke screaming, having collapsed in the middle of whatever you had been doing.


    It was so cruel that for a people who¡¯d had their ability to dream torn away from them that the world had contrived a way to still allow them to have nightmares.


    Glitches were - like nightmares, only harmful to your psychological and emotional state. Often they drew on something that had been weighing on your mind, so they could be confronting, but ultimately, impotent.


    Glitches like the one Carol had experienced, where you could interact with the real world without seeing reality were as rare as lottery wins. And that one-in-a-million chance had left his lover dead in his arms, and his brother dead, pinned to the wall like a butterfly in a display box.


    They¡¯d tried to put Taylor back together. But Jones had been able to save less than ten per cent of his original memory. Some gaps had been filled in with files, and copies of memories from those closest to him. But in the end, what had opened its eyes hadn¡¯t been the man who had died.


    And a couple of weeks later, still reeling from twin losses, he¡¯d held a tiny dead child in his hands, and begged Death to let him change her fate. A penance. A life saved, even if it had been the life of a stranger.


    ¡®Hi, Dad.¡¯


    He dropped the coaster and struggled to sit up, his gaze sweeping from left to right to find the source of the voice he¡¯d been wishing to hear for hours.


    In one of the armchairs on the other side of the coffee table sat Stef, and he was on his feet and moving towards her before small details finally started to crystallise.


    This was a Stef, but it wasn¡¯t his Stef.


    Hating himself for taking a chance that she¡¯d disappear as soon as his eyes left her, he looked back to the coaster. He found it floating in the air, in the exact position he¡¯d let go of it. Whatever this was, it was outside of time, likely being facilitated by Death.


    ¡®I-¡¯ Stef said as she got to her feet. ¡®I wouldn¡¯t mind a hug. I¡¯m not her, and you¡¯re not him, but maybe we¡¯re close enough?¡¯


    Gratefully, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into his chest, holding her tight, just in case he never got to do the same to his own little girl ever again.


    After a long moment, she poked his arm. ¡®I can¡¯t breathe.¡¯


    Regretfully, he pushed her to arm¡¯s distance and took in the details. Rather than the Field uniform that his Stef had almost exclusively worn since he¡¯d issued it to her; this Stef wore a black t-shirt and a Tech Department lab coat, the right breast of which sagged with pins and patches.


    ¡®What¡¯d you call yours?¡¯ she asked, wiping away tears.


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    ¡®Hmm, Wendy then,¡¯ she said. ¡®Just so it¡¯s not confusing for you.¡¯


    ¡®Who-¡¯


    ¡®Short answer for all that,¡¯ Wendy said. ¡®You just lost me, right?¡¯


    ¡®I hope not, but I¡¯m...not sure if you¡¯re ever going to wake up.¡¯


    Wendy nodded and squeezed his hand as they sat on the couch. ¡®I don¡¯t even have that hope. You - my you - he died a couple of months ago. When he did, I asked Death if...if sometime I could help someone going through the reverse. I don¡¯t know how similar me and your Stef are, but I know there are some commonalities across every world I¡¯ve ever seen a sliver of. In every timeline, you love a stupid, messed-up kid, and it makes her life so much better for it.¡¯


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡®You aren¡¯t talking like we met this week.¡¯


    This got a snort-giggle of surprise from Wendy. ¡®Sor-sorry. I didn¡¯t realise. Gods, these are two very different timelines. My you? He¡¯d been stuck with me since I was a drunk sixteen-year-old. I ran away. Came home to die. Found you and a million reasons to stick around.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m glad you had someone. I¡¯m worried that I¡¯ve done nothing but-¡¯ He shook his head, unable to finish the sentence. ¡®In every universe where I make a good decision,¡¯ he said, ¡®there has to be one where I don¡¯t. Where I make the wrong choice. The wrong wish. Where I ruin a life instead of save one.¡¯


    ¡®Sure, but are those decisions made from a place of malice? When you send recruits on a mission, you know there¡¯s every chance that someone could get hurt, that someone could die, but you do it anyway. The world is a fractal nightmare of choices, of what if and but. You still have to act. If you don¡¯t...then you¡¯re still acting. Inaction is an action. If you don¡¯t send a recruit on a mission, then someone else has to make the call, someone who might not be as wise or have the same instincts you do. Whatever the action, the second hand moves and the world ticks on. You can¡¯t stop it, and it would be madness to want to stop it.¡¯


    He took a moment to consider the words. ¡®You¡¯re a very wise young lady.¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ Wendy said. ¡®I¡¯m a smartarse. I just had someone very good at teaching me to temper it into sounding a lot more profound than if I just went ¡°chaos theory fucking sucks, right?¡±¡®


    ¡®As much as I want to believe that I make the best choices, given what information I have, the road to hell is-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll be shutting up right now.¡¯


    Obediently, he closed his mouth but raised an eyebrow in enquiry.


    ¡®I know no-one, not even the Lady herself knows what happens when you cross that last threshold, but I refuse to believe in hell. And moreover, I refuse to believe that someone can be tormented for eternity for trying their best. And even in a less literal way...I hate that sentiment so much. It paralyses people from trying, from being afraid to make everything but the very best decision, the no-clip, game-winning cheat with no repercussions. That isn¡¯t reality. Whatever the choice, whatever the choice, Dad, it¡¯s going to fuck someone over.¡¯


    ¡®Good intentions don¡¯t help, sweetheart, when your child is dead in your arms.¡¯


    ¡®But what about all the good moments that came before that?¡¯ She pinched the bridge of her nose and sniffed for a moment. ¡®I¡¯m twenty-two, and I¡¯m an orphan. I don¡¯t get to ever ask your advice again, and that hurts. One day, when I¡¯m big and grown-up, I want to adopt, and the fact that my kid will never meet their grandfather fucking kills me. But...I don¡¯t hate him. I know he didn¡¯t choose to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Decisions, a hundred million of the tiniest decisions led to that moment though, and I can¡¯t hate him for those either. Without the worst of times, there wouldn¡¯t have been the best of times.¡¯


    She picked up his water glass, downed half of its contents, then looked at him, smiling, despite the shine of tears in her eyes.


    ¡®If not for a hundred bad decisions, a hundred wonderful ones, mistakes, happenstance and leaps of faith, I wouldn¡¯t be here, you wouldn¡¯t be here, none of us would.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®If people never made bad decisions, I never would have come home crying from the first date I ever went on.¡¯ She fished beneath the collar of her shirt and pulled out a ring on a chain. ¡®But just as importantly, I chose to keep trying with other people. And if I hadn¡¯t taken a leap of faith, I would have missed out on this.¡¯ She spun the ring. ¡®Wearing it on my finger fucks with my typing speed.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®And I¡¯m lucky enough to have someone who gets how important that is to me.¡¯


    ¡®Who?¡¯


    ¡®Given how different our worlds are, you might not know them, or they might be so different from my version. I¡¯m not from the future, this isn¡¯t a guarantee for your Stef, just the result of a series of decisions, mistakes, and some really nerdy dates. I¡¯ve got someone who loves me, respects me, and makes me happy.¡¯


    ¡®I couldn¡¯t ask for more.¡¯


    Wendy nodded and tucked the ring away. ¡®I¡¯ll be okay, but I¡¯m worried about you.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve..given me a lot to think about.¡¯


    ¡®If it helps, something Death once said to me is...okay, it was years ago, so I¡¯m paraphrasing. That you make the decisions of a good man, not always wise, not always perfect, but...good. And if good intentions are enough to get praise from a fundamental force of the universe, maybe give yourself a break?¡¯


    ¡®What if I hurt you? Hurt her?¡¯


    ¡®You will.¡¯


    Two words from Taylor - ¡°you didn¡¯t¡± - had sent him into a spiral of old memories and regrets. Old wounds reopened, pain he was used to.


    These two words, this was pain to come, pain to-


    Wendy laid a hand on his cheek. ¡®Look at me, Dad. You will hurt her. You will fuck up. You¡¯ll say the wrong thing. You¡¯ll be tired and snap in anger. You¡¯ll get frustrated with Central or Smith or some stupid politics and take it out on her. And it¡¯ll hurt. And she¡¯ll cry. And for a moment, she¡¯ll wonder if you hate her, if you want her to run away and never come back. If she¡¯s ever been anything but a burden.¡¯


    She wiped away his tears.


    ¡®And those moments will pass. There¡¯ll be apologies and ice-creams and angry, childish notes delivered to you by your Aide demanding favours in excess of what¡¯s owed to make the situation right. And she¡¯ll never stop loving you because you never stopped loving her. Parents fuck up, it¡¯s like, on the first line of every baby manual. Trying. Those goddamn steps to hell, that¡¯s what¡¯s important. You do your best because life is too goddamn short to be around people for whom your best isn¡¯t good enough.¡¯


    Slowly, and all at once, a weight began to disappear from his chest. Guilt that had been as omnipresent as breath began to slip away. Regrets and second-guesses, links in a chain around his heart snapped.


    And for the first time in decades, he felt as though he could breathe.


    It was an absolution he had never been able to give himself, but one granted so freely he couldn¡¯t help but grasp for it.


    It was nothing more than a beginning, a second chance at living a happy life, one where he could look forward, instead of comparing every moment to the past.


    And it was a gift whose value was beyond words.


    He reached for Wendy, and he held the reflection of his daughter for a long time; hollow but for the hope that tomorrow and beyond would bring better days.


    ¡®I can¡¯t stay,¡¯ Wendy said after he released her. ¡®I know this isn¡¯t real-time, but I have responsibilities at home, and he¡¯d- He¡¯d want me to carry on, to look after the recruits that depend on me.¡¯


    ¡®If my Stef becomes half the young lady that you are,¡¯ he said, ¡®I - he - would be so proud of you, I hope you know that.¡¯


    ¡®I know,¡¯ Wendy said, an easy smile on her face. ¡®He told me all the time. Especially when I fucked up something. When I learned something new. When I did my best and still failed. I-¡¯ For a moment, the face of the amazing young woman he¡¯d been conversing with crumpled a little, revealing someone still grieving for a parent. ¡®Can I ask you a favour? You aren¡¯t- I know you aren¡¯t him, but you¡¯ve got his voice.¡¯ She pulled a phone out of her pocket. ¡®But maybe could you record it, for if I forget it? For when the days are hard?¡¯


    ¡®It would be my pleasure,¡¯ he said as he took the phone. ¡®Step into the hall for a moment?¡¯


    She sniffled, then left the office.


    He took the phone and retreated to the desk. He woke the phone and smiled at the lock screen - a messy candid photo of Wendy surrounded by Tech recruits, all during a celebration or party - some moment of joy.


    A swipe unlocked the phone, and he found the recording app. ¡°I love you,¡± was easy, as was ¡°I¡¯m proud of you¡±. He took a moment to think of a dozen other small platitudes, the kind of words one needed on a hard day, words that he¡¯d said to Alexander, words Reynolds had said to him.


    It wasn¡¯t much, but there was one more thing he could do.


    He finished the last recording, locked the phone, then stood from his chair, pushed it aside, and knelt. At the bottom of one of his drawers, there was a plastic box containing the few things he¡¯d kept from Alexander¡¯s childhood.


    Most of it was too personal, little keepsakes that would mean nothing else, but carefully rolled to one side was a set of three bibs, all in shades of pale, sunny yellow. They¡¯d been part of a gift from a former recruit, one of the tiny few ways the Agency had touched his son¡¯s life.


    He selected the one that had a small chicken embroidered onto it, laid it on his desktop, and tidied the box away.


    Bib and phone in hand, he found Wendy in the hall, idly tidying a noticeboard.


    ¡®Here,¡¯ he said as he passed the phone back. ¡®And-¡¯ he hesitated, then proffered the bib. ¡®It¡¯s not from him, but you can still tell your future child it¡¯s from their grandfather.¡¯


    She took the bib with trembling hands, as though it was a holy object, then jumped and threw her arms around his neck. ¡®It¡¯s perfect. It¡¯s really perfect. Thank you.¡¯


    When she dropped back down to the ground, he laid his hands on her shoulders. ¡®Go home,¡¯ he said, ¡®and live a long, happy life. Promise me?¡¯


    ¡®Only if you do the same.¡¯


    ¡®I promise you that I will try.¡¯


    ¡®Good enough,¡¯ she said, and with a wave, she faded from sight, leaving nothing but the vague scent of fresh-baked cookies.


    ¡®Thank you, my Lady,¡¯ he said, knowing that Death could hear him, even if she wasn¡¯t present. ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    There was the faintest trace of a cold breeze, and the echo of a small, cold kiss on his cheek.


    For a moment, he stood alone in the timeless world, then sound resumed as life came back.


    In no time at all, in one conversation, everything had changed - he had changed. For the first time in the longest time, he had a future he wanted; and now, after that single conversation, he had hope that it would come to pass.

 20 - An Attempt to Rise

    Stef was bleeding. One arm was cuffed to the bars of her cell. Blood gushed down her head like her head had been smacked against the metal a dozen times.


    There was a hammer in his hand.


    He swung the hammer at the bars, and she screamed. He swung it again, and blood gushed to the floor, her throat slit.


    She grabbed at her throat, coughing and gasping for breath, her eyes wide.


    The floor turned to blood, but her uniform shirt remained white.


    She continued to bleed, her fists pounding the bloody floor and-


    Curt opened his eyes.


    His heart pounded in his chest, his temples tight with a headache.


    He climbed out of bed and stumbled forward, disorientated for a second when he encountered a bedroom door, rather than the tile of his kitchenette.


    Memory limped into place, and he remembered where he was - and the ¡°where¡± also explained why he was awake while the sky outside was still dark.


    The nightmares were always there - but the drugs that the Parkers had formulated allowed him a full night¡¯s sleep - he would wake up with the feel of blood on his hands. Still, at least he¡¯d had enough rest to playact at being the perfect recruit for the day.


    He filled a glass from the apartment¡¯s chiller tap, choked down half the glass, then splashed the other half over his face. The cold water was a shock, just the kind of thing he needed to stop himself from sliding back into sleep and more nightmares.


    After another half glass of water, he threw up in the kitchen sink.


    Arms shaking, he leaned on the counter, head in his hands.


    A quick death, all he could hope was that it had been a quick death.


    Hands fumbling, he started the expensive drink maker - in principle, it was pretty much like a standard pod-coffee machine, but the drinks it produced, in concert with the additional components, like a milk foamer, produced something far closer to coffee-shop quality.


    A spiral of expensive drink pods sat next to the machine. Most had names written out in fae languages, rather than glyph, leaving him to rely on brand awareness, along with the universal symbols that indicated with something was caffeinated or not.


    He selected a strong, sweet caffeinated drink - realising after he¡¯d slammed the pod home, that it would have been the exact thing he would have recommended to Newbie. However, if what he¡¯d observed was her regular routine, he¡¯d also be looking for a spare bag of sugar to pour into the cup.


    Drink made, he padded across the apartment and out onto the cool tiles of the wide balcony.


    Like the apartment, the styling of the balcony was something out of a magazine. A table and a couple of chairs - large enough to share a drink, but not a meal; a hanging cocoon chair at one end; a standard local council sign indicating the local flight restrictions, with a scannable code to get a report on local traffic; and a place to hang and dry a kite rig.


    It wasn¡¯t home, but it could be.


    Sweet, fruity coffee finished, he retreated inside, found the remote and turned on the large TV. A single button bringing up the food options, from which he selected Hither - which, despite its similarity to the English word, meant something like ¡°eat and be happy¡± in Hobbish.


    Food channels were a weird quirk of Fairyland - in essence, they were 24/7 advertisements, with each being run by a different delivery service. Restaurants on the service paid for ad time and placements - just as they did in the app. But whereas the app ads tended towards putting together a whole bespoke meal; channel ads allowed for laziness and impulse buying.


    You used the app if you wanted to pick six different toppings for a pizza. You watched the channel when you were bored and wanted to hit one button on your TV remote when an ad for Famous Fry¡¯s new promo burger meal came up.


    Hungry, but unwilling to expend effort, he waited for the first familiar restaurant to appear, hit the green button, which popped up a confirmation before resuming the ads.


    Switching to a news channel, made sure the captions were on, then stood and went into the kitchen. In the bottom drawer, he found the red-and-orange Hither delivery mat and went back to the balcony.


    He slapped the mat down on the small table and turned on the delivery lights - that way, the flying delivery person would be able to identify his property, then went back inside for a shower.


    Showered and shaved, he selected some clothes from the wardrobe. As far away from his recruit uniform as he could get - casual pants with enough pockets to belong to an anime character, and a textured t-shirt, thick enough to keep him from seeing his tattoos.


    Both phones retrieved, he returned to the balcony. His food had been left on the delivery mat, a coupon for his next order stapled to the paper bag.


    Legs folded, he sat in the cocoon chair, the bag containing his meal and drink nestled in his lap.


    Ever the good recruit, much to his chagrin, he checked his Agency phone first. Nothing on the lock screen indicated high-priority, so he switched to his Fairyland phone.


    There were three messages from Carmichel. The first, his ¡°word of the day¡±, something Carmichel sent on an ¡°if I remember¡± basis, this was a short phrase, and a link to the Fairyland equivalent of Dictionary.com so he could research it.


    The second was an apology - stating that after an emergency meeting the previous night, he¡¯d been called out of town and wouldn¡¯t be available to socialise. This was followed by a reminder that he¡¯d pay whatever the Agency asked, and that a price just needed to be reached.


    The third message was a notification that two hours of ¡°standard time¡± had been added to his club account. Below it, there was just a simple message: {Don¡¯t be alone today.}


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    The club account was his membership with Carmichel¡¯s sexporiums. Every worker had the option to charge a different rate. Still, the vast majority went by the usual rates - so a standard hour meant one hour of standard bedroom-and-related activities.


    More specialised acts could attract a higher price. In those cases, a standard hour might buy you twenty minutes of real-time; less involved services might buy you more real-time, two hours of standard time might buy four hours of conversation.


    Idly, he opened the notes app on his Genie phone, found a note he¡¯d saved for what he¡¯d mentally termed ¡°long term shit¡±. Primarily, it was a list of things from Faerie - particularly Fairyland - culture. Movies, music and memes he should get his head around in order to interact with the world better.


    There were so many things that were easy about interacting with Faerie on a surface level. Glyph and the gift of languages made communicating the basics easy, the ¡°human emoji¡± helped with picking meals at smaller restaurants. The larger chains - like the Fry¡¯s meal he was slowly making his way through - made an effort to be as human-friendly as possible, appealing to a broader audience, while losing some of the authenticity that of fae cuisine that it had had in the past.


    Being a tourist was easy. Trying to make strides to engage more deeply took time and effort. It was the same as on Earth. Watching a foreign film or TV series, you might be able to understand the plot and character, but have to resort to a wiki to understand why half an episode was spent discussing some holiday you¡¯d never heard of.


    Marked with two stars, and sitting at the top of his list was a film series called ¡°The Relevance Cycle¡±. Cross-plane nerds tended to liken it to Star Wars in a lot of ways, particularly the lasting power it had, and the expanded universe of content that surrounded it.


    Four original films - as with how a lot of fairy stories were structured, things tended to come in fours more than they did trilogies.


    ¡°The Tallest Tree¡± was the first movie - though that statement could lead to as many arguments as ¡°A New Hope¡± is the first Star Wars. First in release order, and the one Carmichel had recommended, so he could leave fan-preferred rewatch orders until he was more accustomed to the story.


    Plan made, he switched over to the StingLight app, the booking system app that most sexporiums and clubs used - making managing memberships with multiple franchises easier.


    Loyal to Carmichel though, he only had membership with the one chain. An alert confirmed what the text had said - that the two hours had been added, and a link encouraged him to book in some activities.


    The Hollins Broadway location was closest, so he selected that from the options, then began to scroll through the available employees.


    A few filters changed the available faces - deselecting the options he had set for compatible sexual partners; and choosing those that were available for conversation.


    A dozen faces intermixed with the options that had been there already. Faces that a year ago he would have just called ¡°guys¡± by default, something he was still working on; but now actively told himself to replace with ¡°masc¡± instead.


    Just as he¡¯d spent the last year and a half of his life learning and relearning what the Solstice had taught him, had made him reconsider the value of life, whether it was human or not; he¡¯d spent just as much time trying to...make himself a better human.


    As good as he¡¯d been in some areas growing up. Having a non-verbal little sister teased by any dickhead old enough to throw around the r-slur could do that; he knew he¡¯d failed in so many other areas.


    And his dad coming out as gay just after Tara¡¯s death hadn¡¯t made for a lot of conducive language choices.


    And for years, he¡¯d barely thought twice about some of his opinions.


    Now, it just seemed natural. If he could spend hours trying to get his head around fae languages, he could put just as much effort into not using language that would hurt Raz. And not asking dumb questions around people like Sacha - who he¡¯d initially categorised as a ¡°good-looking guy who wears skirts¡± before doing an iota of research himself.


    It was a learning process, but one well worth it.


    Now, Raz was comfortable enough to complain about love life; and Sacha had been properly organised into the file of ¡°good-looking genderfluid person who wears skirts¡±.


    He also couldn¡¯t prove it. But he was sure that a big plus at the start of his friendship with Magnolia was that he wasn¡¯t one of the shitheads who either decried or fetishised her for being a bi girl.


    Halfway down the list, he found a femme-looking fairy with golden tattoos who listed one of their preferred conversation topics as Relevance.


    The booking process was several steps but easy. As today was supposed to be a day off, a day away from everything that had happened, he selected a lot of the extras he wouldn¡¯t usually splurge for. A larger room with a dedicated screening space; snacks and non-alcoholic drinks; and a half-hour massage to finish off the day.


    One PIN code confirmation later, he had his booking.


    Hollins Broadway was close enough to walk, but if this was to be a first step towards a new life then...


    He retrieved his kite rig. As a result of the violent-beating-slash-attempted-murder that had led to their first meeting, Carmichel had needed to wear a rig for months afterwards while his wings, reduced to nothing but tatters were slowly brought back by surgery, magic and the age-old healer, time.


    Unwilling to compromise on his performance, he¡¯d gone out the next day and brought one of the top-of-the-line rigs. His rig was, appropriately, the metaphorical little brother of the one Carmichel had.


    Whereas if Carmichel¡¯s rig was a sports car that clocked in at a quarter of a million dollars; his rig was ¡°merely¡± approaching a hundred thousand.


    And for the most part, it sat unused, functioning more like an industrial art piece than a way of commuting.


    Wallet and Agency phone secured in a slim messenger bag, he strapped himself into the rig. The process was barely any more difficult than one of those enormous packs that backpacking tourists wore. It was heavy to hold, but by virtue of design and the way it hung on his shoulders, he could barely feel the weight when he wore it.


    He laid the control gloves on the table, turned on the rig and started the app. For obvious reasons, it was still firmly in ¡°baby mode¡± - repeated tutorials and the system taking control if he fucked something up was far better than becoming a red smear on the ground.


    Route programmed, he pulled on the control gloves and clicked the phone into its holder. After a second, the phone automatically started a ¡°best guess¡± flying playlist, based on his previous music choices.


    Once again, he returned to the balcony, and with a couple of squeezes of the left glove, the rig started. False wings ¨C which were more for the aesthetic than anything - extended, and his feet lifted from the ground.


    One more squeeze and he had enough height to stand on the railing, automatic adjustments keeping him standing in place, looking over the mid-morning city, and the endless possibilities in front of him.


    On what he thought of as his first real day as a recruit. The day he¡¯d been flung halfway across the country from the torture and captivity of Adelaide to the unknown and reluctant hope of Brisbane, Adelaide¡¯s medical agent had sat with him for a few minutes.


    Farnshaw had given him the first bit of grace that he¡¯d ever seen from the Agency. Aging the memories of Petersen¡¯s endless torture so they¡¯d impact him less; so that he¡¯d have a real chance at being a recruit.


    And Farnshaw had instructed him to find a reason to breathe. To find some centre to his world to make all the work worthwhile. A bedrock to build from so that he could begin to repay all the red in his ledger.


    And by every god that existed, he had tried.


    He had tried, and little of his effort had been rewarded.


    He extended his arms, and his personal jetpack hummed.


    Running away probably wasn¡¯t what Farnshaw had meant, but it also likely wasn¡¯t entirely unexpected. People like him were few and far between, with those hailed as success stories even rarer.


    Carmichel wanted to treat him like a person, wanted to give him home and a family. Wanted him to really have a second chance, a new life where he had control, where he had choices.


    There were things - people - that he¡¯d miss when he ditched the suit; but it had never been the life for him.


    One more squeeze of the control glove and he was aloft, feet dangling over the city, and something approaching a smile tried to find a place on his face.


    This could be a good life. This would be a good life.


    He just had to finish with his old one first.

 21 - I Want

    Sometimes, it went away.


    It would have been nice to think that if ¡°nothing¡± went away, then it would be replaced with ¡°something¡±, but that wasn¡¯t the case.


    It wasn¡¯t like that, it was like...being lost in a crowd. She couldn¡¯t hear voices, she couldn¡¯t hear anything. Whatever this was, there were no real senses.


    No sight, no sound, nothing but her muddled thoughts - and worryingly, not even those all the time.


    It wasn¡¯t just not thinking, not...drifting like before sleep, time - or whatever passed for time in this place - went by and she knew she wasn¡¯t present for all of it.


    Maybe she was circling the drain. Maybe this wasn¡¯t real. Maybe she wasn¡¯t real.


    ¡­


    ....


    ¡­


    Memories were still a difficult thing.


    Words and their meaning were easy. Language was easy. Anything personal, anything other than her name¡­all of that was still beyond her reach.


    I want to remember. Please let me remember anything.


    Darkness. A red ball. Blue, someone keeping her safe.


    A red ball.


    Red.


    She could see red.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    She could see.


    Oh, thank you, thank you.


    Red. Red as a...red thing. Deep and bright. Perfect and imperfect. Pulsing like the world itself was breathing. Out of focus - or rather, there was nothing to focus on, it was as though she had been dropped into the colour itself, rather than staring at a painted wall or something tangible.


    Spyder, you can see.


    I can see.


    What are you seeing with?


    When you were sure that there was a monster under your bed; something waiting to jump you as soon as you moved the blanket even a little, you had to play dead. It was logic that persisted - whether you were a child, or someone too paranoid to function like a real person.


    You froze, because if you did, maybe you¡¯d stop existing for a second, and be safe.


    On the other end of a spectrum, if you were looking at a beautiful sunset, you didn¡¯t dare blink, lest the angle of the sun change by just the most minute fraction and turn perfection into ¡°yeah, that¡¯s ok, I guess¡±.


    Perfection and terror were tearing her in two.


    Try. I believe in you.


    Shut the fuck up, Naruto.


    The world was red, and she was perceiving it somehow. And seeing in colour. This wasn¡¯t just the light/dark distinction of the earliest eyes, this was-


    Please.


    I can see. I am seeing with something.


    She blinked.


    ¡®Fuck yes!¡¯


    Sound touched her ears.


    ¡®Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!¡¯ A mouth. She had a mouth.


    You can do it, I don¡¯t know what this is, but you can do it.


    She expelled a long, slow breath, and felt it bounce back against her face, felt the slight touches of cold where it touched the tears on her cheeks.


    There was also the smell of...plastic.


    More breaths, more being certain that she had a face. More breaths, and she could finally feel the lungs that were producing them.


    ¡®Please.¡¯


    She thought of a keyboard, thought of the thing that her hands knew best, and started to think about typing, about trying to push out the neural impulses that would be needed to press the keys.


    She breathed, the world breathed, and she felt tapping fingers against her upper arms, felt her arms crossed over her chest like she¡¯d been hugging herself.


    Hands discovered, she reached out for the red wall in front of her.


    The world broke under her touch.


    The wall shattered like glass, but one point of red remained under her fingers, and a soft red ball fell into her arms as the light faded away.

 22 -The Beginning, The Future

    [Join me in the lab, Newborn, if you please.]


    Ryan stared at the text message - text was an unusual format for Jane to use for such a short message. Longer emails were common enough, but otherwise, she tended towards voice.


    He took a moment to finish the form he was working on.


    As much as he hated to admit it, if Jane did appoint Curt as his aide - even in an interim capacity - it would streamline things. He signed the form, touched it, and submitted it when the prompt appeared in his HUD.


    The lab, which Jones had near-anonymously designated eight-alpha, sat at the top of his priority shift locations list.


    Feeling able - thanks to the conversation with Wendy - to partake in just the smallest bit of whimsy, he updated the icon beside eight-alpha to match the cookie he¡¯d sit beside Stef¡¯s name. It wasn¡¯t a lot, but if it was one more candlelight that would help her find her way back, one more scream into the endless void that she was wanted, that she should come home, then it was something he was glad to do.


    He processed the shift, and whatever he had expected - conversation, paperwork, a mild update, a story about the old days when Reynolds had been active - what he saw wasn¡¯t it.


    Jane sat on the floor, her jacket on a chair nearby in a messy pile as if discarded quickly. Her hands reached for a red ball, a see-through red ball, in front of a see-through child.


    He grabbed for the doorframe to steady himself, but his hand latched onto Jones¡¯ arm as the tech stepped into the space. ¡®Sir, what- Oh-¡¯


    It was Stef. Stef as he¡¯d first met her, the precious toddler he¡¯d failed, the little girl who¡¯d played with Limbo, and been utterly unafraid of the endless grey world around her.


    Unlike the child in Limbo, however, this version was see-through. The colouring was strange too - she was entirely made up of red tones as if she¡¯d been coloured-in by a child with a limited selection of crayons.


    Her tiny foot caught on the ball and sent it spinning across the lab. The ghost - echo - vision, whatever it was, of Stef, chased it, wobbling after it on tiny, chubby legs, through pieces of lab equipment, and the bed of her older self as though it wasn¡¯t there.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know if you have photos of this part of her life, but it appears to-¡¯ Jane started.


    ¡®It¡¯s Stef, I know it is,¡¯ he said, standing straight with just a little help from Jones.


    ¡®I¡¯m tempted to say it¡¯s a memory,¡¯ she continued, ¡®it seems to loop sometimes, but not perfectly, like a record skipping. I¡¯ve been watching for a couple of minutes, there¡¯s a basic path she follows, but sometimes a few seconds will loop, sometimes she almost seems aware that she¡¯s not where she thinks she is, and I think-¡¯


    She paused, kind eyes surveying him.


    ¡®What is it?¡¯ he asked.


    ¡®I almost felt something when she ran clear through my leg. I think it¡¯s possible to interact with her.¡¯ The ball rolled near Jane again, and she reached out for it. ¡®Have either of you ever touched a ghost?¡¯


    ¡®Thankfully not,¡¯ Jones said.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Ryan said. He thought for a moment. ¡®Does a soul count?¡¯


    ¡®I would imagine it¡¯s similar,¡¯ Jane said, a look of intense concentration creasing her face. ¡®Like heavy static, rather than true matter, but if you focus hard enough¡­¡¯ she lifted the ball. ¡®Mind over matter, or mind over...whatever this is.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s an aspect, I think,¡¯ Jones said.


    He turned to his tech. ¡®A what?¡¯


    ¡®My,¡¯ Jones paused for a moment, ¡®friend, Crossfade. He told me about something like this one - an old story. Someone broken into component parts, pieces of their personality, and they had to put themselves back together like a jigsaw. It¡¯s a part of the Fairy language, with phrases like ¡°is this your dickhead aspect?¡±. Clover did a modern interpretation of the story a few years ago.¡¯ Jones shook his head. ¡®What Crossfade said was that what was missing from most interpretations was that each aspect was a different colour. I think- I think that¡¯s what we¡¯re dealing with.¡¯


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    He watched the little Stef toddle around - occasionally, she¡¯d touch something, and it whatever it was would be visible for a moment - the fallen tree that people sat on while they contemplated their choices, a rock that caught her eye, the robe of Death as she bounced into it, and-


    And for a moment, a memory of his own leg.


    ¡®What happens in the story?¡¯


    Jones laid a companionable hand on his arm. ¡®A happy ending, of course.¡¯ He removed his hand and went to retrieve some scanning equipment. ¡®Interpretations and variations occur, of course, and there¡¯s no telling how close it is to reality. Sometimes, it¡¯s one aspect a day; sometimes, they play out in real-time, as if in some way the lost person is reliving every day of their life before coming back for a second chance.¡¯


    He opened his mouth, but Jones held up a hand to stop him. ¡®Unless some time shenanigans are going on that I don¡¯t know about, a couple of years haven¡¯t passed in a couple of days. We won¡¯t know more until we get more of her ROYGBIV ghosts, but I don¡¯t think things are playing out as slow as some of the stories portray.¡¯


    With a skill likely honed with her own child, Jane knelt and scooped up Stef¡¯s aspect as she ran past.


    ¡®Got you, little one,¡¯ she whispered, automatically positioning the toddler on her hip.


    For a few seconds, this seemed to confuse the aspect. A ghost of a ghost - part of it - fell away from the aspect¡¯s body. This second spectre continued to run around the lab for a few seconds before disappearing in a wisp of smoke.


    Adjusting almost immediately to her new circumstances, the aspect did the strange half-slap, half-pat against Jane¡¯s face that indicated they liked the person holding them.


    ¡®She¡¯s fragile,¡¯ Jane said as she stepped close to him, and offered him his child.


    ¡®More than you could ever know,¡¯ he said, his words barely more than a whisper.


    The aspect wriggled, only seeming to be half-aware that it was being held in any given second.


    He turned and looked to her comatose body. ¡®Any changes?¡¯ he asked Jones.


    ¡®Nothing quantifiable,¡¯ Jones answered after a moment. ¡®Then again, we know we¡¯re so far out of the usual bounds of what can be known that I still don¡¯t know if I¡¯m missing things.¡¯ Jones put down his tablet and toyed with a bright little stress toy. ¡®I may seek advice from other agents who have dealt with mirror, but I wanted to ask you before- Well- Taking it outside the family, as it were.¡¯ Jones looked from him to Jane and back again. ¡®Enforcer Crawford has essentially given us carte blanche with this situation, with obvious and reasonable boundaries. But...if we make too much noise, someone might try and scoop this project from us.¡¯


    Instinctively, Ryan tightened his grip on the aspect.


    ¡®To outside parties, that¡¯s all that this is, and we¡¯ve got little enough clout as an Agency that someone could go over Enforcer Crawford¡¯s head and get a new toy to play with. It¡¯s the life of one recruit, sir, not a lot to pay to keep some of our top researchers happy.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve already thought of that,¡¯ Jane said. ¡®And I¡¯ve forwarded Ryan a selection of the same files you¡¯re surely looking at. I believe there¡¯s a happy middle ground we can achieve. Particularly if we talk to some of the mirror-touched individuals themselves, rather than going to the researchers first.¡¯


    Jones nodded. ¡®That would also be my preferred method of attack.¡¯


    The aspect in his arms settled, head against his shoulder, hand resting against his chest.


    There were words he wanted to say. Words that were somehow owed to both Taylor and Wendy, and it made so much more sense to say them to some part of her that was awake and aware - even if in the end, it was only a memory.


    He distanced himself from Jones and Jane as much as he could. A bench seat at the far end of the lab - one that had drawings and colouring-in pages hidden beneath, indicating that Merlin had been spending some time around his mother.


    He sat, hands almost slipping through the aspect as he tried to keep his full concentration on the simple magic of maintaining contact.


    He cupped her tiny, round face with one hand, astonished in some part of his mind that even though the static, he could feel the softness of her cheek. ¡®I know I made this choice for you, but I think - I know - you would have wanted me to. You¡¯ve seen so little of the world, and there¡¯s still so much more left to amaze you. And to be amazed by you. There¡¯s people who love you waiting to see you again, and people you¡¯ll love that you haven¡¯t even met yet. There¡¯s a thousand things you haven¡¯t tried that will bring you joy, and another thousand that will leave you sobbing, but it¡¯s worth it, life is worth it. Wherever you are, come home. Whatever you-¡¯


    The static on his fingers disappeared as the aspect vanished.


    ¡®You knew it was her,¡¯ Jane said as she joined him on the bench. ¡®No hesitation.¡¯


    ¡®This was the first time I met her,¡¯ he said and pinched his nose. No tears, just the heavy feeling of hope. ¡®And I can understand that if these pieces are guideposts, important memories, why this would be the first.¡¯


    ¡®Is this a story you¡¯d like to tell me?¡¯ Jane asked.


    Years and years of being alone, of automatically closing himself off from those around him, formed an answer - one he bit back on, and cast aside.


    If Stef, lost somewhere beyond comprehension, could make her first steps forward, then so could he.


    ¡®I would like to,¡¯ he said haltingly. ¡®Allow me to take you to dinner. You¡¯re a guest in my Agency, it¡¯s the least I can do.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯d like that, Newborn. Let me know the dress code before six.¡¯


    ¡®Of course.¡¯

 23 - Trespasser

    It wasn¡¯t trespassing, but it felt like it.


    The dead didn¡¯t have personal space, not really, but it still felt wrong to be standing there.


    Curt stared at the apartment door, at the worn wood, and stuffed his right hand into his pocket to stop himself from knocking on the door. It was something...someone had once told him, maybe his dad, maybe his grandmother, that it was bad luck to knock on the door of an empty house.


    As if maybe knocking would arouse an angry spirit. Like a knock could make an unoccupied house into an occupied one.


    Feeling stupid with every inch of movement, he pulled his hand from his pocket and knocked three times. Rap. Rap. Rap. A pause between each, listening for awkward footsteps of - if not an angry spirit, then at least a ghost that could muster a ¡°no talk, me angy¡± until it was fed spectral coffee.


    No footsteps. No ghost. No Stef.


    Tara¡¯s death had been just as sudden - more so, as no one ever really expected children to die; but somehow he was having more trouble fixing Stef¡¯s death into his mind as real. One squeal of breaks and ¡°older brother¡± had become ¡°only child¡±. But those were memories being looked at with a decade of hindsight and writing and rewriting of memories.


    He remembered the anger, at screaming at his parents, at blaming himself. He remembered how bright and sunny the funeral had been. He remembered feeling alone.


    There was no comparison between losing his sister, losing his favourite person in the world, someone he felt he¡¯d done more to raise than their parents; and losing a friend that he¡¯d known for less than a week.


    There was no comparison, he just wished his emotions would realise that fact.


    He was projecting. He was making more of the situation than there was - if she¡¯d quit, he would have been disappointed for half an hour, then gone back to his routine. But losing her like this...was different.


    He opened the apartment door, and muttered an apology under his breath, still feeling like what he was doing was wrong. He hadn¡¯t known her, not really, and it wasn¡¯t hard to imagine that she¡¯d react badly to a near-stranger digging around her stuff.


    Raz¡¯s tech skills had shown no regular personal communication in her email. No patterns obvious to the algorithms indicated that her inboxes were filled with anything other than newsletters and advertising.


    But some people didn¡¯t communicate through email. It would be one thing to assume that, and miss the fact that she had a dear, sweet, great aunt Agatha who wrote three-page-long snail-mail letters every week.


    If there were any friends, any family, any romantic partners to notify, then someone had to do the due diligence. And he seemed to be the only one interested in trying to set things in order.


    The apartment was small - with the layout of the building, it was probably a converted rooming house or long-stay rooms for singles working away from home. Something like Clean Rooms for the Sober and Employed.


    Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom.


    It was so incongruous with what some of her words could lead someone to think. In the hide-and-seek sim, she¡¯d comfortably sat in a store that sold watches and jewellery the equivalent of a year¡¯s income for a lot of people.


    It spoke to a family with money, yet this apartment - the size, the general condition...didn¡¯t match up with that.


    Everything seemed normal at first pass. But you didn¡¯t survive long as either a Solstice or a recruit by taking everything at face value - and it only took seconds before weird details started to crystallise.


    There were half a dozen bricks in the bathtub. There were no photos - there were framed pictures, but they were fancy video game prints; nothing personal. The living room furniture seemed...strange. Everything was clean and fresh, but a requirement could do that in seconds. Still, nothing seemed to go together - it was the same kind of mishmash that would happen if you furnished your first apartment from a thrift store.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Whereas the chair at her desk seemed like something that a douchebag pro-gamer would use, and probably cost more than the rest of the apartment¡¯s furniture put together.


    The bedroom was small, blackout curtains kept it dark, and the single bed furthered his suspicion he wasn¡¯t going to find a little black book of conquests she¡¯d swiped right on.


    Logically, if there were essential papers to find, they¡¯d likely be somewhere in the bedroom. Most people kept folders like that in their wardrobe or dresser or something. All he had to do was-


    Was dig through all of her personal shit. Was invade per privacy without permission.


    He looked at the wardrobe, at the desk covered in a depression-level of garbage around the expensive hardware, then slowly backed out of the room, his courage fleeing.


    There was probably Agency shit that one of the techs could do to find something without a real person pawing through all of her stuff.


    He headed for the front door, still hating that he was taking in the increasingly-sad details of what had been her life, of...of...of what seemed to have been a very lonely life.


    His feet stopped as his brain registered a strange detail, and he focussed on the entryway table - on top of it was a notebook - and the two words in thick black pen ¡°Hi, Thieves!¡±.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    He picked up the little spiral-bound book, looked at the words again, then saw a small ¡°please turn over¡± arrow at the bottom of the page. Dutifully, he turned it and found a page of writing, far tidier than he¡¯d observed in the times he¡¯d been able to get her to do some Agency paperwork.


    ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it,¡± the page said. ¡°If you don¡¯t wreck my shit too much. The following are the only things worthwhile stealing.¡± A dotted list followed. ¡°Rent money in the drawer below this book. Jewellery from the red box - the blue box is costume and fake. Diamond ring in flour tin.¡± Below this was a note. ¡°Computer looks fancy but has little resale value. Laptop has no resale value.¡±


    ¡®You...are so...Jesus, Newbie, you¡¯re weird.¡¯


    His thumb touched the edge of a page marker, which had ¡°RIP¡± written on it. Curious - and weirdly hopeful - he flipped to the spot halfway through the otherwise-empty book.


    ¡°If you want to steal my shit, go back to page one, idiot. If I¡¯m dead, please continue.¡±


    Again, there was a ¡°please turn over¡± arrow, which he followed.


    ¡°Sorry for the smell. Please alert the landlord that owed rent can be found in the entrance bureau, and all security deposits are gladly forfeited to pay for expenses.¡±


    He paused in reading, wondering what kind of utterly fucked life could have led to leaving an instruction manual on both how to rob a person and to deal with their death.


    ¡°My will and legal papers can be found in the top drawer, labelled ¡°Envelope 1¡±,¡± the note continued. He opened the drawer, shuffled under rent envelopes marked with dates, found the slimmer-than-expected envelope, then retreated to the couch.


    The will itself was short but relatively dense - mostly it seemed to revolve around bank accounts and monies within reverting to a family trust as per a prior legal arrangement. It appeared...somehow rote, impersonal, with little to no information on what to do with personal possessions.


    Again, the language seemed to indicate certain heirloom pieces - pieces she¡¯d likely been encouraging the thieves to steal - should be returned to the family.


    Overall, it seemed more like instructions on how to best loot a corpse, rather than honour someone dead.


    He looked to the date. With a little bit of mental math - and a quick check of her file on his phone - it seemed to have been signed just a few days after her eighteenth birthday. That fact somehow made the entire situation even more ghoulish.


    Aside from the will, the envelope contained a few flyers for various cemeteries - there didn¡¯t seem to be any concrete plans made or burial plots ordered, but a tri-folded letter indicated she was up-to-date with payments for funeral insurance.


    Something caught his eye as he cast flyers aside - a small handwritten note above a picture of a fairly ordinary grave. ¡°Somewhere pretty,¡± it said in her more casual ¡°why are you making me do paperwork¡± handwriting. Beside the words was an attempt to draw a flower, which had then been scribbled over.


    For what he knew wasn¡¯t the last time, he started to cry for a girl he¡¯d barely known.


    At the bottom of the envelope was a business card for a law firm. The card was thick, embossed, and felt like it was charging him money just to hold. One of the partner names was ¡°Mimosa¡±, but there was no way of knowing how the name was related to Newbie.


    He snapped a quick photo and sent it to Raz.


    {Can you get a copy of Stef¡¯s latest will?}


    {No problem.}


    Newbie seemed thorough, but there was no harm in checking that the copy that the law firm had matched the one in his hand.


    And with no evident address book - not without taking a further trespassing step of going through her email and digital contact lists - this was likely the best way to contact the family to let them know of her passing.


    Hopefully, there was more to the situation than it seemed. Hopefully, some of them would mourn her.


    And if they didn¡¯t, he¡¯d ensure she got to rest somewhere pretty.

 24 - Ground State

    As strange as the thought was, he felt like he was going unarmed to an execution.


    Not bringing a knife to a gun fight, not bringing words to a brawl, but...going naked to a place where it was almost certain someone meant him harm.


    Curt looked down at himself - the choice of dress was deliberate: uniform pants, shirt and tie. Enough to show that he was still toeing the line, without being stifled by the entire uniform.


    And if another fight broke out - well, it was easier to fight like this without stopping to shrug off a coat, or worry that Ryan would be able to get a good grip on his vest.


    It was paranoia, was expecting the worst - but his entire life was a biography of expecting then experiencing the worst.


    Inviting more pain into his life, he knocked on Ryan¡¯s office door.


    There was an audible click as the door unlocked, and sealing his own fate, he pushed it open and walked in.


    Ryan sat in his high-backed chair, hands crossed on the desk in front of him - for someone likely capable of pulling a human spine out, he looked...harmless, and Curt had no doubt the look was intentional.


    ¡®Before you say anything,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®Let me apologise. From the bottom of my heart, I am deeply and sincerely sorry for what I did. I...know why I did it, but that doesn¡¯t excuse that I did it.¡¯


    ¡®Sir-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re well within your rights to take it further, something I won¡¯t impede if you do. All recruits - all recruits, Curt, deserve to feel safe, and what I did violated that.¡¯


    He looked at Ryan, and saw genuine contrition there - this was a real apology, something the man had devised himself, not some copy-pasted attempt to stop a report being made to Central.


    ¡®I appreciate that.¡¯ He let the words hang for a moment, then sat in the chair opposite Ryan¡¯s desk. ¡®I need to ask you something.¡¯ He looked past the agent, unwilling to make eye contact as he asked to be set free. ¡®Carmichel has offered me a job working for him. He¡¯d like to know-¡¯ He chuckled darkly. ¡®Well, the price on my head, to be frank. What it would cost for the Agency to release me.¡¯


    This was met with silence, and after a silent count to five, he looked to Ryan.


    The agent looked as though he¡¯d been prepared for a few different conversations, but that this particular question had come as a surprise.


    ¡®Curt, I¡¯m afraid I probably can¡¯t give you the answer you want.¡¯


    ¡®Meaning?¡¯ he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.


    ¡®You¡¯re not the first or last reformed Solstice the Agency has employed. You¡¯re...objectively on the path to becoming one of the more successful examples of someone being given a second chance. But-¡¯


    Curt pressed his fingertips into his knees, trying to keep himself as still and quiet as possible, completely neutral, so that Ryan could finish his thought.


    ¡®A year, year and a half, isn¡¯t a long time to an agent or to the Agency. If you were to submit this proposal, it likely wouldn¡¯t be granted, and in fact, may be disadvantage to your ongoing career as a recruit. It would be possible, but the offer would have to be significant.¡¯


    Money, and other things that Carmichel could offer the Agency, would be more than sufficient, but rocking the boat...making an offer that might be refused, that wasn¡¯t a situation he wanted. Staying under the Agency¡¯s radar was a plan that had worked so far - his...blip with Ryan notwithstanding.


    ¡®What does that mean? What-¡¯


    ¡®Three years would be less problematic, five would be a smooth transition away. I would ask that you consider your position, Carmichel¡¯s potential offers, and all other factors before you formally ask me to submit this request.¡¯


    ¡®Another eighteen months?¡¯ he said quietly, hating that the words had slipped out.


    ¡®Positions like yours...there shouldn¡¯t be the impression that they¡¯re given freely and that freedom can simply be bought.¡¯


    ¡®I understand.¡¯


    ¡®And I understand,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®that I¡¯m making you feel uncomfortable. Unsafe. Proving the worst of what you think about Agents. I never meant to do any of that.¡¯ He picked up a pen and rolled it between his fingers. ¡®You- You were acting out of a place of concern for your fellow recruit, and I couldn¡¯t-¡¯


    He stood up quickly, not willing - not able - to have this conversation right now.


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know,¡¯ he said, more words coming unbidden. ¡®Why- Why you-¡¯ He backed towards the door. ¡®I don¡¯t know if you did, but I spoke to a Solstice contact centre. By the morning after, everything they had in a suit was dead. Mostly the night shift is lazy, so- So-¡¯ His back ran into the doorhandle, and he turned to exit.


    The handle moved a little, then locked.


    Fear locked chains around his heart, and he jiggled the handle. ¡®Please let me out,¡¯ he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.


    ¡®Curt-¡¯


    He shook the handle harder. ¡®Let me out.¡¯ Fight. Flight. Die. Worst case scenarios coming home to rest. ¡®Let me out!¡¯


    Ryan said something, completely muffled by the heartbeat pounding in his ears.


    ¡®Curt.¡¯


    He slumped against the door, unsure if he was breathing, if his heart was beating like a hummingbird or at all or-


    ¡®Curt.¡¯


    Hot tears reached his cheeks.


    ¡®They never had her, Curt.¡¯


    His hand froze on the handle, and he stared at the dark blue door, dumbfounded.With an act of will he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d ever be able to replicate, he flipped, pressing his back against the closed door, and forcing himself to face the agent.


    ¡®What?¡¯ he asked, the word half-accusation, half-prayer.


    Ryan had half-risen from his chair, but slumped back down. ¡®Please?¡¯ the agent asked, indicating to the chair he¡¯d vacated. ¡®Please, this is a conversation we need to have.¡¯


    Like a sleepwalker, unsure if he could feel his legs, he made his way back to the guest chair.


    ¡®Say that again?¡¯


    ¡®I know where she is. We- We never-¡¯ Ryan stared at folded hands. ¡®You¡¯re well within your rights to strike me, so if you wish to do so-¡¯


    ¡®Where the fuck is she? Why didn¡¯t-¡¯ There was a flash on the agent¡¯s face. ¡®It¡¯s not ¡°didn¡¯t¡±, is it, you couldn¡¯t say anything. Why couldn¡¯t you say anything? Why can you say- Is she okay?¡¯


    ¡®It was some kind of experimental weapon. Something we¡¯d never seen before. Something that¡¯s now wrapped in more levels of classified paperwork than I¡¯ve ever seen.¡¯ Ryan poured himself a drink, and after a moment, a second glass appeared and was pushed across the desk.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ Curt said as he lifted the glass, ¡®tell me.¡¯


    ¡®It took us hours to begin to understand what it had done. When we...spoke,¡¯ Ryan said, putting a nice label on their last encounter. ¡®We were right in the middle of that. As little information as we have now, I had none in that moment.¡¯


    ¡®Is she dead, sir?¡¯


    Ryan downed half of his drink, his eyes taking in all corners of the office before resting back on the glass in his hand.


    ¡®I hope not,¡¯ Ryan said, his voice catching just a little. ¡®We¡¯re not sure if or when she¡¯s ever going to wake up. I¡¯ve been told to treat it like someone in a coma. I¡¯m hoping for the best, but I¡¯m worried that hope is pale.¡¯


    There were things that the agent still wasn¡¯t telling him - that much was neon-glaringly obvious - but in light of what Ryan had just said, that was somehow...expected. If security levels and classified information was in play, it was probably a miracle that he¡¯d been told the little that he now knew.


    It put context over what had happened - still unfair, still...a crack in the false sense of safety and security he¡¯d been slowly building, but it at least...explained things. Explained, but didn¡¯t excuse - even Ryan recognised that.


    And maybe a regular recruit could make an agent¡¯s life hell by running to Central, by crying to the equivalent of internal affairs, but Central wouldn¡¯t give two shits about what he had to say.


    Still if Ryan - who for an agent so old, seemed almost naive in the realities of politics and fairness sometimes - felt that there was a chance that Central might go after him, then it was a marker to hold on to. A favour to be cashed in later.


    Something useful, if he was going to be stuck in the uniform for at least another eighteen months.


    ¡®Tell me something.¡¯


    ¡®If I can, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Do you care about her? Like, really, really care about her?¡¯


    The answer came without hesitation. ¡®Like she¡¯s my own child.¡¯ Ryan stared down at his desk. ¡®Whatever help my position can be to her, whatever favours are owed to me, I¡¯m going to pull to see that the best people look at this case, to...make the hope even a little less hopeless.¡¯


    ¡®But she¡¯s officially dead? I¡¯ve got Raz looking for her will for Christ¡¯s sake. If she seemed to have any family, I would have-¡¯


    Ryan refilled their drinks. ¡®A proxy in a suit, and a Solstice Lieutenant seem to be the only ones who have noticed her absence,¡¯ he said with a half-smile. ¡®Was there...anything in her papers that you found of importance?¡¯


    ¡®No DNR, nothing like that. Most of it was stuffy financial shit, I¡¯ve got copies I can give you, if you want to take care of that. I didn¡¯t feel- I don¡¯t know how dead you want to treat her.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m a world away from burying her, Recruit. I¡¯m used to faint hope.¡¯


    ¡®Somewhere pretty,¡¯ Curt said, staring at the carpet. ¡®If you have to. The paperwork specified somewhere pretty. For her, that might be a mainframe, I don¡¯t know,¡¯ he forced a laugh. ¡®What do I do from here, sir? What do you want from me?¡¯


    ¡®I want to trust you.¡¯ Ryan swirled his drink. ¡®I am aware that I¡¯ve been treating you unfairly. I see your good work. I see your hard work. I know where you are in comparison to others who have been given a second chance. And I am forcing myself to take the first step. As much as I¡¯ve told you, only someone with aide clearance should know, and therefore, I¡¯m asking you not to share what you¡¯ve learned here today.¡¯


    ¡®Not like I¡¯ve got a lot of friends to fun my mouth to, sir,¡¯ he said, pasting a self-decrepitating smile onto his face.


    This brought a little look of confusion to Ryan¡¯s face. ¡®As an outside observer, I think you are more valued that you give yourself credit for, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®If you say so, sir.¡¯ He allowed himself a smile. ¡®If you mean- Stef wasn¡¯t hard to win over. It was like one of those...cat adoption ads, ¡°I¡¯m three fishy treats from being your new friend¡± or whatever.¡¯


    ¡®Still.¡¯ Ryan paused for a moment. ¡®Take your time, but submit your new aide application. I know you¡¯re working on one. Finish it, and submit it, and this time, I¡¯ll give it the consideration it deserves.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said, nothing but real gratitude in his voice. After a moment, he stood, placed the glass on the desk, and extended his hand to Ryan. ¡®It¡¯ll be in before the end of the week.¡¯


    Trauma and hope fought for attention as Ryan shook his hand - voluntarily touching an agent was something he¡¯d never get used to, no matter how long he wore the uniform, but this moment needed him to push aside his own comfort.


    It wasn¡¯t a step forward, not really, more of a reset if anything. Maybe not a reason to get rid of any of the stress on his shoulders...but at least a reason to adjust the weight.


    Ryan let go of his hand, and with a polite goodbye, he excused himself from the agent¡¯s office, so much to sort through, so much to process, and for once, even a little to hope for.

 25 - Pretence

    Magnolia pressed her security card against the sim room¡¯s operations screen.


    It was rarely a good sign when a meeting with an agent was to take place in a sim.


    In what amounted to a holographic chamber capable of recreating anything from your weirdest sexy fantasy to the tiniest detail of all your underlings dying on a failed mission, there was always the chance that the tech would be used to chew your ass out - and not in the fun way.


    Jane was there to audit them - something that was far overdue from an outside perspective and something that could destroy her Agency and her life.


    So much of it was going to fall onto her shoulders - probably as much as Ryan. With no other aides, she was the only official rep amongst that population. However, she didn¡¯t doubt that there¡¯d be spot interviews with at least a dozen others. Still, without the ¡°aide¡± title, their opinions would weigh less in the final accounting.


    In the case of some recruits, this was a good thing. Ryan¡¯s relationship with most of his recruits was a metronome that swung between contentious and non-existent. A truth, a sad truth that wasn¡¯t going to play well.


    In the case of Jones¡¯ recruits, who - of all the agents in the building - had the best recruit relationships, those glowing reviews weren¡¯t going to count as much.


    Workbook under her arm - the fancy, tidy one that she took to conferences, not the one stuffed with Merlin drawings - she straightened her toned-down skirt, then buzzed the door to the sim room to alert the occupants she was entering.


    Two steps into the sim, she knew she was overdressed.


    Behind her, the door to the real world slid close and disappeared, leaving nothing but the broad expanse of a perfect white sand beach in front of an ocean so blue it almost seemed unreal.


    A dozen feet to her right were two sun loungers, under broad umbrellas, small tables already holding icy drinks, beaded condensation on the glass.


    And stepping out of the water, beauty and grace in a white two-piece, was Agent Jane.


    Magnolia grinned and looked down at her completely inappropriate all-black lolita outfit. ¡®Ma¡¯am, you could have advised me of the dress code.¡¯


    Jane wrapped a light-as-air chiffon jacket around herself. ¡®And what knowledge would I gain if I did, Aide? Crawford likes the silence to speak for itself. I do the same with limited information. This could have been a party or a - forgive me - kangaroo court.¡¯


    Magnolia nodded, a thought replacing her dress with a boy-legged bikini bottom and a tankini top. ¡®And what did my appearance tell you?¡¯


    ¡®That you¡¯re sure of yourself, and to a degree, you trust me. Both are good things.¡¯ Jane lifted a pina colada from her table and played with the straw. ¡®As much as I¡¯m getting the idea that you¡¯re known for your signature style, I assume there are situations where you¡¯d want the social engineering advantage of wearing a uniform?¡¯


    ¡®I can think of a few situations,¡¯ she said mildly. ¡®But right now, it doesn¡¯t feel necessary.¡¯


    Jane sipped her drink and raised her eyebrows, seeming to expect her to fill the silence.


    ¡®I take the lead from my commander,¡¯ she said. ¡®What¡¯s good enough for Taylor is good enough for me. People he treats well, people who treat him well, that¡¯s a good start for me.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve known him a long time. Then...more than now, of course, and I assume you know what I mean by that?¡¯


    Not the full story, nowhere near the full story. Bare scraps from her commander and nothing but caged words from Grigori. Taylor then, and Taylor now were two functionally different men, and the heart of the blame lay with Ryan.


    ¡®Enough to know, without knowing all the details. What isn¡¯t public isn¡¯t mine to know until he deems it germane to share.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s a lot more restraint than most recruits would show.¡¯


    Magnolia sipped her drink. ¡®Most people - recruits or not - rarely know how to show the proper level of restraint or comportment for the situation they find themselves in.¡¯


    ¡®And you do?¡¯


    Enough to know that walking up to her commander, grabbing him by the lapels and demanding to know how he¡¯d died and been resurrected would do irreparable damage to their bond.


    Caged words would satisfy for now, until he felt she needed to know more.


    ¡®Knowing and doing are two different things. I try to strike a balance, but sometimes you just need to tell a motherfucker exactly how they¡¯ve fucked up. Because if it¡¯s someone I¡¯m watching and they¡¯ve fucked up, the next time they fuck up, people could die. I don¡¯t spare feelings when it could save lives.¡¯


    Jane reached over and gently squeezed her hand. ¡®Thank you for being what he needs.¡¯ She pulled her hand back and sat up slightly to accept a tray of delicate snacks from a fairy sim, wings casting spears of holographic light over the sand as he landed. Jane took a small cucumber from the tray, then laid it on the table between them. ¡®I don¡¯t intend on wasting too much of your time, but in order to fully do my audit, I need to-¡¯


    Magnolia picked up some kind of cheese-and-tomato puff. ¡®I understand. Ask away. My skeletons are...mostly public record.¡¯ She popped the puff into her mouth and braced herself for one of the six questions strangers always seemed to ask.


    There were easy to understand facts about her life - and were of public record to anyone with either the right security clearance or a gossipy ear.


    Fact one - she¡¯d practically grown up in an Agency. From about nine to her mid-teens, she¡¯d been under the same roof as Dazza, his wife and the beginnings of their ever-expanding family. Her father - who, despite his seniority, was always referred to as the ¡°other Aide Hammond¡± by people in discussion - had begun wearing the suit not long after they¡¯d moved in.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    And like every childhood, it was...complicated. Good moments and bad moments. Family you loved and hated with equal measure.


    Fact two. One day, so far removed from a tiny feathered girl stepping foot into an Agency for the first time, Agent Taylor had hauled in a spitting, scratching criminal, ready to fight, flee or fuck for her freedom.


    It hadn¡¯t been fair. The gang had always targeted the Agency warehouse in the Marches. Tonnes of contraband and seized goods that could be sold for a tidy profit with little security.


    Not all warehouses were like that, but the one in the Marches had caretakers who gave less than zero fucks, and would often happily turn a blind eye for a bribe.


    It had been almost a game. Not that there weren¡¯t consequences - depending on the mood of the agent who caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, sometimes the price was more than the contraband was worth.


    And then, for whatever reason, the game had been over all at once. Just their shithole of a headquarters getting raided by the one-man-army that was Taylor, looking for stolen items on behalf of the warehouse staff.


    They¡¯d fought - he still had a scar she¡¯d inflicted that day - but ultimately, he¡¯d won.


    And without any real choice in the matter, she¡¯d become a recruit. Even if it came with a job she didn¡¯t want, some freedom was better than serving endless days in an Agency prison.


    Two facts. Two facets of her life that, for a lot of people, didn¡¯t seem to add up. Puzzle pieces that refused to connect, even if you beat them with a closed first.


    It seemed impossible for anyone with a comfortable life to make a path between A and B. For the people she liked to call friends, for people used to strained family relationships, there wasn¡¯t even a question that A could lead to B.


    She picked up another small puff from the tray and waited for the inevitably judgey question to come from Jane. Words that would both somehow pity and blame her for going from a perfect, innocent child to someone unworthy of holding the aide rank.


    ¡®If the catering isn¡¯t to your liking-¡¯ Jane started.


    ¡®I¡¯m waiting for the first shoe to drop. I¡¯m not the typical aide. I¡¯m well aware of what people think of me. I know that¡¯s going to have some impact on this audit.¡¯


    ¡®Some auditors,¡¯ Jane said as she grabbed another sandwich. ¡®Wish to bring everyone into order, to align everything to cookie-cutter perfection, exactly as the handbook would lay out a perfect Agency. I¡¯m way too fucking old to think there is any benefit in that.¡¯


    ¡®I appreciate that,¡¯ Magnolia said, allowing genuine gratitude into her voice.


    Too many people wanted to change how she was. How she operated. Would prefer that she ditched cute outfits for something approaching the uniform. Would be the more subdued, measured voice expected from an aide.


    She couldn¡¯t be something she wasn¡¯t. So much of her life would have been so much easier if she could have...been a little closer to the centre, to¡­ ¡°normal¡±, to the ideals and expectations of the people around her.


    If she could have been more human. If she knew how to manage her anger better. If she¡¯d been less queer.


    In the soup of multiverses that existed, if every possible iteration of a person could exist, then somewhere out there, there was a Magnolia out there working for Darren and Katie. An unremarkable girl who had no idea how to touch any of the fae parts of her nature, tongue firmly bit when she saw a pretty girl.


    There was nothing she could do for that sad doppelganger, but for her own life, the one she¡¯d so messily fought for, the one she was still building, there were few external influences strong enough to make her reconsider her actions.


    In a way - not that he would know the reasoning - she knew her commander was glad of her resolve, of her consistency.


    Taylor was the strongest man in the world, but change wasn¡¯t something he bore with grace. For whatever had split his life into ¡°then¡± and ¡°now¡±, the ¡°now¡± version needed things to follow patterns. For objects, events and people to exist within specific parameters. For any given situation to be easily understood, broken down and threat-assessed within seconds.


    When people or scenarios existed outside parameters, they threw a kink into his world - and it was her job to keep as many of these hiccups and blips out of his path as she could.


    ¡®I¡¯ve been looking at your schedule,¡¯ Jane said. ¡®Your anticipated schedule, your actual schedule, and the location data showing where you actually were. One day or one week never shows the truth, so to the best of what you¡¯ve logged, I¡¯ve compared three months worth of data.¡¯


    ¡®And if you did the same for any agent-¡¯ she started.


    Jane waved a hand, then sipped her drink. ¡®At the beginning of this conversation, you were willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®I assume that lasts more than five minutes?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    ¡®And I did, actually. I took a similar look at half a dozen individuals - three agents, three aides. No one ever operates to a schedule, as life tends to get in the way of planning. When I take out things you can¡¯t plan for, like spur-of-the-moment assignments and any follow-up activities.¡¯ Jane put down an empty glass and selected a martini from the available drinks. ¡®I even allowed a few minutes for tearing strips off your doctors, as Two has assured me that he has to factor in a certain amount of...belligerence when it comes to your medical care.¡¯


    ¡®It takes a certain amount of belligerence to get them to-¡¯


    ¡®Aide.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    ¡®So taking out all the X-factors, the flexibility in your assumed schedule is one of the better ones I¡¯ve seen. You assume things will go to shit, have a good sense of what regular meetings tend to run short or long, and schedule activities around that. Where you can, you have a backup in place where it¡¯s something that can be started without you. You are an example that should be taught, Magnolia, and I need to know you feel proud of your accomplishments.¡¯


    ¡®Pride and shit are worth the shit, ma¡¯am,¡¯ she said, not meeting the agent¡¯s gaze. ¡®I know what I can do, I know what I¡¯ve done and-¡¯


    ¡®And you feel like a complete emotionless badass saying that,¡¯ Jane said, ¡®once more without the pretence?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sure you know a little pretence can be useful, Agent. I have a reputation.¡¯ She looked into her drink for a moment. ¡®But it¡¯s not solely posturing. I¡¯m aware of the positive influences my actions have, but the moment I try and rest on my laurels, I see the holes. I see what else I can do to improve a situation, what I should have done or said. Pride is an end-state. All I see is a perpetual work in progress.¡¯


    ¡®You should slap that on a T-shirt,¡¯ Jane commented quietly. ¡®One question, then one command, then you¡¯re free to go.¡¯


    ¡®The question?¡¯ Magnolia prompted.


    ¡®What do you want from your career? A plain answer, if you please.¡¯


    This answer, at least, was easy.


    It was an answer she¡¯d known for a long time, a truth that she¡¯d accepted. One she made a show of vehemently denying whenever one of her close friends would express worry over a new injury or scar.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want anything from my career. I¡¯m going to die. Younger than I¡¯d like. As bloody as can be, doing as much damage as I can to whoever finally gets the better of me. I¡¯m going to do my Duty, and it won¡¯t even be a beautiful corpse.¡¯


    Part of her expected pushback, for platitudes, to throw out the suggestion of therapy, to be accused of having a deathwish.


    But the look of acceptance on Jane¡¯s face told her that she understood. That, Combat agent to Combat recruit, she could respect where she was coming from.


    ¡®Then I guess this order is all that more important.¡¯ Jane folded her hands. ¡®Two hours a week - and Taylor will know this too - I order you to do something for yourself. A massage. A spa treatment. Sitting on a fucking beach,¡¯ she said, indicating the white sands around them. ¡®On top of whatever time you scrape for yourself now, this is my command. You keep everything running, so we need to keep you running.¡¯


    ¡®Ma¡¯am-¡¯


    ¡®On top of that, you¡¯ll be moving from an ad hoc per diem in Fairyland currency to a standard weekly stipend. I¡¯ll have to check the table of rates against a few factors, but I¡¯ll get you a good deal. Are you happy with the outcome of my assessment?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve seen my schedule. I don¡¯t know if-¡¯


    ¡®I just ask you to try. Don¡¯t die without having a hot rock massage, or strawberries and champagne, or whatever it is that you want and put at the bottom of the To-Do list. Cram in some more good experiences before you leave that beautiful corpse behind.¡¯


    In terms of how an assessment could have gone, it was beyond a best-case scenario in light of what an auditor could have demanded.


    Adding in some selfish time to her schedule probably wasn¡¯t going to happen every week, but¡­


    She lifted her glass in Jane¡¯s direction. ¡®Do you have a good hot rock sim?¡¯


    Jane smiled. ¡®I have some recommendations.¡¯

 26 - The Greater Good

    She wasn¡¯t sure she¡¯d ever expected to be a mother.


    Andrea slowly sipped her coffee, pecked at a couple of keys, starting the next round of scans, then dutifully began to sort through the latest crop of crayon drawings.


    Agents who became parents tended to be a lot older than she was, for a start - early 30s was a perfectly normal age for a human to have a family. However, for agents, it was still very much on the ¡°Newborn¡± side of life.


    There were exceptions, of course - some agents came to their emotional maturity - or at least their emotional selves - fairly early in life, flipping that irrevocable switch that would transcend being ¡°just a program¡± into a fully-fledged person.


    Darren, from one of the outpost agencies, was a classic example of this. It was also something she¡¯d gotten to witness firsthand, as Darren was one of the few agents in the local network that was younger than her.


    Darren - whilst ¡°mature¡± wasn¡¯t the first word to describe someone who still had the ¡°call me Dazza¡± ease of a highschooler, in other ways, he was a speedrunning champion.


    And now, mature or not, he was married with an adorable gaggle of children.


    Numbers of children for agents was something that varied wildly - some went the same route as Darren, producing their own sportsball team of children; others had fewer, many had just one.


    Of those in her own Agency, the childless outweighed the parents. Taylor had never shown interest. The Parkers would surely look on a baby as nothing more than a small science experiment. Applebaum dismissed the question with a grumble that he was missing his shows. And Natalie¡¯s opinion was somewhere along the lines of ¡°I¡¯m going to live forever, bitch, I¡¯ll get around to it eventually¡±.


    Ryan had one estranged son and one Stef.


    So for the longest time, she¡¯d been the only parent - a position she hadn¡¯t sought, but one that had been undeniable once presented.


    Merlin had been rescued from a nightmare - brought back to the Agency wrapped in a blanket carried by Magnolia - who had been so angry at the evident abuse she¡¯d been crying.


    One tiny hand had reached out from the blanket as he¡¯d helped Combat get the tiny bundle to the Parkers, had latched onto her and hadn¡¯t let go.


    One tiny hand that had become the saddest, most heartbreaking hug she¡¯d ever experienced. Half an ocean of tears had flown before she¡¯d even become aware that they weren¡¯t her own tears. That Merlin¡¯s grief and pain had been overflowing so severely that he¡¯d needed help to process them.


    She¡¯d been the only one he trusted, the only mind he¡¯d allowed to be conscious of what was happening, to recognise that he was more than the abused child of a demon.


    It had taken weeks - months - to even begin to figure out what the bounds of Merlin¡¯s powers were, but that first night had made her sure of two things.


    First, that Duty or not, there was no way she would turn the child over to Central for the experimentations to continue.


    Second, and this had come as dawn had broken, and Merlin had finally fallen into proper sleep; that the tiny child that had been unwilling to leave her arms was hers, and that she¡¯d burn the world to protect him.


    She selected a picture of Magnolia from the stack of drawings - partially because there didn¡¯t seem to be any obvious magic imbued into the paper - that made it safer to be seen by anyone else coming to the lab. And second - and more importantly, from a mother¡¯s perspective - the amount of hard work he¡¯d spent capturing Magnolia¡¯s default angry expression was evident.


    What the Agency knew about Merlin and what she knew about Merlin were two very different things - and for his safety, it had to stay that way.


    What they knew was that he was the son of a demon, one that had been the subject of experimentation - but so far as the Agency knew, those experiments had been for naught.


    The Agency knew he was a traumatised child, adopted by an agent, who was likely to become a recruit when he reached the age of majority.


    What she knew was that her son was likely to be one of the most powerful people on the planet - or at least had the potential to be.


    Ryan wasn¡¯t the only one with a child housing pieces of a dead world.


    Compared to the accident that had rendered Stef...the word they were using was ¡°comatose¡±, even if it wasn¡¯t accurate; the experiments performed on Merlin had been horrific, cruel, and meticulous.


    Pieces of twelve different mirrors were embedded in the boy¡¯s spine, leaving him so in tune with magic that sometimes it was hard for him to exist in the real world.


    Merlin could warp emotions, memories and reality. A gentle hug on a bad day could banish all bad feelings; lazy thoughts and the merest bit of will could make it so Agency security systems heard and saw safe realities rather than real conversations.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    He was powerful and could become so much more, could change the world.


    And all she cared about was making sure that he was safe.


    The future would come one day, for better or worse, but until then, it was her responsibility to make sure he had as many soft and safe moments of childhood as he could.


    She tacked the picture of Magnolia onto one of the equipment cupboards, then picked up a tablet and turned towards Stef, ready for the next set of hourly observations.


    Something bright and orange stopped her, and she stepped forward, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, before the image crystalised.


    Lying on the floor at the far end of the room, next to where Merlin was working his way through a crossword book - filling in the answers using languages from long-dead worlds - was another aspect.


    Compared to the barely-more-than-a-baby of the red aspect, this one was probably about five or six years old.


    Adorable as adorable came, she quickly took out her phone and snapped a picture for Ryan - who was listed as being out of System territory.


    Hair halfway down her back and a little dress straight out of a doll catalogue, the aspect lay on the floor, playing with dolls.


    Even tinted orange, she could tell that the dolls had some discolouration to them - the young Stef had taken a marker to them to make them more ¡°interesting¡±.


    ¡®She¡¯s hiding,¡¯ Merlin said. ¡®Doesn¡¯t want to be seen playing.¡¯


    She knelt and watched as aspect!Stef wiggled forward, smushed her face into the ground and - if she had to make a guess - either looked out from under a bed or tried to look under a door.


    Without any visible effort, Merlin picked up one of the dolls that aspect!Stef had set aside, playing with it as though it wasn¡¯t matter that barely intersected with this level of reality.


    With considerably more effort, she reached out to touch aspect!Stef¡¯s soft little cheek. ¡®I hope one day you can forgive me. I promise I¡¯m not trying to hurt you. Please, please trust me.¡¯


    The aspect gave no response, and she was almost grateful for that. It was all too easy to imagine its head-turning unnaturally and speaking with the deep voice of a horror movie monster.


    Here, in reality, there was no admonishment and no permission. She was on her own, as she was so much of the time.


    She had her convictions, she had her goals, and she had a set of shaky lines in the sand - every one of which she knew she¡¯d eventually have to cross.


    But when your son was powerful enough to save or destroy the world¡­ so many other things became relative. Morals, ethics, good and bad. Every concept known to philosophy had been turned over and over in her head a hundred times until she had found the precious Goldilocks zones where she could operate and still feel like a good person.


    The ends justified the means; that was easy. Still, she wanted those means to hurt as few people along the way as possible.


    ¡®Some privacy, please, darling,¡¯ she said to Merlin as he continued to play with the aspect.


    For a moment, Merlin¡¯s eyes glazed with every colour - real and imagined - that the universe was capable of creating, then he reached for the nearest crayon like it was nothing.


    This was amongst the oldest of their tricks.


    Inches along her path of parenthood, it had become obvious that there were going to be moments and actions that weren¡¯t for the eyes of the Agency. That proof that Merlin was more than just a traumatised child would be dangerous.


    And initially, she¡¯d looked into her own bag of tricks - every agent, especially every tech agent - had their own ways of snatching a moment of privacy.


    But almost instinctively, Merlin had known how to make it so whatever room they were in was safe from the rest of the world. People forgot about appointments or had the urge to knock flee as they reached towards the door. Security cameras showed banal activities, and the System never sensed magic it wasn¡¯t supposed to know about.


    It wasn¡¯t hard to gather what she needed from the rolling drawers - a simple plastic kidney dish, forceps and a scalpel.


    It was harder to open the flap in Stef¡¯s scrubs, the little velcroed square of fabric that hid her open chest and mirror from the world.


    ¡®It¡¯s for the greater good, I promise,¡¯ she said, briefly squeezing Stef¡¯s dead hand. ¡®I promise.¡¯


    With how Merlin had been...constructed, experimented on, designed, by his parents, there were moments when he was unstable. And for a child holding that much power, instability was their enemy.


    The first time it had happened, she had tried everything - every test, every prayer, called in so many favours - and still, her son had sat there, dying as the power of a sun burned his body from within.


    More and more favours later - she¡¯d negotiated her way to the tiniest piece of a mirror, one that had been kept as a family heirloom by some wealthy fae family. It had lain in a velvet-lined box, already the shape of a tear before she¡¯d lain her own weeping eyes on it.


    It had been her last shot - and it had worked.


    And since then, she¡¯d made sure to always keep some amount of mirror on hand - she wasn¡¯t going to let Merlin suffer like that again.


    And now, she was being offered enough mirror to keep her son stable for years.


    There was sorrow but not regret as she pressed the scalpel to the mirror.


    The largest part of her was glad not to have been turned to ash or thrown back against the wall. A smaller part was impressed with how much magic she could feel - with her hand this close to the mirror, it was impossible not to feel the potential, not to want to be drawn in by the potential that lay at her fingertips.


    Wishes enough to change the world. Wishes sufficient to save it or end it.


    Power enough, more than enough, to keep two sad children alive - and for the moment, that was what was needed.


    The scalpel slid into the mirror like it was soft butter.


    ¡®I won¡¯t take more than you can give,¡¯ she said. For the moment, it was the truth, and all she had was this moment. This moment, and the next and the next. Promises made with the best of intentions. Promises that sometimes had to be broken for the greater good.


    She slid the scalpel down the outside curve of the heart, feeling oddly like she was peeling a potato. At the bottom of the heart, she withdrew the blade, then lifted out the strip of mirror, holding it in her palm, her own heart pounding, mind purposely blank, as to not make an errant wish.


    Nonetheless, the mirror pooled into her palm into the shape of a heart, while the heart it had been stolen from rippled and smoothed over, erasing all traces of interference.


    Carefully, she wrapped the small heart in a piece of silk, then slid it into the pocket of her lab coat.


    It wouldn¡¯t be the last she¡¯d take - this was too valuable a resource to mine only once, but for so long as she could keep her promise, she wouldn¡¯t take more than the heart could offer.


    ¡®It¡¯s for the greater good,¡¯ she mumbled again, then laid a gentle kiss on Stef¡¯s corpse-texture forehead. ¡®For a better world, I promise.¡¯

 27 - I Don’t Think, Therefore-

    Sometimes, it was like a hundred thousand years passed in an instant. That she could see the rise, change and fall of some species so minor no fossil had ever been found.


    Other times, a single second seemed to encompass eternity.


    Whatever this was, it was like a dream. You were only aware of time when you thought about it. The rest of the time-not-time-maybe-time, it just did whatever it wanted - people making faces when your back was turned. Peers creeping up during a game of statues. Background processes you didn¡¯t know about.


    And sometimes, she felt like the background process.


    Ever since there had been the breakthrough that was red, there¡¯d been more and more little detail seeping into this world of hers. Orange had swirled with the red, making it seem like she was in a world of fire, or a beautiful sunset, of an explosion caught waiting for some cool guys to walk away from it.


    She could see herself, and that was something she was grateful for. At least every moment she was cognisant of it; sometimes she didn¡¯t realise it; sometimes, she began to fade and shrink in on herself.


    The less she tried to think, the less she was.


    I don¡¯t think, therefore, I am...not?


    But there were more than enough thoughts to keep her occupied. More than enough holes in thoughts and memories to try and puzzle through to keep her from shrinking back into some comfortable nothingness.


    She was swiss cheese, and that was probably being generous - at least cheese had some substance to it; she felt like more hole than mouse bait.


    And it was...weird what she could and couldn¡¯t remember. It wasn¡¯t any proper form of amnesia that she knew of - and the fact she could think of different types of amnesia was an interesting data point in and of itself.


    She knew...stuff. She knew what fingers were. What toes were. How to construct a computer. English; passable Spanish and at touristy bits of French. These weren¡¯t, she knew, memories that were confined to one section of her life. There were definitely things she had learned in childhood - ABCs and one-two-threes; and stuff that surely wasn¡¯t a part of childhood - such as the P versus NP problem.


    Movie plots came easily; personal memories were hidden behind a paywall.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    Falling asleep in this place wasn¡¯t like falling asleep in the real world. She didn¡¯t get tired. She didn¡¯t hear the call of a soft mattress and a pillow to hold over her head. It just happened, and she would wake up, back in the centre of this strange space. Every time she opened her eyes, it was like opening them for the first time. Like it was the first time she¡¯d lifted her arms and stretched. Like her body was forgetting what movement was like.


    If this was her body at all. If this was a body at all.


    If this was hell, limbo or some other place, there was no way of knowing how much her form really counted as a body. Or if she should think of it as...a metaphor, a projection, a memory.


    Maybe it can tell you something.


    ¡®Maybe.¡¯


    Her little world was empty - sometimes, she imagined tumbleweeds in the middle distance. Still, there was no way of knowing if they were anything more than wishing that there was something to fill the void.


    She was wearing clothes, clothes that felt like clothes, so - even if it was a memory or a projection, some form of matter could exist in this space. There had also been the little red ball that had broken her out from being just a brain-in-a-jar, though that had disappeared.


    Things could exist here, but- But it had somehow been beyond her to think of trying to call something into existence. She wasn¡¯t even sure it made sense - but if this space was hers, and it seemed to be, then maybe-


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Holding onto the thought was like trying to stop water from dripping through her fingers.


    Do it, Spyder.


    She planted her feet on the ground as smooth as glass, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared hard at the space just in front of her. ¡®A mirror,¡¯ she said, thinking of a simple, full-length, wooden-framed mirror. Something that existed in the millions in the real world, an object so simple, so-


    Woodgrain a subdued red, screws and hardware dull and rusty, the mirror was in front of her as if it had always been there.


    She stared at herself for the first time, and for what couldn¡¯t possibly be the first time, everything new and old all in an instant.


    Colours in the mirror, at least, had a greater range than the reds of her small world.


    She touched her brown hair, surprised at the haphazard ends, then like a game cartridge slotting into place, she suddenly knew her hair was always like that.


    ¡®Cause fuck going to a hairdresser when scissors will do,¡¯ she murmured, almost on autopilot, almost like repeating some old thought.


    Spyder, take notice.


    Notice. There was something to notice. But thinking was still hard. Even when all the time there was more, even when she¡¯d managed to summon a mirror from nothing, thinking in a straight line was still¡­


    Spyder.


    Spyder. A name she called herself. A name said gently, insistently. A name shouted by part of her when something important was being missed.


    Even when she hadn¡¯t known her own name, there had been no doubt about the voice, the thoughts, the bit that wasn¡¯t directly her.


    There had never been a question. No wondering if some outside party was trying to communicate with her. It was her. She was her, and it was her. There was¡­ just some slight separation.


    And it was comforting. A sensible part of her made manifest. A babysitter for when her train of thought went on the wrong track. The guiding hand of a sister, trying to drag her towards being a half functional human being.


    It wasn¡¯t normal, but she couldn¡¯t imagine life any other way.


    Spyder.


    In the mirror, she was reflected in true colours, not the shifting fire tones that she saw when she looked down at herself.


    It was something so banal, so ordinary that it had escaped notice how unordinary it was in this place.


    For a moment, she simply marvelled at something that wasn¡¯t red or orange. Straight, limp, brown hair, cut by an inexpert hand, was a joy compared to the volcano spectacle around her.


    Let you tell you about yourself.


    ¡®Okay.¡¯


    One thing at a time. Anything more than that would be too much. But she needed-


    Beside the mirror, a conspiracy board appeared. Pins, cord, and fat stacks of note cards and pens.


    Carefully, she grabbed the first card and wrote down ¡°Cuts own hair - why?¡±, then pinned it to the board.


    She turned back to the mirror and tried to see herself.


    If she didn¡¯t look too hard, her entire body was reflected, the mirror working like it should. But if she tried to look, tried to see it all at once, then things became less clear. Her eyes slid away from certain details as if the mirror wasn¡¯t ready to show her yet.


    Or as if she wasn¡¯t ready to see them yet.


    Her face was right below her hair, and like a full-body sigh, the reflection stopped fighting her, and she stared into her own eyes.


    ¡°Eyes, blue¡± went onto a conspiracy card.


    The face that looked back at her was¡­ unsurprising. A dictionary perfect plain Jane, and cresting, half-formed memories told her that this fact had been a disappointment. A mother who had wanted a perfect doll making do with what she had.


    Age was going to be more challenging. The face staring at her could have probably been anywhere over seventeen to her mid-twenties.


    The younger end of that spectrum felt wrong.


    ¡°20+¡± went onto a card.


    Clothes were of no help. Even when in the mirror, she seemed to be in nothing more than a generic loose t-shirt and cargo pants.


    Cheeks taking on a little of the world¡¯s red colour, she slowly stripped, dropping the clothes into a pile between the mirror and the conspiracy board.


    There was no one around, but she still felt embarrassed. Worried someone might-


    Brown hair. Blue eyes. A face that-


    ¡®No.¡¯


    There¡¯s been a thought, something important, and it had cut, blanking and throwing her back to something safer.


    She looked at her body. Tried to look at her body. Every other blink it was nothing more than a glitch. Not a pixelated privacy blur, but a mess of shapes and colours, and when it wasn¡¯t trying to be postmodern art, she just couldn¡¯t focus.


    She touched the mirror.


    ¡®Let me see, please.¡¯


    On her body was the flutter of a tutu, the familiar pressure of slippers and the feeling of her hair being pulled back too tightly.


    And on her naked reflection, scar after scar began to appear.


    Some that were as ugly as when they¡¯d first healed. Some that had faded slightly over time. A curved one on her arm that had constantly reminded her of a crescent moon - and therefore proof positive that she was a secret Sailor Scout.


    Ragged scars from wounds, straight ones from surgeries, each a reminder of the day her life had changed forever.


    It was right there in her mind, a bubble waiting to be popped, a memory finally ready to be unlocked.


    She looked down at herself, and the perspective skewed a little, no longer looking at the fire-toned body she was used to.


    The red and orange were gone. Now she existed in tones of yellow - and it belonged to someone younger - someone without a scar on their arm.


    She looked back to the mirror and its true colour truth-telling.


    Herself as a child - ten, maybe twelve - looked back at her in a pale blue and white recital outfit. Swan Lake.


    Slowly, her reflection reached for her, inviting her to reciprocate the gesture.


    One touch and the memory would be hers.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she whispered and touched her reflection¡¯s hand. ¡®Show me.¡¯

 28 - Everything Changes

    Some agents felt very attached to a certain time frame. Often, but not always, it was the time associated with breaking past that unofficial ¡°newborn¡± phase, of the moments when they truly became themselves.


    It was, in its way, very human.


    Others simply became invested in hobbies to the point where they became a defining part of that agent¡¯s personality, and they would quietly gripe as their treasured pastime fell out of favour, and would crow in victory once they once again cycled back into the public zeitgeist.


    Ryan had never found himself experiencing nostalgia for any particular slice of time.


    The possibilities of tomorrow, of what could come, of what could be better had always seemed to be far more intriguing than mourning the loss of vaudeville or forgotten dance steps.


    His wishes for the past were far more personal. Of missing the small, perfect moments with his family, of seeking advice from a Reynolds who could respond.


    But even those melancholy wishes had somewhat muted themselves since a short, odd, curious young woman had fallen into his life.


    And without even knowing it, her presence had pushed the blinkers from his eyes, made him realise what he had, what he wanted, and what he needed to change.


    Already, Jones had gently coaxed him into attending a movie night - he¡¯d spent the entire time paying half attention to the animated film, admiring the comradery of Jones¡¯ recruits, and having Merlin gently pushing popcorn at him.


    He had hope for the future, which almost seemed at odds with what he was doing now.


    In his HUD, there was the feed from a pigeon drone, one in automatic mode, simply showing him the view of a yard.


    A small backyard, where his granddaughter¡¯s birthday was going on.


    Music played, balloons fluttered, and at a plastic table, Arisa and three of her friends sat tinkering with what had surely been the ¡°main¡± present from her parents - a new drone.


    Alexander had made his choice, had chosen to step away, and that was something he would respect. Until the end of the world came, or some emergency when it was clear that Agency resources would remedy a dire situation where human ability might struggle, he wouldn¡¯t darken his son¡¯s door.


    But he wished he could meet his granddaughter.


    The drone took flight, and a gust of wind pushed it into the tree.


    After a moment of its motors whirring, trying to free itself, Arisa swore loudly, then ran to the tree and started to shake it.


    One of her friends declared they¡¯d go hunt for a ladder, and the other two cheered on Arisa as she fruitlessly tried to shake the tree.


    One small requirement dismissed the branch that was pinning the drone in place, another restarted its motor just before it fell into Arisa¡¯s head.


    He allowed it to hover for a moment, then gently guided it to the ground, hopefully looking like some kind of automatic, damage avoidance programming.


    Arisa cheered, grabbed up the drone, and ran with it back to the table.


    With a smile, he ended the drone program, and brought his focus back to the world outside his HUD.


    Death stood before him.


    Immediately, he bowed his head, wondering how he could have missed her arrival, how he could have-


    ¡®It¡¯s not difficult, Angel, I wasn¡¯t here a moment ago, now I am here. You missed nothing.¡¯


    ¡®My Lady,¡¯ he said, pouring all the respect into his voice that he was capable of. ¡®What can I do for you?¡¯


    ¡®Another part of herself has chosen to show itself.¡¯


    He was on his feet before he realised, grabbing his jacket from his desk where he¡¯d tossed it before attending the birthday party.


    As he rounded his desk to draw level with, she took his arm, and he immediately fell into step with her, measuring his pace as one did when escorting a lady.


    As they walked from his office - passing through the door as if it wasn¡¯t there, colour and sound slipped from the world, telling him that they were walking as she walked, through the world, but not part of it.


    It gave him a strangely intimate look at some of his recruits as they continued - people frozen in mid-conversation, frozen, candid moments that would never occur when he was around.


    Turning a corner, they stepped up, walking on air as easily as if there were stairs beneath their feet.


    ¡®Ask, Angel,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®The first two,¡¯ he said, faltering for words. ¡®What do you want me to see this time, my Lady?¡¯


    One more step, and they were in the lab that held Stef as she slept. Above her heart was a string of pulsing yellow light - its colour all the more vibrant in this world of black and white.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    It flickered like a flame, and with each tiny movement, he felt as though he could-


    He leaned closer - there were images within the light - frozen frames that would jutter to life, reverse and fast-forward.


    Rain on a window and twisted metal. Bloody hands and-


    Death laid a hand on his chest and pushed him gently back. ¡®I know what this is. I was there for this. And it¡¯s a moment that should remain hers.¡¯


    Death touched the flame and it blossomed, shooting as high as the ceiling, before becoming a ball of pulsing light in her cupped hands.


    Images flickered in the pulses, but this time, as they froze, they formed a petal, the ball slowly becoming a bright flower in her hands.


    With a smile - one he couldn¡¯t stop himself from thinking was beautiful - Death tucked the flower behind Stef¡¯s ear.


    ¡®Her medical records,¡¯ he said at last. ¡®She was injured in a road incident. I suspect that¡¯s what this is. But there is always more to an event than what can be recorded by some simple type.¡¯


    Death gave a nod of approval. ¡®I knew you would understand, Angel.¡¯


    *****


    ¡®Show me.¡¯


    Twelve. She¡¯d been twelve.


    Tears formed the eyes of her younger reflection.


    She¡¯d been at a recital. And then- Again, the block came, the want to stop herself from-


    She reached out with both hands and held onto the hand that her reflection had pushed through the mirror.


    ¡®Show me.¡¯


    As a hundred echoes, her own voice came back at her, some lyrical, some distorted. Screams. Entreaties. Two words, begging over and over for the truth as the light of the world went away.


    Show me.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    I can¡¯t open my eyes.


    I can¡¯t feel my legs.


    I feel so cold. But¡­there¡¯s something warm on my lap. A blanket. A wet blanket, that¡¯s what it¡¯s gotta be.


    What just happened?


    Come on, eyes, open.


    ¡®Ma-mot-mummy?¡¯


    I can¡¯t feel...oh my god, what¡¯s wrong with me? I can¡¯t-


    There was a murmur at the back of my mind: car accident. There¡¯d been- We were in a car accident.


    It hurt to breathe, and there was thick spit in my mouth. And it didn¡¯t taste like spit. It tasted like sucking on a nail. The murmur in the back of my brain came again, and I knew it was blood.


    There was blood in my mouth. It¡¯s okay though, I probably just knocked a tooth loose. That happened when I fell off Buttercup once.


    I couldn¡¯t move. I could feel the belt tight across my chest, holding me tight to the seat. The seat that felt less together than it should.


    There was something scratchy in my shoulder, like maybe one of the springs had pushed through the leather. That¡¯s okay though, I can get a band-aid for that.


    Everything¡¯s okay, right?


    There was more blood in my mouth, and I just let it trickle out, I couldn¡¯t move my head, my neck hurt too much to move. Everything hurt. That¡¯s good though, means I can probably get out of the rest of the Swan Lake performances. I don¡¯t think beauty-though-pain counts when you¡¯re bruised all over and have a band-aid on your shoulder.


    The wet blanket on my lap moved, that¡¯s good, my arms are kind of cold too ¨C maybe I shouldn¡¯t play in the rain in just a costume, or at least do it in a costume with better sleeves.


    The blanket...trickled. It stopped just covering my lap, and ran down my legs.


    I don¡¯t think blankets are made of liquid. Maybe space blankets, but I¡¯m not in space. Well, it¡¯s raining, there might be a hole in the roof where there¡¯s water leaking in.


    Mother¡¯s probably crying about the damage to the car, and she¡¯ll get me out in a minute. She¡¯ll get me out in a minute, and for once, she¡¯ll let me play in all the puddles I want, after I get a band-aid, of course.


    My leg twitched. That¡¯s such a weird feeling, it¡¯s like a muscle sneeze, just something that happens on its own. It twitched, and scrapped against something hard and sharp.


    That¡¯s ok, that¡¯s just another band-aid.


    Everything¡¯s¡­ okay, right?


    ¡®Mummy?¡¯ I whispered again. I don¡¯t like calling her that, but even part of me wants to be Stephanie when I¡¯m cold and need a band-aid.


    The car can get fixed, it doesn¡¯t matter to a car if it takes it a little longer. I need a band-aid now, cause once the band-aid goes on, the scratch starts to heal.


    Everything started to get a little woozy, like it does when you¡¯re really tired and are trying to stay up. Just to finish one more chapter of a really good book. Cold days can make you tired, and it¡¯s only a couple of scratches, she can finish calling for the repair guy, and when I wake up, I can...


    I can...


    Someone squeezed my hand, and I grabbed it. It was warm, it was the only warm thing. Everything else was just cold, cold and tired. Even the blood and spit from the broken tooth leaking from my mouth didn¡¯t feel that warm anymore, and...


    Oh, come on Mother, you can at least get my jacket from my stupid princess-pink backpack while you call the repair guy.


    Don¡¯t leave me here, getting cold...


    This is why rain is better observed from a window seat, with a blanket, if you¡¯re out in it too long, you just get cold. That¡¯s like...


    The hand squeezed mine again, like they were trying to wake me from the nap I wanted to take. I¡¯m too old for naps, but I don¡¯t think anyone will tattle on me.


    The hand left mine for a moment, and I had the strangest feeling, like I was being hugged, like I was being held, like...like what books say it¡¯s like to sit on your mother¡¯s lap.


    It wasn¡¯t my mother though, her lap is bony, and she doesn¡¯t let anyone sit there. The hand squeezed mine again, and I felt another warm hand on my face. It brushed aside some of the rain on my cheek, then lifted my chin. It hurt, a lot, but she brought my face up, so that if my eyes were open, I would have been looking straight ahead.


    ¡®Open your eyes, Stef.¡¯


    I didn¡¯t want to, I just wanted to fall asleep on the strange lady¡¯s lap. It was so safe there, and I was so tired. Her hand stayed on my chin, but the hand that was squeezing mine dropped away, then wrapped around my chest, and for a moment, everything stopped being so cold.


    ¡®Open your eyes.¡¯


    I did, and for a moment, I wondered if the rain had stopped in time for the sunset ¨C even though it was too early for it ¨C cause everything was red.


    I blinked a few times, trying to clear the red from my eyes. I wished I could lift my hand to clear it away, but I couldn¡¯t, one hand hurt too much to move, and I couldn¡¯t even feel the other.


    A cloth swept across my eyes, and most of the red cleared. The hand kept my head pointed straight ahead, straight at the gap between the seats, straight at the men outside the car. Men in uniform. Ambulance guys.


    One looked at the car, and past me, then swung his head back to look directly at me. He seemed weirded out, or surprised or something.


    I blinked as more rain, no, not rain, blood, dripped past my eyes. He saw me blink, and he began to shout. Another man in uniform ran towards the car, toward the passenger seat that always held Mother¡¯s purse¡¯s seat and began to pull at the door.


    I looked to Mother¡¯s seat, but all I could see was a yellow blanket, covering a shape. A shape that The windshield was broken, and another yellow blanket covered part of a shape on the hood.


    And I knew what that meant, but I- It was like something I¡¯d read a long time ago. Like Cold. I¡¯m so cold.


    I think the men are still shouting, but I can¡¯t hear them. I can¡¯t hear anything.


    The hand left my chin, and began to squeeze my hand again. It was the only thing I could feel, everything else was just too cold, or felt like it wasn¡¯t even there. Like I wasn¡¯t even there.


    The hand squeezing mine, that was real, that was there, and that¡¯s all I felt as my eyes closed again and I went for my nap.

 29 - Corner Pieces

    Stef opened her eyes.


    Like so many times before, she was lying, curled on the smooth ground, back at what she was thinking of as her ¡°spawn point¡±.


    As she sat up, she looked for the mirror and the conspiracy board - both of which were still in place. This was good, it meant that some permanent changes were possible. That progress wouldn¡¯t be lost every time she slept.


    ¡®ROYGBIV.¡¯


    She looked down, half-expecting the word to have manifested in front of her, or to have dropped to the ground, made of wooden blocks.


    She¡¯d said it, and for a reason, but now she had to-


    The colour of the world had changed again - yellow was mixed in with the orange and red.


    Red. Orange. And now yellow.


    Two colours by themselves meant nothing, but three was either a hell of a coincidence, or the beginning of a pattern.


    ROY, the first three colours of the rainbow. Three of seven.


    Maybe when it was seven of seven, then¡­


    Then what?


    Then this would be over? Then she¡¯d go back to being a brain in a jar and the process would start over again? Then she would¡­ go somewhere else?


    Three of seven, and she had some idea of who she was. Seven of seven surely meant that there wouldn¡¯t be any more memories locked away.


    And for better or worse - better and worse, if the achingly visceral memory of the accident was anything to go by - it was what she wanted.


    She pushed herself to her feet - this was certainly more to add to the conspiracy board.


    Three memories to get to age twelve. Four more to reach twenty-ish. The next couple, whenever they came, would help to show if there was more to the pattern.


    If they were simply pieces of her life, spaced out at equal measures, each contributing the same amount of lost memories to her half-full brain.


    Or-


    The accident hadn¡¯t been a random moment. There was a possibility that it lined up with one of the equidistant pieces of her rainbow, but there was also the possibility that-


    Corner pieces.


    Maybe each of the ROYGBIVs were like finding the sweet spot in an MMO map to uncover the whole zone. Important pieces of her memory constellation that lit up everything surrounding it.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Nothing had been the same after the accident.


    Things were rarely the same after the death of a parent, but rarely was it a case of truly ¡°nothing being the same¡± - with Mother gone, James had no longer had any reason to even pretend he gave even the tiniest bit of shit about her.


    She¡¯d seen him the morning before the recital, then hadn¡¯t seen him until they¡¯d both been at the same Christmas function at the family estate.


    When she¡¯d finally been lucid after all the surgeries, there had been a small box of books and toys from her room - something likely dropped off by one of the staff; and that had been all that was left of her old life.


    Clothes and shoes and the like had been shipped across to the family estate, but one small crate of assorted items was all she had that was truly hers.


    He¡¯d sold the house, and she¡¯d never had a chance to say goodbye, or to retrieve the toys she¡¯d hidden in out-of-the-way places.


    And then there¡¯d been a move halfway across the world, and the beginning of boarding school.


    Nothing had been the same, but it hadn¡¯t really mattered. Home had never been ¡°home¡±, not the way it was supposed to feel. Not in the way the word was supposed to mean.


    Home-


    Another pay wall. Another waiting game.


    She passed the mirror - she was back to wearing her default outfit of a t-shirt and loose-fitting pants.


    The flower was new, though.


    Tucked behind her ear like she was a tourist on a tropical vacation was a gently glowing flower.


    She pulled it behind her ear and held it in cupped hands - and for a moment it held a familiar warmth - the warmth that had held her hand in the coldness of the wreck.


    The warmth and the glow faded, leaving behind a more-vibrant-than-life yellow flower, which she carefully pinned to the side of the conspiracy board.


    Smiling, she reached for a stack of empty cards, and began to write out the clues that the memory had revealed.


    As she finished each card, she looked to the flower - and each time she did, any dread at what coming to the end of the rainbow slowly faded.


    It was hard to pin down at first, but as she tapped out the Fibonacci sequence on her knees; the reasoning - potentially as flimsy, and based on nothing as it was - became clear.


    The flower was new, and it wasn¡¯t something she¡¯d conjured. Ergo, vis a vi-


    I fucking remember Reloaded and I don¡¯t know if I got through my A-levels?


    The flower hadn¡¯t come from her, so it had come from someone or something else - and with how¡­ small and personal it was, she was laying a heavy bet on ¡°one¡± over ¡°thing¡±.


    And like the tiniest facts she¡¯d put on the conspiracy board, its very existence gave hints at far larger chunks of information.


    Another star in its own constellation.


    It meant that she wasn¡¯t the only person left in the entire universe. That had never been a strong possibility - it was so incredibly unlikely that the Big Crunch had happened, leaving her in the only piece of the universe left.


    She was some fucking nerd, not the Childlike Empress after the Nothing ate the world.


    Remote as the possibility was, this completely killed it as a viable hypothesis - she wasn¡¯t alone, and-


    And-


    And someone cared about her.


    Alone in a world of sunset colours, contentment and warmth seeped into every corner of her being, like the first cup of coffee after a long nap-slash-coma.


    Someone had sent the flower, and for what it was worth, had also sent the momentary feeling so much like what she¡¯d felt, alone and dying in the twisted remains of the car.


    And even if it was just an imprint, a message of emotion, rather than substance, it hadn¡¯t felt like ¡°goodbye¡±.


    Whoever had been holding her in the car - something knew she she¡¯d reconsidered after the accident, in lonely times at school; she had ultimately come to the sensible conclusion that it had been the firings of her brain, some part of herself desperately trying to make dying easier.


    And now, it was time to throw logic to the wind, hope that she¡¯d been wrong, hope that the flower meant even a tenth of what she imagined it did, and that maybe there¡¯d be something at the end of the rainbow, rather than nothing.

 30 - Discontent

    Curt stared at the inbox, then slid his chair a little to the right, and went back to picking at his breakfast.


    He¡¯d never had an ordinary work life - after school and after graduation, he¡¯d worked for his dad¡¯s stores, hauling cartons of fruit and veg for a pay cheque inflated by nepotism.


    There¡¯d never really been anything to work out there - there was always some experienced manager ready to yell instructions about what truck to pack or unpack.


    Even learning the register had taken all of five minutes to understand.


    Then there¡¯d been his time with the Solstice - both the closest and furthest from normal that he¡¯d ever been.


    There had been the¡­ things he didn¡¯t like to think about. The dirty jobs. The blood and the regret and everything he¡¯d always hate himself for.


    But then there¡¯d also been the call centre work, sitting in front of a computer, taking calls, organising shipments and tracking where packages were - both those sent through regular courier services, and those that moved far more invisibly.


    Those days were almost normal, when judged against an Average Joe you might pull off the street.


    Buy some quick breakfast, work for a bit, leave the office to go get lunch, then slowly slog through the afternoon until five PM rolled around.


    But his first week or so¡­ he¡¯d had no idea what to do. He¡¯d been left with a manual - one that had clearly been cobbled together by people who¡¯d been too long in the job to recognise that each step needed to be explained; and by people who¡¯d tried to correct this paucity of information without having done the job.


    Resultantly, he¡¯d spent most of each day mostly playing on his phone, and trying to ghost his co-workers. Every step he¡¯d taken on his own had felt like a gamble.


    And now, on the other side of the war, he was reliving that same experience.


    Functionally, he was qualified to be an Aide. His experience, record and training positioned him to be the exact kind of person appointed into the role.


    But being qualified was different to being told how to do the job.


    Before this, Ryan had simply handed him a stack of whatever had needed doing, and he¡¯d done ninety percent of each task, handing each back to be double-checked and finalised.


    Now, he was untethered, feeling exactly as lost as he¡¯d done back in his first days working in Shipping & Freight.


    He had access to the Field general inbox - that was, anything that concerned the department, but wasn¡¯t specifically addressed to Ryan.


    Requests for time off, changes to schedules, general queries - essentially anything that wasn¡¯t ¡®personal¡¯.


    And on their own, each query was something he could handle - either because he¡¯d done it before, in one of Ryan¡¯s paperwork stacks; or the answer was easy enough to find.


    But Ryan wasn¡¯t used to having an aide, and was still actioning items from the inbox - and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to how things disappeared.


    If he¡¯d been asked to guess, he would have said that the agent was the kind of person to start at the top and work down, item by item, until he reached the bottom. With another moment¡¯s consideration, he would have clarified that it would have been done with the requests sorted from oldest to newest; actioning them in received order; unless any were marked as priority.


    This wasn¡¯t the case, and it made him wary of touching any item in the inbox, lest it be one of the tasks that Ryan wanted to handle himself.


    So now as an unofficial interim aide for an interim director, he was of less value than he¡¯d been the previous week, when there¡¯d been nothing official in place.


    He tabbed away from the inbox, and perused the online learning section suggested for new aides, and those wishing to take on the role.


    This was a page he was well-familiar with - even if he¡¯d never really expected to get the position, being more and more qualified made him more valuable; and less likely to catch a bullet when some agent was having a bad day and needed to take it out on someone.


    Value meant life, and quantifiable value even more so.


    He¡¯d been careful to be strategic though - if he¡¯d gone A-to-Z on the modules designed to make a perfect aide, it would have seemed like he was pushing himself too forward - and after Ryan had rejected his first proposal for the job, he¡¯d been more careful to keep his head down.


    So he¡¯d designed a rough plan - a Venn diagram of where the ideal aide modules lined up with general and Field qualifications. Often at the end of a training sequence, there¡¯d be suggested advanced study - the educational equivalent of ¡®you liked this product, buy this next¡¯ - and more often than not, those advanced options were part of the aide list.


    So it allowed him to tick things off the list without being as obvious as selecting the course directly from the aide page.


    And as paranoid as his thinking was, he was sure that if online stores could predict your next purchase; Agency analytics were able to devise patterns about people through their data usage, and draw conclusions that could praise or condemn.


    The hour ticked over - and according to his scheduled, Ryan would now be in a meeting with a couple of the Outpost agents - that meant that he¡¯d likely be too busy to deal with everyday paperwork - so while there was always the possibility he¡¯d take a task that Ryan had intended to do, there was far less of a probability that he¡¯d try and take it directly as Ryan was also clicking on it.


    ¡®Jesus Christ,¡¯ he mumbled under his breath, and wondered if these what-if-what-if-move-countermove-redundacy thought patterns were what went through Newbie¡¯s head all the time.


    Newbie. Another topic Ryan was completely opaque on.


    A couple of days after the confession, he¡¯d made one more gentle query, to be met with a flat answer that when there was news, there would be news, until then¡­ And the agent¡¯s look had given him the firm-but-not-ungentle instruction not to broach the topic again.


    And it was something he had compartmentalised - as much anger and grief as had raged in those hours where he¡¯d thought the Agency had killed a girl without care; he had just as much a selfish desire for things to slide into this new normal.


    Realisitally, he was going to be stuck with the suit for years, unless some fuck up in the field left him as nothing but a corpse for Parker-2 to play with.


    And his repeating mantra was that he had to make the best of it. The¡­ blip with Ryan had to be just that, and he had to go back to being disconnected, falling into the mask of perfect Recruit Curt, until the day he was safe to leave.


    Nothing was going to be perfect, but on good days, there were going to be little moments of joy.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    He couldn¡¯t keep the smile away as he sent a form-letter to Brian, denying his request for leave.


    It was a completely reasonable denial - while there were official rules for leave entitlements, most agencies had their own modified versions, which were based on how much cover they were able to pull from Outposts if necessary; amongst other factors.


    In reality, it often came down to the idea of fair play; along with the idea of soft-and-hard breaks.


    Soft breaks were easier to allow, as it generally meant that a recruit was taking off time to spend either alone - for example, when Raz went out of town to go a nerd convention; or would be spending time with people well aware of the world, and that particular recruits job.


    Soft breaks could be easily interrupted if cover was unavailable, or their department needed more numbers.


    Hard breaks meant that it would be much more difficult to recall a recruit - for example, if they were holidaying with their civilian family in another country. Interrupting a hard break - and potentially leading to difficult conversations for a recruit and their family or loved ones - was generally reserved for more ¡®end of the world¡¯-type situations.


    Most time off was scheduled as soft breaks, with the understanding that if they were breached to recall the recruit, the break could be rescheduled or extended.


    Brian had asked for two weeks as a hard break. An easy denial, given that he¡¯d had a similar break only four months prior.


    He was slightly surprised when the response came in four minutes later; as he was going over the next request.


    The email was one word. {Why?}


    Confident in his reasoning, he simply copy-pasted the guidelines for leave, and took a moment to italicise the section that it was at the discretion of the authorising officer.


    This time, the response was even quicker - but it came to his Vox account, rather than as an email. {Why the fuck am I getting emails from you?}


    It took every fibre of self-control to stop himself from typing ¡®why do you think, dumbass?¡¯, and instead took the Recruit Curt route and gave a half-hearted response about being tasked by Ryan to do the leave requests.


    Brian started responding right away, then stopped typing, then started again - the stop-start apoplectic rage of someone encountering a situation they had no idea how to handle.


    There was a knock on the door, and he stiffened, fight-or-flight impulses already firing.


    ¡®Come in,¡¯ he said, his voice neutral.


    As probably the first thing to go right that day, it wasn¡¯t a spoiling-for-a-fight Brian who walked in, instead, it was the tall London agent currently auditing Brisbane. And more than likely finding them wanting in every single category.


    ¡®Recruit, do you have some time?¡¯


    A couple of requirements and dismissal cleared away his breakfast and straightened his laptop and files.


    ¡®Of course, please,¡¯ he said, indicating to- He caught himself before he thought of it as ¡®Newbie¡¯s chair¡¯, but before the mentoring sessions, this really was a meeting room he¡¯d only ever used by himself.


    Agent Jane sat in the chair and laid down a sleek leather folio, along with her phone in a matte grey case.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry for not arranging this beforehand, but I had a cancellation, and noticed that Ryan had finally appointed an aide, so-¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not official yet,¡¯ he said quickly, ¡®so how much I can help you depends on-¡¯


    ¡®Calm down, Recruit,¡¯ she said gently. ¡®I¡¯m aware of your position¡¯s status, and I think that¡¯s all the more reason to catch up with you early in this process.¡¯


    ¡®All right, how can I help?¡¯


    Softball questions ensued - his general impressions of Queen Street as an Agency, the efiency of its agents and aides, and what he thought of Ryan as a Director.


    Recruit Curt was perfect for this - bland, neutral, generally positive answers with subtle-but-fair criticisms, nothing that would get anyone executed, but that tiny bit of tarnish on the shine to make his reactions believable.


    To each answer, Jane made a few careful notes; and listened while drinking an espresso, the coffee smell filling the room just like Newbie had done every chance she got.


    ¡®And now that you¡¯ve told me everything you think I want to hear, do you have anything less¡­ complimentary you want to say?¡¯


    ¡®Ma¡¯am, it would be against my interests to say anything negative. The flaws in this Agency are obvious - raw data can tell you that, it¡¯s qualities are less evident, and even if my answers are¡­ a little honeyed, nothing I¡¯ve said is a lie.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve spoken to others in your position, Recruit, and they¡¯re rarely as complimentary as you.¡¯


    The slight change in the tone of her voice made him think about her words; and the slight raise of her eyebrows told him the others like him meant ¡®ex-Solstice¡¯, not ¡®interim aides¡¯.


    ¡®I suppose that¡¯s one of the things that could be seen as a fault,¡¯ he said, adding a bit of vulnerability to his voice, hoping she would see it as the sincerity that his previous, perfect answers had been missing. ¡®That a Director would even consider someone like me-¡¯


    ¡®Oh, please, I cannot handle white boys matrying themselves. You¡¯re not an ordinary recruit, but pretending that any appointment or advancement was done without consideration serves no-one.¡¯


    ¡®Director Ryan could do worse,¡¯ he admitted, ¡®but I have to recognise I¡¯m far from ideal. It¡¯s not good optics, if nothing else. I¡¯m not a PR case, I¡¯ m someone just- Head down, trying to do an okay job. ¡®


    ¡®Okay is better than nothing,¡¯ she said, ¡®and this is something you wanted. You¡¯ve done an application, even if it was rejected at the time; you have a lot more-¡¯ She sighed, and finished her coffee. ¡®As part of this audit, I¡¯m trying to correct gaps and failings. Ryan taking on an aide was my first priority, if you¡¯re not serious, or if you don¡¯t really want this, tell me now, and I¡¯ll give it to someone else. Your Director is someone dear to me, and I want this process to be as smooth as possible for him. When I leave, I want things to be better than when I arrived. Some auditors get on their high horse about perfection, some want to bring down an Agency because the idea of having that much power gives them a little thrill. I just want Ryan to start to carve out a better future for this place.¡¯ Brown eyes drilled into him. ¡®Do you have a place in that, recruit, or is this just for show?¡¯


    Part of him desperately wanted to give her a real answer. To be vulnerable and honest and real.


    He wanted a place to belong. He wanted to know he had earned the position, and wasn¡¯t being given it by default. He wanted to know he could advance and excel and that he could be measured on his own achievements.


    A few seconds ticked by, and strangely, this made Jane smile.


    ¡®The fact that you¡¯re not jumping forward with an answer somehow assures me that you are actually thinking about your answer.¡¯ She smiled, pulled an ID wallet from her blazer pocket, and slid it across to him. ¡®Let me tell you a story, I¡¯m an old woman, indulge me.¡¯ She pointed to the wallet. ¡®Open that.¡¯


    Inside was a fairly standard Agency ID - with the obvious differences accounted for by location differences. Each continent had a different feature colour - most obvious in the uniforms - Oceania had blue, much to the chagrin of some other regions. England, on the other hand, was one of the countries that had purple - London specifically had a rich, royal purple.


    The Combat logo on Jane¡¯s ID also shared the purple - the outer ring was the same purple as her pocket square; unlike the blue outer ring on Magnolias ID.


    That was the obvious difference, but she wouldn¡¯t have shown it to him for-


    Her name was split over two lines, which was unusual, except for agents with long names.


    The first line read ¡®154¡¯, the second line was the standard name line.


    He looked to her ID number, to see if it was reflected as a part of that - 78458783, so no luck there.


    ¡®All right,¡¯ he said, speaking his thoughts, ¡®I see 154. I haven¡¯t seen a number on an ID like this before, so-¡¯


    She took back the ID. ¡®It¡¯s got two meanings. The first, less important for this conversation, but I was one of those originally generated without a name. In the early days, Central experimented with having some of us ready to take on new faces and names every other day, ready to slide into a situation.¡¯ A small smile settled on her face. ¡®Not everyone feels comfortable talking to someone who looks like you, Recruit, and while our numbers were small, this was seen as a more economical use of resources.¡¯


    He nodded. It made sense, it was a very¡­Agency way of diversifying their staff without actually generating more agents. Representation-by-proxy, in more than one way.


    ¡®Eventually, they did away with this, as the few of us like that, we grew attached to one or more of our identities, finding our face, and not wanting to change away from it.¡¯ She indicated to her. ¡®One day, I just looked into the mirror, and knew this was me.¡¯


    He held back on the word ¡°jealous¡±, but felt it so prominently in his mind he was sure it was¡± burning in the air, projected in bright neon letters, his brain screaming it so loudly that you didn¡¯t have to be a reader to pick up on it.


    She¡¯d looked in the mirror and found who she was. He looked in the mirror every morning, and just saw the roles he had to play.


    ¡®Inferring from all that,¡¯ he said, pushing himself further into Recruit Curt, ¡®can I make the guess that you were the one-hundred-fifty-fourth agent generated?¡¯


    ¡®Good,¡¯ she said. ¡®So obviously, old as I am, I get some priority when it comes to assignments. Seniority means a lot in this world. So, obviously, I was amongst a small group head-hunted to be the London director. Did you see that title anywhere?¡¯


    He shook his head.


    ¡®Because I took five minutes to think about it. It was the obvious path, but it wasn¡¯t what I wanted. What I do makes me happy, fulfils me, challenges me. And I¡¯m more than happy to leave the paperwork to Redfern.¡¯


    The story was appreciated, but the situations weren¡¯t exactly the same.


    Still, he had an answer.


    ¡®I want this,¡¯ he said. ¡®I¡¯ve got complicated feelings, but I want this. I could be good at this, if I¡¯m given the chance.¡¯


    ¡®Good,¡¯ Jane said with a smile, ¡®I¡¯ll keep that in mind for my final report.¡¯

 31 - A Dance, A Diary

    Every interaction with a person was a tiny snapshot of their whole. Sometimes, one moment could express everything about that person - a moment of courage or cowardice, charity or callousness.


    The rest of the time, it took a lifetime to build up a picture of a person, and even then, they could surprise you.


    Ryan tried to adjust his face so that he wasn¡¯t staring so dumbfounded at the newest aspect, resplendent in shades of green.


    The more he learnt about Stef, the more he realised he didn¡¯t know.


    He had always known, logically, that he had a very incomplete picture. That despite the almost immediate feelings of fatherly affection and the want to call her family, that he had really known her for an amount of time best expressed in hours.


    Even in that time, there had been a multitude of little quirks showing him that at all at once, he knew enough to love her but not enough to predict when she¡¯d be frustrated enough for little affectations to show in her accent.


    Still, he had built a picture around what she had shown him. Someone with little care for her appearance, with almost the ability of a Dickensen stage urchin to accumulate dirt, even in clean spaces. A person content to wipe her hands on her pants to clean her hands of grease and crumbs rather than reach for a napkin.


    And those experiences were at odds with the immaculately presented young woman standing before him. An expensive dress, subtle make-up and the shine of jewellery.


    The aspect reached out, and there was the echo of another person¡¯s hand as she accepted a necklace, which she carefully put on, then took a moment to make sure it was straight.


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t have thought she went to her formal,¡¯ Jones commented from the far side of the lab, where monitoring equipment capturing every bit of data whilst the aspect was active. ¡®Or maybe she¡¯s a wedding guest?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll have to ask her,¡¯ he mumbled.


    The hand that had handed over the necklace reappeared, and the tiny, incredulous smile on her face finally married the image of what he was seeing with the Stef he knew.


    She accepted the hand, and her partner drew closer, and they swung into a waltz.


    Jones stepped up next to him. ¡®Aside from the fact that your nine-hundred-cookies-per-second child is wearing a dress that costs more than a high-end gaming system, want to know something extraordinary?¡¯


    He nodded.


    ¡®I¡¯m guessing you didn¡¯t run recognition on the young man she¡¯s dancing with?¡¯


    ¡®It hadn¡¯t crossed my mind to do so.¡¯


    A message from Jones appeared in his HUD - a screenshot from a dossier, showing the man dancing with Stef, his name - Leonardo - and his title-


    He looked to Jones. ¡®Prince?¡¯


    ¡®Of what¡¯s essentially a city-state a little bit bigger than Monaco, but yes.¡¯


    ¡®This is a story I¡¯d like to hear.¡¯


    The prince spun Stef, and a lock of her hair fell onto her cheek, making her shout some unheard complaint, though the smile on her face didn¡¯t waver.


    With one more swing of the waltz, the aspect disappeared - short and happy, a nice contrast to some of the misery these mono-coloured ghosts had shown.


    ¡®I feel like I¡¯m reading her diary,¡¯ Ryan confessed as the last of the green light faded. ¡®Like I should look away. But another part of me sees it as something like the parade that precedes a mirrorfall. That these are memories that should be witnessed, in case they are the last time they are remembered.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m jealous in a way,¡¯ Jones said after a moment. ¡®I¡­Let me explain,¡¯ he gestured to the couch, where Merlin slept under a warm blanket. ¡®Bio parents don¡¯t get a heads up as to what their kid is going to be like, but we¡¯re not that, are we? Adoptive parents usually get some information ahead of time. Stories that their child might not choose to share on the first day, but that can give the prospective parent a leg up on providing a good environment. The aspects are an unusual way to get this information, but it¡¯s information all the same.¡¯ Jones looked away, almost ashamed. ¡®I still don¡¯t know how old my son is.¡¯


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    His tech sighed deeply - this was pain well-trodden.


    ¡®Besides, sir,¡¯ Jones said with artificial brightness. ¡®we¡¯re not human, and I think that fundamentally changes the equation. Almost every interaction you have with a stranger, you know information about them that they haven¡¯t volunteered. Every time a field agent pulls a ¡°hello, Mister Anderson¡± on a witness to show we know more than they think. Every time we pull an address to take a victim home or contact a next of kin. We¡¯re fundamentally used to dealing with more information than the average Joe. We all have to draw our own lines as to where we feel comfortable. Some people misuse it because there are always people who go too far, but I don¡¯t think that¡¯s you. You¡¯re a good man, sir, that¡¯s a constant of the universe. ¡®


    A substantial folder appeared in Jones¡¯ hands. ¡®This might feel less like sneaking a peek at her diary. Or it might make it worse. It¡¯s all the relatively public information about her that¡¯s available. I didn¡¯t go digging for old forum posts or whatever fanfic she wrote as a teenager, but other than that... it¡¯s about the same kind of dive you¡¯d do to vet an aide.¡¯ Jones¡¯ lips quirked in a slight smile. ¡®Speaking of which...should I be filling in those gaps in Recruit O¡¯Connor¡¯s file?¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s just temporary for now,¡¯ he said, almost automatically. There were still too many conflicting emotions to feel comfortable thinking about his temporary aide as anything more than...temporary.


    Then again, he had roughly the same feeling about his appointment as director. This wasn¡¯t his job, it was an interim position.


    But some things persisted.


    ¡®There¡¯s little of what I¡¯d call truly germane,¡¯ Jones said. ¡®But there¡¯s one-¡¯ he paused. ¡®I almost said ¡°aspect¡±, but that word means something different right now. There¡¯s one thing of note, something I¡¯d be shocked if she even knew herself.¡¯


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    Jones laid the file on the nearest bench and pulled out a few sheets of paper, held together with a slim gold paperclip. Before he had a chance to read any of the words, the crest of the Court of the Lost in the upper right corner caught his eye.


    ¡®The Lost?¡¯


    As much as he felt the jolt of surprise, it made a sad amount of sense. It also further spoke volumes - whatever she had let slip about her family were mere shades of the depth of the abuse or abandonment that had really happened.


    The Lost were one of the major fae courts - like Madchester, it was one of the major courts that had formed to perform charity.


    The Court of the Mad took in - or otherwise cared for - the neurodivergent, the ones who fell through the cracks of their society, and those who needed a little bit of help.


    The remit of the Lost was far narrower. They cared for abused and abandoned children, providing ¡°imaginary friends¡± to help them survive homes that had too little love.


    For many situations, that shoulder to cry on, that little bit of care and attention, was enough to sustain most of their charges until they could escape their situation.


    With the more severe cases, they simply absconded with the child, giving them a new home in the court or amongst its network of foster and adoptive parents.


    Given her lack of knowledge about the world, Stef had obviously fallen into the former camp, which somewhat mitigated the second-hand worry. Abuse not bad enough to warrant kidnapping, but still of a threshold to catch the attention of a fae court would have still been significant.


    And it was all the more reason she needed to open her eyes; needed to know she was loved. Needed to know she didn¡¯t need to shy from every compliment or worry that affection could be torn away in a second.


    Jones quickly reached across and laid his hand on the folder, stopping Ryan from turning to the next page. ¡®I¡¯d like you lay a little flutter...bet me a dollar. Guess what form her imaginary friend took.¡¯


    He stared at his tech. ¡®There¡¯s more than countless possibilities, I-¡¯


    Jones flipped the page and the photo of-


    ¡®A pirate?¡¯ he asked, looking at the man¡¯s elegant green coat and wig. While the look was more romantic than realistic, it still didn¡¯t seem-


    Jones pointed to a feature that he¡¯d missed - the pirate was missing one hand, and in its place was a sharp, silver hook.


    ¡®Somehow,¡¯ he said with a smile, ¡®this makes sense. Something more mundane just... wouldn¡¯t be Stef.¡¯


    ¡®If you want to speak the man behind this mask,¡¯ Jones said, ¡®I¡¯ve checked with their administration, and he still works for them. I know you¡¯ve still got a lot on your plate, but-¡¯


    ¡®I still haven¡¯t spoken with the-¡¯ He thought back to the last email from Aide [XXXX]. ¡®The special projects aide regularly refers to the group as the ¡°mirror mutants¡±, though I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m invited to do the same.¡¯


    ¡®I know you have to pretend things are normal, but throw Curt some more work and make some time to go visit the children of Professor X.¡¯ Jones¡¯ tone took on a slight melancholic lilt. ¡®As much as we¡¯re hoping for a good outcome, I need you to see the existing Agency personnel who fall under this banner. I don¡¯t want to take away hope, but I do want to temper expectations.¡¯


    It was sensible. It was something he had to do, but¡­


    ¡®The pirate first, perhaps,¡¯ he said, ¡®before I have to fully readjust my expectations.¡¯

 32 - First Dance

    Most people were woefully unaware of how many minds they had real estate in.


    Most people understood that parts of them lived in the hearts of their families, friends and partners. They would know that co-workers and acquaintances thought of them but probably didn¡¯t think of it much further than that.


    Celebrities and public figures of note had to recognise their presence in the minds of people they would never meet.


    But the same was true for every person who didn¡¯t live strictly as a lonely hermit in the deep forest.


    To a dozen dozen people, you were nothing more than a flash of clothing that got in their way as they ran to catch a train.


    To a hundred, you were someone they¡¯d seen scratching their ass in public.


    To a thousand, you were a smiling face they still thought of sometimes - a love lived and died in an instant.


    Stef was more than aware that she existed so far beyond the people she¡¯d ever meet - for worse, as the ¡°better¡± part of ¡°better or worse¡± didn¡¯t really exist in this equation.


    For worse, she was a tabloid article. A vapid, royal-fucker obviously after fame, titles or both.


    The memories of Leonardo - of the one-night Snake to her Otacon, settled in her mind as curls of green joined her world.


    A prince. He¡¯d been on campus to see his girlfriend, and after a bad break-up - and the subsequent ¡°open season¡± that had been declared by the single girls of her school - he¡¯d gone running.


    He¡¯d found the open door to her private dorm room - and after a moment of stammered apology and explanation, she¡¯d invited him to stay.


    And they¡¯d done nothing more or less than play Metal Gear, but the tabloids had been able to spin it into so much more.


    Sometime deep into the night, before the paparazzi had ruined things, he¡¯d made an offer: to become his princess and his beard. In exchange for some chaste public affection and an heir, she could sit in a mansion all day and play games on the best rig that the royal purse could buy.


    She¡¯d declined the offer but offered him friendship, which he¡¯d gladly accepted.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    And they¡¯d stayed friends. She was one of few people privy to the drama he had managing trying to find a suitable princess that would accept her role in a marriage without romantic love.


    And on occasion, a photo or two of them at a cafe had helped to keep his private life private.


    In return, she¡¯d only asked for one thing - to go to a dance, and for one night, pretend she was someone else, that she was just a girl approaching the end of her school life and not some outcast freak.


    And for one night, in between discussing bits of lore, she¡¯d had her princess moment and seen into a world where she was normal.


    Midnight had come, the spell had broken, and it was the last time - at least according to the memories that had slotted into place - that she¡¯d seen Snake.


    His boyfriend¡¯s cousin had agreed to become his princess, and their weird little friendship had run its course. He had a kingdom to look after, and she had¡­ whatever came after school.


    It wasn¡¯t a sad ending, and she had a royal heirloom to remember the dance.


    With a thought - and the more things she pulled into existence, the easier it was to do - a green-tinted replica of the necklace slipped onto her neck.


    ROYGBIV.


    The green in the sky proved that her theory had been into something. Three more memories until the end.


    Violet surely had to be the memory of how she ended up in this place. Her death, her birth, the end of the universe - whatever had taken her from an everyday life to one that existed in this empty, beautiful bubble.


    Whatever the stages of grief were, whatever the stages of awakening as an amnesiac in a land of magic swirls were, she¡¯d gone through them all.


    Fear, denial, acceptance. All done. All dealt with.


    Days, minutes, eons, whatever the time scale in this place was¡­the time that passed here was so banal if you excluded the extraordinary factors - that it became impossible to be afraid.


    She¡¯d well and truly grown used to sleeping and waking without cause. The whispers that had been loud in the beginning were less than background noise now. She had her body back, and a thought could summon a sandwich from the fabric of the universe.


    Fear had gone, and that felt right.


    Acceptance¡­as much as she could argue with herself, she knew she wasn¡¯t there yet. She knew she had very little power - drawing together a conspiracy board couldn¡¯t compare with the power, person or intent that had locked her in the bubble.


    Her fate probably wasn¡¯t up to her, as much as that would disappoint Sarah Connor. She had no agency to make her own choices - at least not yet.


    When the last colour slid into place at the end of ROYGBIV and the world breathed in true colour¡­ it was probably death that waited for her.


    This, after all, could be the weirdly drawn out truth behind the saying that your life flashed before your eyes.


    And¡­ that would be okay.


    Dying wasn¡¯t great, but until B, I or V could change her mind, there seemed to be very little worth fighting for.


    The memories were full of loneliness and-


    And there was the flower pinned to the conspiracy board.


    Someone loved her enough to try and break through into this place and give her a message.


    Something had happened after green, after a life of little love and little happiness.


    Memories worth fighting for were waiting on the other side of the rainbow.


    And maybe acceptance wouldn¡¯t be good enough.


    Maybe she¡¯d have a reason to fight.

 33 - Domestic Bliss

    Picard launched into a speech, and around mouthfuls of pizza, Curt heard himself mumbling along.


    Dinner and Trek had become a nightly ritual. Most episodes were familiar enough to fade into white noise when he needed to pick up a file and work, but comforting enough when his attention strayed from the Agency.


    The unofficial aide position was still as fraught with difficulty as it had been in the first few days - stepping on Ryan¡¯s toes with some bits of processing, becoming even more of an outsider amongst his peers.


    But just like his early days as a recruit, he was finding a routine, despite the discomfort. It was something he could - and would - get used to.


    It wasn¡¯t as though he had - or wanted - a choice.


    A lump of avocado fell onto his shirt, and he grabbed it with a napkin.


    Contentious relationship with Ryan aside, there were a surprising number of people in his corner. Jones had taken to sending some things directly to him and simply CC¡¯ing the Field inbox.


    Jane, after his interview, had been sending him pieces of the aide introduction program that new London aides went through. And - in a possible breach of protocol, had sent him some screenshots of a conversation with Brian. Falling at the first hurdle in broaching the possibility of being considered for aide, he had failed to identify nine of the Outpost agents in their network.


    It wasn¡¯t a requirement, necessarily, but at the same time, unless you were specifically headhunted for the position, you were expected to do your basic research.


    When it came to the Outpost agents, the only area where he felt he really fell down was failing to correctly identify all of Agent Darren¡¯s children.


    There was a knock at the door.


    ¡®O¡¯Connor!¡¯


    He waved a hand at the door and unlocked it with a thought. ¡®It¡¯s open, Mags.¡¯


    Magnolia, angry and tired, with a large bandage around her thigh, stepped into the room, slammed the door behind her, and immediately began to disrobe.


    ¡®Keep your dick away,¡¯ she muttered. Corset and skirt fell into a pile, and she flopped onto the couch beside him, wearing black boyshorts and a sweat-stained white camisole. ¡®I have like eighteen minutes before I need to do the next thing on my list.¡¯


    He reached forward, slid two pieces of pizza onto a new plate, and offered them to her.


    ¡®Good boy,¡¯ she said, crammed half a slice into her mouth, deflated against the couch, and chewed in silence for a moment.


    This was a side of Mags that few people got to see - an intimacy that she allowed to a vanishingly small inner circle.


    And he was forever unsure why he¡¯d earned this honour - he was a decent fuck, but that wasn¡¯t enough to get to this level of shields-down friendship.


    As much as he had Recruit Curt and the persona he had to keep up in public, she had a tougher mask to maintain.


    Mags was Strong. Powerful. Deadly. Capital-letter descriptors because anything less was somehow unsuitable. There were still far too many who would use any expression of weakness to tear her down, to question her as a leader, to question her position as Combat¡¯s 2IC.


    So being seen to switch off for five minutes was reserved for people she could trust not to berate her for it.


    She bit into the crust of her first slice, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and let the plate rest on her chest for a moment.


    He flipped through his mental notes, then required a strawberry soft drink, stuck a straw in it, and pressed it against the outside of her hand.


    She took a moment to react to the coldness of the glass - a testament to both how drained she was and how safe she felt in his presence - then grabbed the drink.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡®Busy night?¡¯


    ¡®Mm-hmm.¡¯ She grabbed the other slice and bit off the tip. ¡®Talk. I need to know what¡¯s going on.¡¯


    ¡®With?¡¯


    She twisted, leaned her head on the arm of the couch, and pressed her feet against his thigh. ¡®The more I have to talk, the less I like you, O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    She was here to talk to him specifically, so there was one logical answer. ¡®My aide position?¡¯ She nodded. ¡®You tell me,¡¯ he said. ¡®I know there¡¯s a lot more going on beneath the surface than what I know. I¡¯m filling a spot right now and-¡¯


    She lightly kicked his chest - and this being Mags, the fact that he wasn¡¯t bruised meant she was being gentle on purpose. ¡®Ryan has needed an aide for so fucking long. I¡¯m glad it¡¯s you. It¡¯s the Agency, so there¡¯s always secrets and politics. You don¡¯t know everything. I don¡¯t know everything.¡¯


    ¡®What can you tell me?¡¯ He looked over at her and watched her slowly eat the pizza for a moment. It was oddly...domestic in a way that had never crossed his mind before. He wasn¡¯t in love with her. That was something he was sure about - he¡¯d never even been tempted to let it slip in the heat of the moment. Occasional fuck buddies or not, there was no confusion about where the lines were drawn.


    But it was still a nice moment, something he hadn¡¯t had in a long time.


    ¡®You¡¯re not a pawn.¡¯ Her words were simple but a great relief. ¡®I can honestly tell you that as far as I know, no one is really thinking twice about your appointment.¡¯ She paused, drank half the strawberry drink, then slowly sat up and massaged her crossed legs. ¡®Well. Clarke. But he takes every opportunity to bitch about absolutely everything. He hates you because you¡¯re bad for our optics. That¡¯s been a staple since day one.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®That I¡¯m not surprised about.¡¯


    ¡®A Director without an aide is a bigger problem than an aide with bad optics. You¡¯re a solution to a problem. End of the line for the train of thought for most people. But I want to know you¡¯re serious. I need to know I can rely on you. I¡¯m not switching up anything until I can-¡¯


    ¡®You can rely on me, Mags. For as much as I have a choice in what I¡¯m doing, you can rely on me.¡¯


    ¡®Mm,¡¯ she said. She reached a hand down to scratch at the bandage around her leg wound, winced, then scratched again.


    The drink and pizza disappeared from her hands, and with her face pinched in frustration, she started to snore.


    He extricated himself with the care of defusing a bomb and then gently laid a freshly-required blanket over her.


    The pinchy-face-of-frustration relaxed somewhat, and she flopped over, pressing her face into the back of the couch.


    Further requirements dimmed the lights - enough so that she¡¯d still be able to immediately know she was somewhere familiar and safe on waking, but dim enough so that she hopefully got some actual sleep.


    A few taps on his phone redirected the stream from his TV, and he crawled into bed with a large pair of headphones to continue his Trek binge.


    A pop-up on his phone reminded him to take his meds. Usually, this was a no-brainer - they were the only thing that allowed him to sleep through the night. The nightmares - memories and twisted versions of memories - still came, but at least he woke up refreshed.


    But when he had to wake up part-way through the night, he was groggy for a long few minutes - meaning that if Mags needed to continue their conversation, she¡¯d have to deal with him staring dumbly and yawning for long enough to piss her off.


    But it was what he needed to do for Recruit Curt - almost-Aide Curt - so he dutifully swallowed the pills with some water and prayed that three-AM conversations would be easy.


    Familiar nightmares came and were scared away by dawn and the trill of his phone¡¯s alarm.


    Curt dismissed the headphones that had worked their way from his head to under his pillow, rubbed his eyes, then headed to the bathroom to shower.


    Morning routine done, he stepped back into the main room, hair still dripping onto the towel around his neck.


    It was no surprise that the couch was empty - the fact that Mags had folded the blanket when she¡¯d left was a nice touch and not one he¡¯d expected.


    ¡®O¡¯Connor!¡¯


    ¡®Deja vu,¡¯ he muttered. ¡®Come in!¡¯


    Magnolia - somehow looking like she¡¯d both gotten a full night¡¯s sleep and already been up for hours - opened the door, kicked it closed behind her, then sat on his bed, careful not to spill the contents of the cardboard tray in her hands.


    The logo on the bag and cups surprised him - Famous Fry¡¯s - meaning that at the least she¡¯d hit up the Local Court for pick-up or paid the fuck-you-Agency-surcharge for delivery.


    ¡®Eat,¡¯ she commanded, already unwrapping a bagel. ¡®Today is the start of me treating you like a proper aide. So be prepared for how much I¡¯m going to fuck you. There are so many bits of backed-up bullshit that needs to happen between Field and Combat it¡¯s-¡¯


    ¡®Thanks for breakfast,¡¯ he said, reaching for one of the coffees.


    ¡®I can be nice,¡¯ she said, wiping at her mouth with her thumb. ¡®And you are going to get a lot of shit for Ryan¡¯s failings, so this is to ease that a little.¡¯


    He popped open the coffee and tipped in a single sugar packet. ¡®Thanks,¡¯ he said, ¡®for believing in me.¡¯


    She pulled open a box of green-flecked potato bites. ¡®Trust was easy. Relying on someone, that¡¯s harder.¡¯


    ¡®Isn¡¯t that backward?¡¯


    ¡®You know how some people use their cats to take the measure of a person? Or if a dog growls at your friend¡¯s new partner, you should take it seriously? Merlin is my canary. Your first day here? There was a reason I had him hanging out in the lobby. He¡¯s got a really good sense for people, and I¡¯ve never known him to be wrong.¡¯ She looked away. ¡®All that abuse...gave him a good radar. If Merlin trusts someone, I trust them. That¡¯s why I¡¯ve never had a problem turning my back on you. Trusting you with my life? Easy. Knowing whether or not you¡¯re going to get RFIs returned on time or high priority queries done with urgency? That took more time.¡¯ She finished her coffee and crushed the cup in her hand. ¡®You earned it, O¡¯Connor. Now I get to see you take it up a level.¡¯

 34 - The Shape of Stories

    Each of the Major Courts had their own aesthetic - though its degree of prevalence varied from court to court.


    At least in their forward-facing areas, the Liars had a cool, minimalist look even more simple than that of most agencies.


    The Mad had their contrary looks in all aspects of their world - from the mismatched fabrics worn by their queen; to the clashing art in their waiting rooms.


    The Lost... weren¡¯t at all what he had expected.


    Ryan tried to settle into the square-shaped chair. He knew he had limited exposure to the human world - but the Lost¡¯s waiting room reminded him of a slightly tired doctor¡¯s office.


    There was heart here - touches of the personal behind the desk - drawings from children, old birthday cards buried under more mundane papers on corkboards.


    It was a space that the people who frequented it had grown used to - and he wished he didn¡¯t almost feel alienated by its comfort.


    There were posters on the public side of the desk - some were informative, others were for various businesses - and it took a while to figure out what the companies had in common.


    And it took a moment to figure out that there were two groups - the first were simply the companies that donated to the Lost. The second group - smaller in number but held in more reverence - were the companies that had owners, board members or other employees of note - that had been charges of the Lost. Children, abused and neglected, that had risen high.


    A shadow appeared on the other side of a sliding frosted door - a truly magnificent silhouette, but an unexpected one.


    The door slid open, and a pirate stepped through. A captain, to be more accurate.


    Clad in crushed green velvet, Hook crossed into the waiting room and offered his hand. ¡®I¡¯m sorry for making you wait, Agent.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not a problem,¡¯ Ryan said as he rose and shook the man¡¯s hand. ¡®Thank you for taking the time to see me.¡¯


    ¡®Before we go any further,¡¯ Hook said. ¡®Is she here?¡¯


    Ryan shook his head. ¡®No. No, I- She won¡¯t be joining us.¡¯


    A little sadness joined Hook¡¯s expression before he swept his arm toward the sliding door. ¡®I¡¯ve reserved us a room to speak.¡¯ Hook then thanked the receptionist before guiding him down a hall that very much matched the aesthetic of the waiting room - functional, if a little tired.


    ¡®I have to say I was surprised,¡¯ Hook said as they settled into the small meeting room. ¡®It¡¯s rare that we get any follow up after we cease seeing our charges. The ability to be forgotten so easily is a blessing and a curse in that regard. I know your people have a similar thought process on fading into the background when it comes to the greater world, even if you don¡¯t take it as far as my Court does.¡¯


    Thankfully, he¡¯d never had much to do with the Lost - but this was something he was peripherally aware of - that in order to best serve their wards, the Lost artificially aged the memories of their play sessions. That children could experience playing with a fairy tale, then grow up believing it was nothing more than their imagination.


    ¡®It¡¯s occasionally been discussed as an option,¡¯ he said, ¡®but it¡¯s far above my rank. I think anonymity serves us best for the most part, with deliberate deletion when it¡¯s called for.¡¯


    ¡®True,¡¯ Hook agreed. ¡®Now, please, how can I help?¡¯


    ¡®Your former charge is one of my recruits.¡¯ He paused. It was an accurate sentence, but one that felt so cold - and this situation called for as much honesty as he could manage. ¡®More. More than just one of my recruits. I love her like she¡¯s my own, sir. I don¡¯t know much, but what I know of her family life is that it wasn¡¯t a very happy one - an assertion very much backed up by the fact that I¡¯m speaking with you.¡¯


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡®A lack of love is what it can be mostly boiled down to. She was an ornament that didn¡¯t fit and was very much put away in the moments when she wasn¡¯t wanted. It¡¯s a story as old as parents and their children, unfortunately. Often, it¡¯s not enough to put a case on our radar, as our resources are far too limited for what we need to do. But...do you want to know how I met her, Agent?¡¯


    Ryan nodded.


    ¡®One of our people was having lunch, minding his own business, when he saw a little girl sitting by herself. Four or five, far too young to be without a closely watching guardian...but as he kept eating his lunch, he saw that none of the adults in the area were giving her more than a first glance. Someone, some inattentive bastard, had forgotten he was minding his child and left her alone in one of the busiest parks in London.¡¯


    ¡®How could-?¡¯


    ¡®Anything is easy when you don¡¯t love your child, Agent.¡¯ Hook took off his ostentatious hat and laid it aside. ¡®So our man called for backup, I was available, and went running. We do this a lot - one-off encounters where we¡¯re forestalling something worse happening. A child alone? It would take seconds for that situation to turn into something horrible beyond words. She was reading a book, so that made the form I took easy. I¡¯ve done this - as the young say - gig before, so I knew the vernacular to use and the references to make. And I simply guarded her until her family finally found her. In those few hours, though... I¡¯d already decided to add her to my list of wards. She¡¯s an easy child to love, even if her parents didn¡¯t see it that way.¡¯


    ¡®She truly is.¡¯


    Hook stared at the back of his hook for a moment. ¡®What aren¡¯t you telling me? Why are you here?¡¯


    ¡®I would ask you to accept some things I¡¯m going to say without asking for more detail.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, yes, I know what the Agency is like.¡¯


    ¡®She was injured. Right now- To be hopeful, we¡¯re calling the state comatose. She¡¯s presenting aspects, but we don¡¯t know when - if - she¡¯s going to wake up. I have to hope she will, so I am trying - when she comes back, wakes up, whatever terminology you would wish to use, I want to be the best father I can be. I want to know what I can.¡¯


    Hook stood, walked to a small sideboard, poured two glasses of wine, slowly drained one, refiled the glass, and returned to the table.


    ¡®That¡¯s a lot to take in, young man.¡¯ Ryan tilted his head at the epithet, but Hook simply flashed a brittle smile. ¡®Oh, I¡¯m much older than you, agent; it¡¯s so easy to see.¡¯


    Hook slid one of the wine glasses towards him. ¡®My job is one that calls for a lot of grief. You never become numb to it. I¡¯ve sat by so many bedsides, just waiting to have hope again. It¡¯s been so very long since I¡¯ve said a prayer into the darkness, so I recite stories and hope because at least sometimes stories have a happy ending.¡¯


    Silence took the room for a long few moments.


    ¡®Magic isn¡¯t magic once you¡¯re on this side of the curtain,¡¯ Hook said. ¡®Magic is as plain as anything else. It¡¯s air, it¡¯s water, it¡¯s breath, it¡¯s blood. It¡¯s as ordinary as electricity and doesn¡¯t usually shape the world. Otherwise, we¡¯d be nothing more than words on a page, nothing more than the mask I¡¯m wearing,¡¯ he said, indicating his pirate costume.


    ¡®There are exceptions sometimes,¡¯ Hook continued. ¡®And it is generally when the higher orders of magic are involved. The cruelty of Time makes for tragic tales. Death gives every story an ending. And mirror magic has rewritten the future for the fairies on such a scale it sounds like nothing short of a myth each time one of the histories are recited.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s some remnant of Chaos left weaving in and out, some sense of how what a good story sounds like very occasionally touching the world, but-¡¯


    ¡®I-¡¯ Ryan. ¡®I never-¡¯


    ¡®Have you ever had unicorn wine, young man?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®So you know that temporary ability to see the traces of magic, the trails and shimmers and sparkles that fade along with the hangover? Some of us don¡¯t need vanishingly rare wine to see, and there are touches of mirror magic on you. That, and there are very few things that can make a person split into their aspects. My charge, your recruit, something shiny has stolen her away, hasn¡¯t it?¡¯


    Reluctantly, he nodded.


    ¡®So right now, I want to place my hope in the shape of stories. I don¡¯t doubt that you could tell me today¡¯s date, but could you tell me what happens in a couple of weeks?¡¯


    Ryan paused for a moment, immediately running through local and fae holidays, before stopping and reconsidering the direct, logical, detached train of thought. This wouldn¡¯t be something so...distant.


    ¡®Her birthday,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®When someone reforms through their aspects, I¡¯ve always known it to be a transformative experience. A...rebirth. I would think that Chaos¡¯ sense of the shape of things would mark this as a good date to expect something.¡¯


    ¡®Do you have any suggestions for presents?¡¯ he asked.


    The pirate¡¯s eyes sparkled. ¡®I may have a few ideas.¡¯

 35 - Waiting for Indigo

    Blue had joined the chorus of colours in the sky.


    Stef nibbled on a doughnut, watching the auroras and nebula-like clouds drift into new configurations and shapes that - probably - weren¡¯t always a result of that thing where you saw faces that weren¡¯t there.


    The central memory that had fallen into place, the snowflake that had caused the avalanche was somehow much more straightforward than some of the other segments of the rainbow.


    But...it made sense in its way. If this was her life flashing before her eyes, then her first real moment of freedom was surely one of the pillars the rest of the short life had been built on.


    A blue key sat balanced on her knee, a conjured fragment from the memory of her first night in her apartment.


    Her entire life up to that point had been controlled by her parents or her family in general.


    Sit still. Don¡¯t speak. Don¡¯t make trouble at school. Be simple. Be quiet. Be invisible. Be what we want or disappear.


    She¡¯d never been what they¡¯d wanted, so as soon as secondary school had finished, her grandfather had presented a simple proposal: that she should piss off forever and never darken their doors again.


    Her family being her family - one with more wealth than love - had cut a cheque sufficient - more than sufficient - to start a life apart from them.


    It had taken all of her self control not to simply snatch the envelope from her grandfather¡¯s hand and run as soon as the last word of his speech had faded.


    Instead, drawing on every skill she¡¯d picked up from the family she so deeply wanted to escape, she¡¯d sat still, agreed to his terms, and negotiated for a little extra to be added to her moving expenses.


    The pittance extra had been something readily agreed to - flinging the problem child halfway across the world was well worth the cost of a first-class ticket and some airport transfers.


    And it wasn¡¯t just distance from the family estate that had motivated her choice - nothing about the UK was home to her.


    Brisbane, on the other hand, so much as it sat large in her mind as a place belonging to her parents, still felt more ¡°her¡± than anywhere else.


    What good memories she had came from there.


    One stupidly luxurious flight later, she¡¯d set herself up in a five-star hotel while she searched for somewhere to live.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Thus had begun the strangest few weeks of her life. Going from nights of room service dinners where every dessert came with gold leaf; to days of viewing the cheapest, dingiest properties the city had to offer.


    Money, even the amount that had been sitting in her bank account, would only last so long - and she needed little more than a bed, a computer and a kettle.


    But even when the properties stank of piss or had internal doors that didn¡¯t close properly, the real estate agents had looked poorly on her lack of rental history.


    And offers of paying an entire year in advance had only further deepened their suspicion.


    Every door closed, and living in a hotel wasn¡¯t sustainable.


    A square of cardboard in the window of an unassuming building had changed her world.


    A ¡°for rent¡± sign for a property that hadn¡¯t been listed elsewhere, owned by a man willing to take a chance.


    With a mix of flat-pack and second-hand furniture, she¡¯d moved in two days later.


    And in the first space of her life that she could truly call her own, she¡¯d fallen asleep on an unmade bed, clutching the key to her chest.


    ROY-G-B


    That only left two colours to go until...it always seemed logical to say ¡°the end¡±, but the beautiful flower on her conspiracy board was a tiny beacon that what came after Violet showed itself wasn¡¯t going to be a gentle slide into night and nothingness.


    ¡®I want to know,¡¯ she said, ¡®I¡¯m okay with not waiting.¡¯


    Immediately, there was a shape to her left, something barely in the periphery of her vision - a form that no longer existed when she turned to look at it.


    She stood and brushed herself off, slipped the blue key into her pocket and looked again - there was nothing out of place in her small kingdom of clouds and dust.


    She pinched the bridge of her nose, and through blurred eyes, saw the shape again - this time, ahead of her. There was no...danger, it wasn¡¯t some spectre, some person, hiding just out of view, it was- Just a lump.


    Schrodinger¡¯s Lump. There and not there.


    Either the world wasn¡¯t ready to show it to her, or she wasn¡¯t prepared to see it yet.


    ¡®Please,¡¯ she said, turning to look at her reflection in the standing mirror, ¡®whatever it is, I¡¯m okay.¡¯


    With the tiniest movement that would be so easily dismissed in any other context, her reflection shook her head, and she felt herself mimic her mirror-self, a fraction of a second out of step.


    ¡®Please.¡¯


    In the mirror, the lump appeared behind her.


    This time, when she turned to look at it, it stayed - fuzzy and indigo and waiting to share the next memory. The lump became a couch - the same second-hand couch that had been part of the blue memory dump, but now it swirled with all the colours in the sky above.


    Every drop of indigo slowly bled from the collection and pooled in front of the soft couch. The swirling colours stopped and settled into a mimicry of worn and pilled fabric.


    The pool of indigo rose into a pile, as smooth and featureless as computer graphics from the eighties, and slowly morphed into a human shape, into a Stef shape, a miserable set to her face, her back against the couch, Alexandria in her arms.


    She knelt and looked at the not-ghosts of herself and her favourite doll. This was...a memory on pause, waiting for something to start it, waiting for her consent.


    She reached for her not-ghost¡¯s hand, but as she did, the air around her real hand seemed to grow thick with static, the lightest of forcefields, warning her from going further.


    Whatever this memory was, it wasn¡¯t going to be pleasant.


    She looked at her hand for a moment, to her not-ghost hand, then withdrew and sat on the couch, looking down at her pause memory. ¡®Okay, I¡¯ll wait a little bit longer. But not forever.¡¯

 36 - Reflections

    ¡®Welcome Director, you can call me Ditto.¡¯


    Ryan nodded to the young man and followed him towards the elevator.


    So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the research facility - it wasn¡¯t in an ordinary Agency. Still, he hadn¡¯t expected it to be.


    In general, there were two types of Agency research centres - those hosted within Central itself. Central research centres tended to focus on agent - or agency - development, things classed as ¡°internal¡±. ¡°External¡± research tended to be things that involved magic other than blue - whether it be fae, time, or...mirror.


    Due to the ability of these magics to disrupt blue, potentially harm agents if things went wrong, or just pose security risks, these experiments tended to be in independent buildings so that the possible harm to Agency staff was minimised.


    In this case, this facility was disguised as an apartment building in New York. A secured front with a doorman indicated that visitors weren¡¯t welcome - but it was also a carefully-curated amount of neglected to not unnecessarily draw the eye.


    Ditto selected a high floor in the building, ran a hand through silver hair, then turned to look at him. ¡®Director, I don¡¯t know how much interaction you have with your techs or scholars in general, but- Forgive my people if they aren¡¯t overly formal. Central tends to leave us alone. Pound for pound, we¡¯re one of the most valuable assets the Agency has, but functionally...not so much.¡¯


    The elevator door slid open and led into what looked to be a ballroom retrofitted into half-lab, half-lounge.


    A couple of dozen people loitered around - some at computers, other relaxing on various pieces of soft furniture reading, talking or playing with phones.


    ¡®This isn¡¯t everyone, of course,¡¯ Ditto said. ¡®I figured with your situation, it wasn¡¯t worth calling in our dusties.¡¯


    ¡®Pardon?¡¯


    ¡®You didn¡¯t mention he had an accent,¡¯ a young man at one of the computers said. ¡®You know I¡¯m weak for an accent.¡¯


    ¡®Tread carefully. He¡¯s a Director. He¡¯s not here to play.¡¯


    ¡®Pout,¡¯ the recruit said, then pouted, then went back to his work.


    ¡®Forgive Andy. He¡¯s terminally flirty with any accent that moves.¡¯ Ditto cleared his throat, straightened his red tie, and tried to work the flustered look off his face. ¡®Ahem. Right. Dusties. Not everyone associated with this project has any significant amount of mirror in them - some have what amounts to dust. Those that have had wishes made on their behalf can also fall into this category. Dusties - unless they¡¯re a recruit - just have tracking blue and monthly check-ins. They rate being in the group chat, but mostly they¡¯re left to lead their own lives. With the quantity of mirror involved in your case, Director, I figured you¡¯d want to talk to some of our more heavy hitters.¡¯


    ¡®That was considerate, thank you, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Can I go first?¡¯ a young woman asked as she walked up to Ditto, ¡®I¡¯ve got other stuff to do later, and I practically have a verbal macro for this.¡¯


    For the briefest flicker of time, he wondered if Stef had a sister. Before him, the young woman bore many similarities to his own sleeping child - short, lank brown hair and roughly the same shaped face.


    Even though they were inside, a large pair of sunglasses obscured her face, though, through the glasses, blue eyes stared back at him.


    ¡®Go ahead, April,¡¯ Ditto said, ¡®but you owe me.¡¯


    April playfully threw the middle finger at Ditto, then smiled and headed toward a long wooden bar in front of a bank of windows.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    She slid onto a black stool, dumped her bag beside her, then sipped from a freshly-required glass of water. ¡®Did someone under you fuck up, did you fuck up on behalf of someone, or is this all just platonic curiosity?¡¯


    Ryan carefully considered the words. ¡®Of those options, ah, ¡°on behalf of someone¡±.¡¯


    ¡®Then may god have mercy on your soul, Aussie, and I hope they don¡¯t hate you for it in the end.¡¯


    ¡®I truly hope that as well.¡¯


    ¡®Okay. Me. Picture¡¯s worth a thousand words.¡¯ She lifted a hand to her glasses, her fingers trembling just a little. ¡®Sorry, this is like stripping for a new Rose hookup.¡¯ She wrapped her fingers around the arm of the glasses, then pulled them away.


    The blue eyes he¡¯d seen through the smoked glass had been an illusion. Where human eyes would usually sit were two oversized, multifaceted jewels - clear but with shifting rainbows inside with every subtle movement of her head.


    ¡®There are experiments that you can do on humans that you can¡¯t do on agents,¡¯ April said. ¡®You need to control a lot of variables and factors, and blue¡¯s a huge factor, especially when you¡¯re playing with other types of magic. So you need a test subject whose blue level you can control. You also don¡¯t necessarily want a recruit¡¯s head to explode, so...you recruit from an expendable pool.¡¯


    ¡®Solstice?¡¯


    April nodded. ¡®Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m reformed, but these were my ticket out of a cell. They¡¯re an exploration of melding blue with mirror, seeing how far one little bit could go. This started as a dustie-level experiment. Basically, the idea was to do be able to do a detailed analysis. To see more than an average recruit or agent could see, even with every scanning mode engaged.¡¯


    ¡®By your tone of voice, I¡¯m guessing it wasn¡¯t so successful?¡¯


    ¡®Without a system connection, the amount of concentration versus the amount of data coming in makes it nearly useless. With a system connection, my operator can remotely direct scanning types, and let me tell you, that¡¯s a fucking weird dance to get used to. Try taking a step, looking at things normally, then suddenly, everything flicks into infra-red. Functionally, I¡¯m a less-functional drone than your average pigeon.¡¯


    ¡®So why haven¡¯t they ended the experiment?¡¯


    ¡®Something you¡¯re going to get used to when talking to the Freakshow-¡¯ she paused, ¡®and that¡¯s Freakshow in the affectionate, for clarification. We know what we are, and most of us love it.¡¯ She sipped her water. ¡®Mirror doesn¡¯t always do exactly what you want it to do. Or do something exactly the way you might expect. To a degree, the nature of which we will argue about until the heat death of the universe, it¡¯s alive. And living things are never predictable.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve already experienced some of that unpredictability.¡¯


    ¡®So two things they didn¡¯t expect. One, useless drone or not, I¡¯m a lucky charm for the field teams I work with. It¡¯s not what I can scan. It¡¯s that...I¡¯ll get drawn to look at someone maybe no one else has noticed. A fingerprint out of the CSI scanning area, someone acting suspicious, a look of guilt that no one saw. Second, and this is the weird part, these-¡¯ she pointed at her eyes, ¡®act like collectors for lost bits of mirror dust. So every once in a while, I have to get my eyes shaved. And that¡¯s a sentence you probably never expected to hear in your life.¡¯


    ¡®Frankly, no,¡¯ he admitted.


    ¡®You¡¯ll find a lot of wishes work like that.¡¯ She held up a hand. ¡®Don¡¯t get me wrong. This isn¡¯t like a sinister genie thing, like, a deliberate misinterpretation of intent, it¡¯s just...sometimes a little left of where you might expect things to go.¡¯ She played with her half-empty water glass for a moment before the water was replaced with a fruity cocktail. ¡®What was your wish, Agent?¡¯


    He hesitated, and she saw this.


    ¡®Safe space, man. If you¡¯re here, and people know why you¡¯re here, then you don¡¯t have to fear talking about it. If people don¡¯t know why you¡¯re here and you¡¯re messing with mirror, then, Christ, the size of your balls.¡¯


    ¡®This is all, ah, above-board,¡¯ he responded. ¡®Sanctioned.¡¯


    ¡®So?¡¯ April prompted.


    ¡®For someone to come back to life.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ Her answer was barely more than a breath, and she spent a moment with her cocktail. ¡®Serious shit then. How much mirror?¡¯


    ¡®From what-¡¯ he paused on the strange name, ¡®Ditto has told me, it¡¯s considered the high end of the scale.¡¯


    April took a look around the room at her companions with their own reflective qualities and stories. ¡®I know Ditto doesn¡¯t get much of a chance to show us off, but there¡¯s a lot of people here who aren¡¯t approaching the level of shit you¡¯re dealing with.¡¯


    She required a tablet, held it in both hands, and panned slowly across the room. ¡®Sec,¡¯ she said and busied herself with it for a few minutes.


    ¡®Okay, here,¡¯ she said and pressed it into his hands. ¡®This is everybody here.¡¯ On the screen was a list of the people present. Each with an official Agency ID photo and some quickly-typed notes beside them. ¡®Generally speaking, there are a few ways we¡¯re categorised, and I¡¯m not going to bore you with that, but the alphas and gammas should get the least of your time. Some are great people or have fascinating origin stories, but all of their mirror amounts are on the left side of the bell curve. Betas and deltas, for today, that¡¯s where your focus should be.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you, Recruit.¡¯

 37 - Among the Unfamiliar

    After April left, Ryan busied himself with the notes she¡¯d given him.


    There was a genuinely astonishing variety in the people present. People who had made wishes; people who¡¯d had wishes made on their behalf; others, fewer than the other types, who were part of experiments. And lastly, those who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.


    In the research he¡¯d done, he knew there were far more than this who¡¯d had their lives touched by mirror. Even more than the ¡°dusties¡± that weren¡¯t present, but in many - most - cases, the mirror could be removed without lasting effects or even without conferring a wish.


    He sorted the list to bring those categorised as alpha and delta to the surface. The new top of the list was a man whose notes began with a half-dozen target symbols, likely indicating that April thought this would be the subject he should begin with.


    Mark Stanley. The photo showed what seemed to be an older man. At first glance, Ryan mentally placed him in his sixties, though no age was listed - and looks were forever a poor indication of age. Many agents were generated with looks that indicated early-middle age for a socially-engineered balance expectation of power and experience.


    He tucked the tablet into a pocket, then crossed the room, where the man sat - somewhat unexpectedly - playing a loud, colourful game on a phone.


    ¡®May I sit?¡¯ Ryan asked, indicating to the empty chair across from Mark.


    ¡®May we sit?¡¯ Jane corrected him as she required an identical chair. ¡®Sorry I¡¯m late,¡¯ she said, squeezing his arm. ¡®But I¡¯ve organised that thing for you. All done and sorted.¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said, pouring every ounce of gratitude he could into his voice. Now - whether or not she woke on her birthday, Stef would have the perfect present waiting for her.


    Hopefully perfect - a gift from a new father to undo a cruelty from her old one.


    Hook had recounted the story - Stef had done something that had angered her father, some minor trespass that should have been waived away by any understanding parent.


    But in the logic of an abusive man, this warranted ruining his own child¡¯s life - selling her horse with, explicitly adding that he intended to sell the animal to the knackers for glue.


    And as Hook told it, this had left young Stef inconsolable. Equestrian activities had been one small area where she¡¯d found some genuine enjoyment in her childhood.


    A hobby, an escape and a beloved animal, all ripped away without remorse.


    He¡¯d brought it up with Jane during a lull in one of their auditing meetings - that he had no idea how to go about purchasing an animal, let alone something more complex than approaching a pet store for a goldfish.


    As many children did, Alexander had eventually convinced he and Eilise that he deserved a puppy.


    And in one of few times she¡¯d explicitly allowed magic to encroach on their ¡°normal, human¡± life that she insisted on for Alexander, she¡¯d asked him for a ¡°magic dog¡±.


    Laying in bed with him, she¡¯d told him that one of her worst childhood memories was losing her own beloved dog to an illness, and it wasn¡¯t something she wanted Alexander to go through.


    And it was such a simple request. Though their most common drones were birds, for their observation utility, there was an entire library of program animals that could be generated.


    Decorative fish that never needed to be fed; dogs and cats for the children of agents that would understand every command and never make a mess on the carpets.


    So together, they had designed the perfect dog for their son. Painstakingly choosing fur colours, mixing breeds and characteristics, until they¡¯d come to something they were confident Alex would love.


    And it had been instant love between boy and dog - memories he still cherished.


    He¡¯d floated the idea of simply generating Stef a new horse with Jane, who immediately dismissed the idea. She told him, quite authoritatively, that generated horses were fine if you simply needed something to ride. Still, for interacting, she stated that, unlike many other animals, the horse personalities were never quite right.


    It was then that she shared photos of her own collection of horses. A rolling collection of photos from the early days of photography to contemporary photos showing a manor estate with an impressive stable.


    ¡®This is where we go home to,¡¯ she said. ¡®At the end of the day, when we have time off. My darling wife has her studio, her paints and ever-lasting perfect light from a wall of memory glass, and I have beautiful, walking disasters that are my horses.¡¯


    With a squeeze of his hand, she¡¯d told him to leave all the details to her - that she could find the perfect horse to fill one of her empty stalls, and that would be there well before Stef¡¯s birthday rolled around.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said again and tried to bring himself into the present and come up with some questions to ask the man in front of him.


    ¡®Before we start,¡¯ Mark said. ¡®Ditto has made me aware of your ranks and clearances, and I¡¯m afraid I have to warn you that there are some things I won¡¯t be able to tell you. My age for one, my father for another.¡¯


    Jane gave a light chuckle. ¡®You have to know that does nothing but make us more intrigued.¡¯


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡®I am aware of that unfortunate side effect.¡¯


    Already, he could deduce some things about Mark. With the combination of the ban on information on both his age and his father, it likely meant that Mark¡¯s father was an older type of herald. Something older than an agent, something older than a dusker.


    The Agency liked their personnel to focus on the here-and-now and heavily discouraged investigations into the past. What had come before was ¡°irrelevant¡± and not worth knowing.


    It was, in its way, a very strange policy. Not least of all because it could very easily lead to the idiom of repeating history because they could not learn from it.


    There was also the reality that for a percentage of agents - himself included - the past was a material part of his everyday reality.


    Agents - those born as agents, not recruits who had become agents during their term of service - tended to fall into two generation categories.


    There were new whole cloth agents - and these were the majority - those that used recycled pieces from a myriad of dead agents, creating something entirely new from old parts.


    The second were templated agents - like himself - these were the agents who bore a significant part of their code with one recycled individual.


    Templated heralds could even - and often did - last across herald types. His direct former, Rhys, had been one of Brisbane¡¯s duskers, and by all accounts, an altogether unpleasant individual to deal with.


    Reynolds had been the man¡¯s reluctant executioner - it had been deemed that duskers had reached the end of their usefulness. One by one, all of them had been replaced by fledgling agencies and their relatively young agents.


    Partly from compassion, to see some of the man live on, and partly for an instinctual knowledge of the city, Reynolds had asked for his new field agent to be templated from the departed dusker.


    And he knew - partly from a gut feeling and from things Death had said to him, that he was not the first link in the chain.


    But that past was forever lost to him, pieces of history and lives that he¡¯d never know.


    ¡®I was dying,¡¯ Mark said, beginning his story. ¡®Nothing of man or fae could heal me. I died, and there was still no answer. I went to Limbo, and my father instructed me to wait there, for as long as I could, at the Lady¡¯s pleasure, of course.¡¯


    A question formed - and since it didn¡¯t touch on the Agency, it was likely safe to ask. ¡®Was she- the Lady of Limbo, in your time, did she appear as a child?¡¯


    ¡®Black and white like a photo, and dressed in a simple dress, yes. Unlike her sisters, I believe her appearance tends to stay relatively consistent.¡¯ Mark put down his phone and required a soft drink in a tall glass. ¡®And I wandered- Child. You¡¯ve seen her, then?¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®Yes. A few times.¡¯


    ¡®Do you know how Limbo looks¡­¡¯ Mark waved a hand. ¡®When you stand in the eye, in the meeting place, and you look out into the forest, it looks like lines of endlessly exact, copy-pasted trees?¡¯


    He nodded again. Limbo could be described simply. Endless swirling clouds above that never broke into a storm, the ground covered in the smoothest, finest powder, and lines of trees, as straight as in a state forest, each an identical copy of each other.


    ¡®Once you step past the treeline,¡¯ Mark continued, ¡®it no longer looks like an art student¡¯s first time playing with a modelling program. Once you¡¯re past that line, it¡¯s your own forest, still grey, still winter-dead, but every tree is drawn from your memory. Minutes for me, and years for my parents passed.¡¯


    ¡®Surely your body-¡¯ Jane began.


    ¡®To be answered with my next breath, Agent Jane. It¡¯s disgusting or beautiful, depending on who you ask, though I choose to see the beauty in it. My parents made ink of my ashes, and my mother painted me true to size.¡¯ He put down his drink and leaned forward, exposing the underside of his forearm. Two faint depressions lay on the skin, as inconspicuous as old chickenpox scars. ¡®Tears. My mother¡¯s tears as she recreated me from memory.¡¯ He withdrew and settled in his chair. ¡®And then at every joint, my hands, my forehead, they placed a chip of mirror, and together, they wished me back to life.¡¯


    ¡®What was it like for you? Was it-¡¯ Ryan swallowed. ¡®Painful?¡¯


    ¡®Dying was, coming back- When you recover from an injury, Director, when you¡¯ve had a limb regrow or skin replaced, the first time that new part is touched for the first time, the feeling is always more intense?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, of course.¡¯


    ¡®That, but for every part of myself, muscles to neurons. Not pain, but...shock. And it passed as soon as it came.¡¯


    ¡®Your longevity,¡¯ Jane said, ¡®was that intended?¡¯


    ¡®Not consciously. They didn¡¯t notice at first - are either of you parents?¡¯


    ¡®Both of us,¡¯ Jane confirmed. ¡®You started to slow when you matured?¡¯


    Mark nodded. ¡®But soon it became obvious that it was far more pronounced than the usual bonus first-generation children have, and my parents started to discuss the intent and wording of their respective wishes.¡¯


    ¡®And?¡¯ Jane asked as Mark dipped into silence.


    ¡®They had wished for life, and independently, both had wished for me to see the future. I got my first wrinkle the day man landed on the moon, and I started to finally feel my age when the millenium rolled around.¡¯ He ran his hand over his forehead, and when he pulled his hand away, the years began to fall away as he visibly became younger. ¡®I¡¯ve got a few years yet, but I doubt I¡¯ll see the turn of the next century.¡¯


    Jane turned to him. ¡®And you, Newborn, what was your wish?¡¯


    ¡®Life, I just wanted her to live again. I tried- I think- I tried to keep it simple. And I¡¯ve been scolded by someone who knows that it¡¯s not simple. My daughter- She¡¯s showing aspects, and the cycle is nearly complete.¡¯


    ¡®Some of us played with our own rainbow, others didn¡¯t. There¡¯s no true rhyme or reason to it. Mirrors have a mind of their own, and sometimes a soul just needs time to put itself back together.¡¯


    Mark stood and waved at Jane for her to stay in place. He extended a hand to Ryan. ¡®Come with me, young man. This is just for you.¡¯


    Ryan followed Mark into a small, half-sized office for taking calls or chats away from the public space. ¡®If it¡¯s your child in question, in waiting, I need you to hear this. Hate me if you wish. I¡¯m an old man; I can handle it.¡¯


    ¡®I doubt, sir, you can say anything that isn¡¯t already one of my fears.¡¯


    ¡®And I¡¯m sure your heart is guarded against most attacks, but- most aren¡¯t prepared for betrayal.¡¯


    ¡®Pardon?¡¯


    ¡®There might come a point - this isn¡¯t a constant, but it¡¯s common amongst us who¡¯ve returned from Limbo and its surrounds. It is your wish, but at the end of all things, it is her life. You can force it, hold onto your wish, and ensure it comes true. Or- You can give it as a gift, and it¡¯s up to her. Some people- Some-¡¯


    ¡®Stop,¡¯ Ryan whispered and hurriedly pressed a shaking hand to eyes filled with tears. This was a fear half-formed that had haunted the back of his mind. A wish not working was one thing, but a wish rejected-


    And life had offered so little to Stef. An existence so devoid of hope and love. And for as much as he loved her, a matter of hours weighed against a life that had done nothing but torn her down.


    A life that had made her feel worthless. Unloved. Afraid to act without fear of admonition.


    A couple of days might be too petty a weight to tip the scales compared to all of that.


    The room was...not spinning, but askew from where it should have been.


    Air. He needed air.


    ¡®I- Thank you-¡¯ he said, almost on autopilot, fumbled with the door handle for a moment, then walked into the larger room, looking for the door.


    If he was in a better mind, a clearer mind, he would have shifted somewhere- But no destination came to mind. He didn¡¯t want to be anywhere. He just needed to be away from where he was.


    Strong hands slid around his arm. ¡®Come on, Newborn, let me buy you coffee.¡¯


    He nodded, his head feeling disconnected from his body, and allowed Jane to guide him away from the closing walls and towards fresh air.

 38 - Grey Miasma

    Ryan allowed himself to be led out of the research facility and onto the smooth pavement.


    ¡®Come on, Newborn,¡¯ Jane said gently as she pulled him down the street.


    Behind a deli, there was an anonymous-looking service door that led to a set of fairy stairs.


    There was the usual momentary disorientation of leaving a System area, though without the accompanying fear that came with entering a Solstice-created blackout zone.


    There was no reason it should be hitting him hard. He had been sure that he¡¯d gone through all the possibilities, that-


    And there was nothing logical about griefs, even when your very programming was designed to make emotions as streamlined as possible.


    His one saving grace was that he was with one of the few people on the planet who could empathise with his situation.


    A lifetime ago, Jane had been just as reliant on a piece of mirror for a happy ending.


    She pulled him into a cafe, and he gratefully collapsed into a booth.


    Newborn. It was a term used by people with a dozen different meanings.


    Simple and straightforward when you wanted to refer to a newly-generated agent. Someone who needed patience, who couldn¡¯t be expected to understand the subtleties of every social interaction.


    Someone who was, on paper, perfect; but not truly prepared for life.


    Stef had asked him if it took a while for agents to ¡°become people¡±; as blunt as the wording was, it was true enough. It took time to become more than the code you started with. For behaviours to develop. To truly be yourself.


    Perfection and self could rarely exist in the same being.


    Some agents remained that platonic ideal - called, with equal measures fear and respect, ¡°the best of us¡±. Agents who were the kind of beings that the Solstice and their ilk assumed every being made of blue was.


    Perfection in a suit, untainted by any shades of humanity.


    People who didn¡¯t have hobbies. Who didn¡¯t blink, didn¡¯t breathe, didn¡¯t eat or drink. Who spoke through their HUDs rather than their mouths.


    And for a time, they had looked at bringing him into their fold.


    On the other end of the spectrum, away from perfect textbook behaviour existed people like Reynolds.


    Vivacious, so full of life, he seemed to shine, never without a friend or lover at hand. Someone always ready for a conversation to last long into the night.


    And from the moment he¡¯d been generated, he knew he wasn¡¯t the same kind of man as his director.


    Even grading on a curve, he¡¯d been slow to develop. Part of it was him, just something innate to who he was - proven over and over by his small social circle over his century-plus of life.


    Part of it, however, was an artificial stagnation. Every time he¡¯d expressed a behaviour or tried to break from his newborn mould, Reynolds had attributed the nascent slice of personality to Rhys.


    Nothing had been ¡°Ryan¡±. It was only remnants of a dead man breaking through.


    And it had pushed him back into his shell.


    And for years, he had stayed there. Dull. Trying to process the seeds of who he would become whilst second-guessing every new thought or desire.


    If everything truly was ¡°Rhys¡±, then there was no point in trying to be anything more.


    He¡¯d been...nothing. Failing every ¡°test¡± where Reynolds would try to pull parts of Rhys forward; unhappy being dragged into Reynolds¡¯ larger-than-life world.


    Whenever Reynolds would invite him to an event, one of two things would inevitably happen. Either he would make dull, surface-level conversation with whatever attractive person Reynolds had arranged to be on his arm for the evening, or he would stand awkwardly in the corner until Reynolds gave him leave to escape the festivities.


    Then, over a few short days, he¡¯d moved forward, taking the first few steps to be something more than nothing.


    Death had sung, a eulogy for a dead world, and it was the first thing he¡¯d ever thought of as ¡°beautiful¡±.


    A phoenix had made him feel fear.


    And a mirror had fallen from the sky.


    Jane set a coffee in front of him and reached across the table to clasp his hands. ¡®Whatever you need to talk about, I¡¯m here, love.¡¯


    The mirror had been a shatter.


    For whatever reason, there had been a lot of survivors of the dead wall fall to earth ahead of the mirror. There were always some - often mutated in body or mind as the price for their survival, but for this world, they had numbered in the dozens.


    And with dozens of hands on tiny pieces of mirror, they had begun to wish for pieces of their world.


    Even to this day, they still didn¡¯t know the extent of the wishes made. Most were innocuous - seeds for trees and plants they would never otherwise see; books and histories of a world lost to the universe, for their mutations to be healed.


    And for people lost to be returned.


    For a reason they were eventually able to pin down to long-beloved fairy tales from their world, they had a particular way of wishing their loved one back.


    From their fables, it was believed that a vessel was needed for the spirit to inhabit - so for every person they tried to wish back, someone had been snatched from the streets.


    One of those had been Kay, the love of Jane¡¯s life.


    The survivors had taken her to an old church and wished back the soul of their queen.


    And with that wish, everything that had been Kay had seemed to disappear. Even her human body had become a nymph, her body spreading roots into the floor of the church, alien berries on delicate branches where hair had been.


    He had accompanied Reynolds to assist Jane with her duties in hunting down the other ¡°possessed¡± victims hoping that something could be done.


    Rather quickly, it had become apparent that there was no fix - whoever these people had been...those people had been entirely subsumed. The one Agency-sanctioned reader they had contracted to work on the case had been able to catch the faintest sense that something of the original person survived. Still, even that faded as the days went on.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    And for nearly the whole time he and Reynolds had worked on finding and processing the victims, Jane had remained in the church. Staring at the woman who had stolen the body of her partner, keeping the nymph unconscious so that she couldn¡¯t escape.


    The few times they had seen her, she¡¯d pulled Reynolds aside and gone into deep conversation with him.


    The woman he¡¯d met was gone - the inner radiance had faded. Grief had made her hollow, and Reynolds had indicated that it was only going to get worse.


    When Reynolds gone to bargain with Madchester for the Court to house the victims, he¡¯d been dismissed to do one last - and inevitably fruitless - search for leftover pieces of the mirror.


    The last seven patrols had returned nothing, but it was the kind of job Reynolds would give him when time needed to be filled.


    And he hadn¡¯t minded. It was easy to be alone with your thoughts when you tried to have none.


    With an empty mind, he¡¯d wandered the late evening streets of London, covering the same precise, mechanically-efficient pattern as always.


    But this time, in the cracks of a wooden pub sign, a small light had winked at him.


    One tiny piece of mirror, one last, unused wish.


    He wrapped it in a handkerchief, astonished at the sense of magic, of potential, radiating through the cloth.


    He¡¯d been exposed to fae magic on innumerable occasions, in a myriad of different forms. Whilst it felt different to blue, it was a bare whisper compared to this tiny sliver of silver.


    According to Duty, he was to destroy it.


    And for the first time, his instinct wasn¡¯t to immediately follow his Duty.


    With that realisation, his mind became a hurricane of thoughts. Going against Duty was- Wasn¡¯t what an agent was. It meant he was flawed, meant he was-


    Was-


    Was finally experiencing what Reynolds had been waiting for. Was becoming what his director expected - wanted - hoped for.


    In a dozen quiet moments, Reynolds had described the milestones of an agent¡¯s life - goals that had shot by, leaving nothing but a disappointed director.


    Reynolds had described two key moments - one, when you found a way to personalise your Duty. When it became more than an abstract concept and the core of your code.


    For many, it was some variation on ¡°doing your Duty to protect your friends or family¡±. When you had an external force to enhance something that should have been entirely internally motivated.


    The second, spoken of in a tone that indicated hesitance, was the first moment you wanted to go against your Duty.


    An unfair ruling from Central, some small by-law that you overlooked, or showing lenience outside of what was strictly written in black and white.


    Using mirror was a little more than ignoring a by-law.


    He tucked the handkerchief into an inside pocket, close to his heart, and walked on.


    In a strange way, it was likely because of how he was - how much he lacked in comparison to Reynolds, to Rhys, to whoever he was expected to be - that he could have this perspective.


    He was in so many ways....nothing. An agent so close to code-perfect that Central had invited him to transition away from his Field role and into some more nebulous position after his first annual evaluation.


    It had meant he was so inhuman, so lacking in development, that he was a candidate for those Reynolds called ¡°the best of us¡±.


    A compliment. An insult.


    Reynolds had begged him not to accept that there was so much more to the world.


    So far, nothing in that world had been able to touch him. There had been an invisible wall keeping him separate, disconnected and on the bench. Waiting for some unknown signal that would invite him to the experience of life that everyone around him seemed to have.


    Jane¡¯s grief had turned her into his twin.


    And that wasn¡¯t something he would wish on anyone.


    One wish to undo a wish. A small reset to put back things to how they should be. One tiny piece of mirror to help Jane avoid the grey distance of his life.


    At the end of his patrol - and when no more pieces of mirror had presented themselves, he¡¯d shifted to the path that led to the church.


    The church itself sat on the top of a small hill, and most of the land surrounding it was so soaked in fae magic that it was a dead zone.


    No Agency personnel watched - this was a memorial service for one.


    He¡¯d walked up the hill and pushed open the heavy door.


    At the pulpit, the nymph lay dormant, kept asleep and immobile by Agency drugs and fae magic.


    And halfway down the row of pews on the right, Jane sat, her head hung.


    It took her a long moment to react as he sat beside her, finally acknowledging his presence with a long exhalation of air.


    ¡®Ma¡¯am-¡¯


    ¡®Newborn, I¡¯m in no position to do anything for you. Please. Give me the grace to-¡¯


    He¡¯d lifted one of her stiff hands from her lap and laid the handkerchief in her palm.


    Half-formed questions had died on her tongue as she unwrapped the cloth.


    There was no need to ask what it was or if it was real - the magic it exuded wasn¡¯t something you could fake.


    She looked at it for a long moment, then looked up to him, soft brown eyes full of hope and fear. ¡®What are you asking in return?¡¯


    Even with the pricelessness of mirror, the question had surprised him. ¡®Nothing.¡¯


    ¡®You could-¡¯ she started, then stopped. ¡®I won¡¯t try and talk you out of it if you¡¯re- But this isn¡¯t a chance most people would-¡¯


    ¡®You have a need for it. I don¡¯t.¡¯


    She wrapped the top layer of silk back over the shining mirror, closed her fist around it, and held it to her heart, tears streaming down her face.


    She leaned in and softly kissed his cheek, then ran for Kay.


    A moment later, the trappings of the nymph shattered into petals and perfume, leaving a weeping human woman in Jane¡¯s arms.


    ¡®Did you ever doubt?¡¯ he asked, ¡®in the church. When you-¡¯


    ¡®Never,¡¯ she said. ¡®I know that¡¯s probably not the answer you want, Newborn, but no. I knew Kay would come back to me. But she wasn¡¯t gone, leastaways, not as far out to sea as your little one.¡¯


    ¡®Would you come back to a life that¡¯s been nothing but- I¡¯m not sure she¡¯s- The Lost cared for her when she was a child, I¡¯m not sure things got better from there.¡¯


    Jane added orange sugar to her coffee. ¡®If things hadn¡¯t gone how they did. If she¡¯d come home, whole and safe, what were you planning on doing the following day?¡¯


    ¡®I was going to see if I could take a couple of hours and bring her-¡¯ he looked around. ¡®Somewhere very much like this. A short trip into Faerie. Failing that, perhaps the library.¡¯


    ¡®Both activities I am sure she would have hated,¡¯ Jane said, deadpan. ¡®Stretches of absolute boredom that would have her looking for a fire alarm to pull.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m aware of your point,¡¯ he said, ¡®but-¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t think it¡¯s so all-or-nothing as you might imagine. Even in a life as you¡¯re describing, some people hold room in their heart for change. For hope. For the day that is different to all those yesterdays.¡¯


    ¡®But a couple of days weighed against-¡¯


    ¡®All right, let me walk this road with you for a moment. If she chooses what you fear, will you regret the emotion you¡¯ve invested?¡¯


    He wiped away tears and sought the answer. ¡®Not for a moment.¡¯


    ¡®Then hold hope, and tell me what comes tomorrow, next week, next month. Tell me what you learned from Ditto¡¯s strange little crew.¡¯


    A waiter delivered two extravagant pieces of cake with ice cream, and he reflected on the paltry amount of information he¡¯d gathered before running.


    ¡®There are more impacted than I imagined. I¡¯m not sure anyone has an identical story, but there will be people she can talk to, at least.¡¯


    ¡®Did you pick up on the high level of augmentation?¡¯


    He laid April¡¯s tablet on the table and scanned through the notes - more than half of those on the list had at least some basic amount of augmentation, and some were even full agents.


    Augmentation was a routine process - generally reserved for aides or recruits with long service times. When it was seen that giving a recruit more blue to grant them some ability would be a benefit to their efficiency or increase their abilities.


    Combat recruits could be augmented with a portion of speed, strength or durability - things that would help their survivability in the field. Tech recruits could get HUDs to increase their operational range. Field recruit augments tended to be more in the range of permissions and licences - such as single-location shift permissions.


    Full augmentation - turning a human into an agent - was rarer but still relatively routine. The most common recipient was half-agent children - people who would take easily to the process.


    Other recruits earned their way into the position - exemplary service records, people the Agency didn¡¯t want to lose.


    Often, it was something discussed ahead. Something essentially put into a living will, that if the individual suffered grievous injuries that Agency doctors couldn¡¯t deal with, they¡¯d make the call and begin the augmentation process.


    It was something he¡¯d only asked for once. For Carol. For a woman he¡¯d loved. A woman he¡¯d had to lose twice.


    He looked at April¡¯s list again and began to cross-check the entries in his HUD. About a quarter of the full-agent augmentations were ¡°special exceptions¡± - agents that didn¡¯t hold a rank.


    The others held a variety of ranks - primary or secondary agents of a regular agency department, with the final few working directly out of Central.


    And now, that possibility was being floated for Stef.


    ¡®I think she¡¯d be delighted with even a partial augmentation,¡¯ he said, trying to shift back into a hopeful mindset. ¡®She asked for screenshots from my HUD to see how I saw the world.¡¯


    Jane nodded. ¡®That¡¯s not the most common reaction.¡¯


    He picked up his fork, stared down at the cake, and felt a small smile on his face. ¡®Though...I may have to find the parental controls on in-HUD games.¡¯

 39 - Last Tether

    For the longest time, the couch and her ghostly self had been waiting. A video on pause, waiting for the brainpower, emotional energy, or whatever to be activated.


    And for whatever stars were aligned, she finally felt ready.


    Stef slowly slid along the couch until she sat just above the paused memory. Then with a deep breath in, she shuffled off the couch, falling directly into her own translucent shadow.


    And as soon her bum hit the smooth surface of her world-


    Her eyes.


    Not her eyes.


    The past-the present-the-


    In a way, she wished it had been dramatic. That she¡¯d cried and wailed and thrown herself onto a fainting couch.


    She wished that somewhere, off-screen, someone was racing across the world, across the stars, across time, to stop her.


    She wished that someone would miss her.


    There was a simple will to be executed, a funeral plan already paid for, and enough tucked away in an envelope that her landlord would get over having to replace the carpet under her corpse.


    It was somehow sudden and such a very long time coming.


    Her sensible voice had been shouting since the decision had been locked into place-


    Stop.


    Please stop.


    But- Somehow, for once, it was so easy to ignore her.


    Stop.


    Please.


    It had been like this sometimes. When a particularly bad patch of dissociation had hit, and she hadn¡¯t felt connected to her own limbs, let alone the craziness in her head.


    But those times, she¡¯d sought for the voice. The voice that was her, but one step removed. The bit of her that had been able to rope itself off and grow up.


    She¡¯d lain around, unable to bring herself back together. The usual games of invoking senses - of looking for two smells, three sounds and four textures - hadn¡¯t worked, and she¡¯d floated, an inch away from her own life.


    And like a voice from the top of the well, her sensible had called her back, had put her together. Not into one perfect piece, but to whatever was her baseline normal.


    Stop.


    Please.


    But those were times where she wanted normal. Wanted to continue. Wanted to keep trying.


    And all desire to try was gone.


    And contrary to the easy narrative, it hadn¡¯t really one thing that had spurned it on. It hadn¡¯t been one sad, sappy picture on the internet; hadn¡¯t been some coincidental timing of an important anniversary. Hadn¡¯t been some dream that had woken her with unending tears.


    It had been the inability - the lack of desire - to scroll any further on a thread she was reading. The grey miasma where interests and distractions usually were.


    The lack of energy to even try to find something to grab her interest. Days and days of napping on the couch in front of a television she was barely paying attention. Of auto-play and next episodes having more agency than she did.


    And this had happened before. Of course it had. A hundred times.


    It would go on and on, but then it would break. Some tiny thing would finally spark an emotion, and she¡¯d put herself back together.


    And it¡¯ll happen this time. It will. It will!


    But the nothing had continued.


    Food had been in there somewhere. Snacks pulled from shelves with the least amount of effort. Cans of warm soft drink. Incomplete orders from meal delivery apps waited for sufficient fucks to be given.


    The thought of an extravagant last meal had floated in her mind but had disappeared like a puff of dragon breath on a cold morning.


    She just... couldn¡¯t care.


    It wasn¡¯t as though these thoughts were anything new or novel. Still, there¡¯d always been something to distract, something to look forward to, the want to stay alive, because she knew it would spite her father.


    Now...nothing.


    The closest she¡¯d come was in a Mayfair apartment, drunk off her ass, asleep in a bathtub.


    For hours she¡¯d lain cold water. If there¡¯d been a merciful god, she would have caught one of those colds Victorian novel heroines so easily died of and been able to shuffle off her mortal coil.


    That unintentional close call aside, she¡¯d likely mused on every method - sick, sad research for what she¡¯d subconsciously known was probably inevitable.


    It¡¯s not.


    You don¡¯t have to do this, Spyder.


    ¡®Shut up.¡¯


    There was no painless way to do what she wanted, so after a day of gathering energy, she¡¯d gone for one last trip into the awful, hostile, outside world.


    Body spray had done nothing to cover the smell of not showering for weeks on end, but it was as much effort as she could muster.


    One small purchase at the chemist, one box of fried chicken for her growling stomach, and one short walk later, she was home and safe again.


    And now, she sat in front of her couch, passing a small box of sleeping pills from one hand to another.


    There hadn¡¯t been much in the way of preparation to be done. This wasn¡¯t theatre, this wasn¡¯t a cry for help, this was just...inevitable.


    A sad end to a sad life.


    She¡¯d done two things. One - to chill a bottle of water, as she didn¡¯t want her last taste to be a shitty glass of lukewarm tap water.


    And the next had been to fetch Alexandria from her shelf.


    Please. No.


    She should have hated Alexandria - a gift from parents who didn¡¯t love her, a porcelain doll for a little rich girl.


    It should have been something she could have left behind a long time ago.


    But the doll with the soft red curls was the closest thing she¡¯d ever had to a friend, to family, to a person who cared for her.


    But Alexandria wasn¡¯t her parents. Wasn¡¯t her family. Wasn¡¯t anything that had nothing but negative connotations. Alexandria had always been so much more, so much better than anything blood had ever given her.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    And you¡¯ll never see her again.


    When she looked at Alexandria, she felt safe - the same effect as looking at certain navy blue shades did. It was a safety and peace she¡¯d never known with her family, but one that was there when she reached for it.


    Just like her dream of drowning - the blue was there too, taking the form of part of a man¡¯s suit she couldn¡¯t really see. In all reality, it was probably some scrap of memory from before she¡¯d known to be afraid of her father. Still, it felt more like a guardian angel that was sometimes there to protect her from a nightmare.


    The colour blue, a dream that sometimes avoided being a nightmare, and a doll - here began and ended the list of good things in her life.


    ¡®Christ, that¡¯s sad.¡¯


    It won¡¯t always be-


    ¡®Proven you wrong already.¡¯


    And tomorrow? The next day?


    ¡®I¡¯ve stopped caring about tomorrow.¡¯


    She wrapped Alexandria tightly in her arms, one last cuddle before the end.


    If she¡¯d been braver at any point in her life, she would have rocked up to a psychologist and gotten a name or three to put to whatever was wrong with her head.


    She suspected something beginning with schiz-, but it wasn¡¯t the only option.


    And whilst the her-not-her voice in her probably counted as an alter, in the language of the field, it wasn¡¯t as though they switched in and out. She was, to her soon-to-be-ended pain, always in charge.


    Maybe, if she could have disappeared, let someone else take over, and cease being in any meaningful way, then the little box in her hands wouldn¡¯t be the only solution.


    But the times her sensible had manifested in any physical way could be counted on a couple of fingers. A few words she¡¯d been unable to force out. Freezing her foot when she¡¯d been about to cross on red.


    This was, unfortunately, her body and her life.


    Spyder. Stop.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    She tore the packet open, set the cardboard on the table and looked at the two silver strips of tablets.


    With Alexandria tucked into the crook of her arm, she took the first tablet.


    Stop.


    There was no desire to stop. No desire to hurriedly puke and empty her stomach. No desire whatsoever.


    Just emptiness. Just. Just the inertia gone on a pointless life.


    Soon, the first strip was gone.


    Everything started to get the fuzzy edge she expected. After a couple more, her hands didn¡¯t want to work anymore.


    She slipped sideways onto the carpet, Alexandria falling beside her, red curls the last thing she saw as she-


    And she was drowning again.


    The dream had always been there. For as long as she could remember. A dream of sinking through darkness so black as to be unreal, and no matter what she did, all she could do was sink.


    Somewhere below, there was a bottom, a floor, an end - but the dream rarely let her reach that point. Most of the time, it was just the fall, the sink, getting further and further from light, from safety, from...anything.


    It didn¡¯t hurt. Her lungs didn¡¯t burn. This place was beyond pain but not beyond fear. The nothing could swallow her without a thought, could snuff out everything she was without effort.


    There were ponds on her family¡¯s estate, ones that froze over in winter. Maybe she had fallen through thin ice as a child. It would explain the imagery. Would explain everything except-


    Except it wasn¡¯t that. As many times as she¡¯d tried to convince herself that it was, it wasn¡¯t.


    But questions were for someone who cared, and she¡¯d stepped past the point of caring.


    Somewhere, she knew she was dying.


    And this was the dream before dying.


    Maybe real people had their life flash before their eyes. People with things worth remembering.


    She was drowning in the nothing that she was.


    Her foot touched cold glass, smooth and black as obsidian, and her body collapsed to the floor, a clumsy stumble in ballet class.


    And this was where it always ended. Where a half-dreamed imagining of blue would pull her away, or where the darkness would subsume her, and she¡¯d wake up, hollow, heart racing.


    She couldn¡¯t fight anymore. Wouldn¡¯t resist fading into shadow.


    Kneeling on the glass floor, she watched as her lower half slowly faded, becoming ghostly, liquid darkness working its way inevitably up her body.


    This seemed like time for last words, last thoughts, last regrets, but nothing came.


    Even - especially - in this place, she was alone.


    A twinge of sadness invaded her numbness, the first thing she¡¯d felt in weeks, but it wasn¡¯t enough to fight away the world swallowing her whole.


    Footsteps.


    Footsteps on nothing and a voice without words. Sound without meaning.


    Red curls.


    She forced herself to look up and- And the perspective was wrong. Like there was a giant above her, or she was tiny.


    A hand proffered her doll. A hand connected to a figure she couldn¡¯t see. An arm in a black jacket led to a blue blob - a tie, a waistcoat, but the rest of the figure was nothing but...stardust. The figure of a man, made of shifting pieces of the shadow world around her, illuminated by nothing but tiny reflections of Alexandria and her own face.


    And the figure spoke again, sound without words. Words that didn¡¯t hurt, words that didn¡¯t-


    Spears and fractals of darkness worked their way up her shirt and crawled onto her neck.


    And she was standing.


    She could move - even those pieces of her that were darkness existed, but she had to push to feel anything.


    Coldness on her cheeks.


    She tried to look at the figure once more - one last time.


    Alexandria was gone, now the man of stardust-and-suit was simply offering his hand.


    And taking his hand would-


    Senses went away. The sight of the obsidian world. The faint echoes of the voice. The-


    And it was finally-


    Nothing-


    Noth-


    No-


    No.


    She reached.


    With everything she was. With every neuron, wish, and quantum echo that had ever existed of her, she reached.


    And she was-


    Warmth.


    Someone clutching her hand.


    Nothing became a wisp of something, the hand holding hers the only thing that existed, the one tether that could pull her out of this.


    But she-


    But she didn¡¯t want-


    She didn¡¯t want nothing. Whatever emptiness her life was, it wasn¡¯t the nothing that was waiting if she didn¡¯t escape.


    Her heart pounded, each beat like a punch to the chest.


    And the hand was still holding hers.


    She focussed on the blue blob.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want to die.¡¯


    Fuzziness took over her body.


    No.


    But-


    Carpet. It was carpet. And the blue was Alexandria¡¯s eyes, lying on the floor beside her.


    Half-formed puke crusted her lips and the carpet beneath her cheek.


    And sleep was clawing at her back, trying to drag her down again.


    I don¡¯t want this.


    Her body didn¡¯t work. Even moving her eyes hurt.


    I don¡¯t want this.


    If she didn¡¯t move, she¡¯d slip under again, and this time-


    Help me. Help me, please.


    She blinked, and it seemed to last a lifetime. When she forced her eyes open, tears flooded her vision.


    She tried to move her arm, her leg, but could barely manage to wiggle her fingers.


    ¡®Please.¡¯


    Shock. You need a shock.


    How?


    With the effort of Atlast holding the world, she dug her thumbnail into her index finger, and while the pain registered, it was far away.


    Not enough. She needed something more.


    But there was nothing sharp in reach. Nothing that-


    Her eyes fell on Alexandria.


    Move or die.


    With feeble fingers, she cradled Alexandria¡¯s face, then pushed her against the metal leg of the coffee table.


    Old porcelain cracked.


    One shard fell into her palm, and without stopping to mourn the loss of her only friend, she dragged the sharp point down her other arm, from the back of her palm to her elbow, as deep as she dared.


    Blood, pain and screams came as her body woke up, the adrenaline enough to momentarily counteract the drugs in her system.


    Move.


    After a few false starts, she abandoned trying to get to her feet and instead settled for hand-and-knees to crawl into the kitchen.


    An old bottle of vinegar in a lower cabinet was stashed there for the rare times she felt like vinegar on her chips.


    She fumbled with the cap, then guzzled a deep mouthful - and immediately vomited it back up, bringing up some of what was in her stomach.


    Another drink, another patch of puke over herself and the floor.


    More and more, not stopping until she was retching nothing but bile.


    Her whole body shook as tears and snot ran freely down her face.


    I hate this. I hate this. I hate me. I hate this.


    Standing, she stripped down her underpants, stomping her dirty clothes into the puke so that she didn¡¯t slip on the kitchen tiles.


    Arm still bleeding, she slammed the kettle on and lined up every clean cup, pouring coffee and sugar in without regard to measurements.


    She retched more bile into the kitchen sink as the water boiled.


    I¡¯m a coward.


    There¡¯s no shame in that.


    After three cups of coffee standing at the counter, she topped up the travel mug and retreated to her bathroom.


    A shower so hot it burned. A lousy job of dressing the wound on her arm. A fluffy towel wrapped around her small, sad body.


    A couple of minutes on the internet said that she¡¯d probably be fine - that she should probably see someone with letters after their name, and-slash-or call a fucking ambulance, but-


    But that would be so many questions she couldn¡¯t answer. So many words she wouldn¡¯t be able to find.


    She drank deeply from the travel mug.


    There was what she couldn¡¯t do. What she couldn¡¯t consciously handle.


    And there was what she should probably do. What a sensible person would do, even if it was the worst thing they could imagine.


    ¡®I can¡¯t,¡¯ she whispered, imagining a hundred disapproving looks. Imagined men with white coats locking her away.


    But-


    But was that worse than-


    ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    Ten minutes of research, an app download and some set-up had a dead man¡¯s switch enabled.


    Alarms to check-in every half hour. And if she failed to address any of them - if the sleeping tablets had absorbed enough to yank her back under, her phone would call triple-o, and text-to-speech would request an ambulance.


    I hate this. I hate me. I hate-


    She hated the emptiness less than the nothingness.


    There was a glint of indigo light on her travel mug, something being reflected from elsewhere in the apartment. She reached for it and-


    Then. Now. Now. Then. Now-


    The couch was gone, and another colour had joined the colours of her small world¡¯s sky.


    Old tears mixed with new.


    And for a long time, all there was were tears.


    With what will she had, she conjured a soft bed under herself, and lost herself in the soft quilts, burying herself down deep in the world¡¯s laziest pillowfort.


    A facsimile of Alexandria - whole, not broken like in the memory, came into her arms, and she slept, holding the only person who cared about her.

 40 - The End of an Empty Life

    Time came, time went, and she couldn¡¯t get out of bed.


    Indigo. One more memory to go.


    And there was an inevitability about what Violet was going to show her - how her worthless little life had ended.


    And she hadn¡¯t been that different in the last memory.


    Part of it was the certainty that ran beneath the amnesia - facts that were just...solid, despite the holes in her Swiss-Cheese-Sam-Beckett memory. Attempting to take her life hadn¡¯t been that long ago, compared to when she¡¯d died.


    There¡¯d been so many...strains of nothing that had woven into that moment. Not reasons for, but more like...reasons against wanting to continue.


    And in the weeks - months at most - there couldn¡¯t have been that much of a change.


    Life - especially her life - didn¡¯t work that way.


    Bad things could happen in a blink. Good things took time.


    And Indigo had shown her that...there was nothing good in her life. Nothing-


    Nothing worth going back to.


    An empty apartment. No friends. No family. A life so empty she had a fucking ¡°what to do if you find my corpse¡± instruction manual on her entryway table next to return-to-sender mail.


    And that didn¡¯t seem worth going back to.


    All this time. All these...guideposts and memories. All of it should have been building to something. All of it should have- Been more than realising the only reason you were alive was because she¡¯d backed out at the last moment.


    No one had saved her. No one had held her and cried tears of joy that she hadn¡¯t kicked the bucket.


    The only person who knew even the tiniest bit of the event was her local doctor, who she¡¯d dragged herself to. Just to ensure that the cut on her arm wasn¡¯t infected and to get it dressed better than what she could manage with one hand.


    He¡¯d asked what had happened. She¡¯d told him she¡¯d been trying to unstick an old window, and her hand had gone through the pane.


    After a couple of probing questions, likely to see if she was being abused by a partner, he¡¯d nodded, redressed the wound and sent her on her way.


    A couple of sections had left light scars, but they seamlessly joined the choir of marred skin that the accident had left her with.


    In a kinder world, her family probably would have thrown some more money at her recovery. There probably wasn¡¯t much they could have done about the internal mess. Still, they could have at least left her with the ability to wear short sleeves around people without feeling self-conscious.


    Or wear a swimsuit without an oversized shirt to ¡°protect her skin from the sun¡±.


    They hadn¡¯t cared. No one had cared.


    And now, she was alone, awaiting the memory of her own death.


    ¡®This isn¡¯t fun anymore.¡¯


    She¡¯d hoped - wished - that at some point there¡¯d be happy memories, but as more and more of the puzzle pieces fell into place, there was less and less room for happiness. For a happy ending.


    If, when Violet came, it was just the end of all things; if this was the truth behind the ¡°life flashes before your eyes¡± belief, then it would be okay.


    If, when Violet came, she was expected to fight to live again, to scream until she could breathe, to pierce the veil back to the world of the living, then-


    Then there was no reason to do it.


    There was no reason to fight, just to go back to something she¡¯d-


    On the conspiracy board, the yellow flower sat pinned to some note she¡¯d made.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    She existed before this place. The memories proved that. The real world wasn¡¯t something born from a solipsistic mind.


    And the flower had been the only thing that had seemingly come from there. Everything else had been from her mind, her heart, her dreams and fears.


    The strange flower was the only thing that proved she wasn¡¯t the only being left in the world, that the universe hadn¡¯t died and left her behind.


    And the flower had felt like love.


    No one in her memories loved her.


    Her father had outright hated her, though most of the time, he¡¯d hidden it behind perfect posh politeness.


    A man so cruel that, after an incident at school, he¡¯d picked her up, driven her out into the country and beaten her bloody.


    A man so calculating that he¡¯d had his valet bring clean clothes for her to change into. There¡¯d been real anger as he¡¯d held her face to the burning heat of the car¡¯s hood, but enough restraint to stop after he felt he¡¯d ¡°made his point¡±.


    And her mother¡­


    That was more complicated. Her mother loved her - a sentence that was true if it came with an asterisk and a footnote. Her mother loved a version of her, the perfect, doll-like daughter that she expected.


    Compliant little Stephanie, who loved tea parties and ballet. Who smiled and wore velvet dresses and pinchy shoes without complaint.


    Mother would have hated Stef. Stef who used markers to colour woad onto dolls and who made Dr Moreau experiments with pieces of cut-up stuffed animals.


    Even before there¡¯d been a voice in her head, she¡¯d had to split herself into two.


    Neither of them would make the flower.


    Her mother couldn¡¯t, long since dead. And her father wouldn¡¯t piss on her if she was on fire.


    The rest of her family...to most of them, she was essentially just another face in the crowd. Not even that after they¡¯d paid her to GTFO.


    So that just left a couple of possibilities. One, that her memories was blocking out someone important - that was fairly believable.


    With chunks of memories dropping in like major game patches, there was a lot to sort through each time. As much as she tried to analyse, there had to be a million connections she hadn¡¯t made yet.


    The other possibility was that, somewhere in the short time between vomiting up bile until her throat had bled and however she¡¯d died, she¡¯d made a connection with a person.


    Somehow cracked her shell enough to make one goddamn friend.


    She dropped her head, kissed Alexandria on the head, and left her on the bed. With one more look down at the self-inflicted scars that had given her the shock sufficient to save her life, she walked towards the conspiracy board.


    The flower pulsed with light as she took it down, beating like a heart.


    All of this was magic. All of this was...her. She had some control over what happened - the objects she could summon, the fact that she¡¯d purposely invoked a couple of the memories. Here, at least, she had some agency, even if it had never felt like that in her real life.


    She laid the flower in her palm, spreading the petals out flat so that they laid like irregularly-spaced points on a compass.


    ¡®Give me a reason.¡¯


    Please.


    ¡®If I¡¯m not alone. If there¡¯s someone out there that gives a shit. If there¡¯s-¡¯ Her voice cracked. ¡®If someone-¡¯


    Anyone.


    ¡®-wants me. Show me. Give me-¡¯


    All but one of the petals went dark.


    ¡®Good enough for me.¡¯ She looked down. ¡®Come on, feet.¡¯


    She followed the petal like a compass. Out past the small camp of conjured objects. Away from everything she¡¯d built up over the time she¡¯d been inhabitating the world and out into the wasteland beyond.


    There was nothing but the soft dust beneath her feet and the swirling colours of the sky above.


    Slowly, the world ahead of her began to change, and something blipped onto the horizon.


    For a few steps, she thought it was a tree, then maybe a figure, but as her feet carried her forward, it became her reflection.


    Curved slightly, like a funhouse mirror, her reflection, this one without a flower in her hand, stared back.


    And if this was a fairy tale, there was only one obvious action.


    She lifted the flower to her lips, kissed it for good luck, then pressed it against the edge of the world, where it passed through into her reflection¡¯s hand.


    ¡®Give me a reason,¡¯ she said, her reflection mouthing along with her. ¡®Please.¡¯


    Her reflection distorted and elongated and- And it wasn¡¯t a reflection anymore- And-


    Her head snapped back, and she felt herself slam into the ground.


    She could- It wasn¡¯t seeing properly- Not really- Not- It was like sleep paralysis, when you couldn¡¯t open your eyes properly, when you couldn¡¯t move, but needed to scream. When whatever you saw was probably more dream than reality.


    And all she could see was- White. The folds of a pillow. An arm stretched ahead of her, lying on top of a blue cotton-


    Hospital.


    Her eyes rolled up into her head, and she felt like she was dying.


    Her arm-


    Her hand-


    Someone holding her hand.


    ¡®Please.¡¯


    Just like in Indigo, but reached. Whatever this was, whoever this was- If someone was beside her hospital bed, then-


    Her hand- The hand she could feel and the one she couldn¡¯t- And- She had two bodies- No body- She was made of glass, of stone, of-


    For the tiniest moment, she felt the warmth of a hand, then-


    She collapsed in on herself, choking and screaming, breathing in the powdery dust of her little world.


    But it had been real.


    And it had been enough.


    She stood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked back towards the edge of her world.


    Her reflection had changed. No longer was it just..her reflection. Instead, it was her, but- Like the mirror she¡¯d stepped into to remember the accident, this was another memory, waiting for her.


    The Stef in front of her- She couldn¡¯t see her properly. There were details that wouldn¡¯t fall into place until after the memory had finished.


    But she was happy.


    Impressions of blood settled into her mind, and even through that, the reflection!Stef smiled. And it was such a fragile smile, one that-


    Whether or not this was a memory of her death, something had happened to make her happy.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said and stepped into the mirror.

 41 - The Colour Spectrum

    There were a lot of questions that an agent had to ask over the course of their life that a human didn¡¯t have to.


    Most of those questions had answers in protocol or precedent.


    All of that aside, Ryan wasn¡¯t sure what level of celebration was appropriate for a birthday when the guest of honour could best be described as ¡°dead¡±.


    It apparently didn¡¯t give Merlin the same level of quandary as he had spent most of the morning decorating the lab. A hand-drawn birthday card sat on the rolling drawers beside Stef¡¯s bed, and a banner along the wall had joined it.


    Whatever he did, he knew he was going to wish he¡¯d done differently - if he went all-out, it would likely seem tasteless in hindsight, but he¡¯d regret a more low-key acknowledgement if she opened her eyes.


    And he so hoped that he was right.


    Everything was in place, so much as something like this could be predicted.


    All that was left was the violet memory, and that had to be the night of the mirrorfall.


    It was understated, but a small packet of chocolate-covered coffee beans sat behind Merlin¡¯s card - something he¡¯d picked up from the cafe Jane had taken him to. Simple, but hopefully, well-received.


    What he could give her was time.


    For the most part, the lab was empty - Jones did a few manual checks and tests each day, but largely, the data monitored itself.


    So it bothered no one if he sat with his comatose daughter and read stories from the leatherbound tome he¡¯d gifted to her the day before she¡¯d died.


    He held her hand loosely. Retelling - more from memory than reading the words on the page - the story of the star farmer, occasionally looking at Merlin as he lay on the floor, colouring in a large, poster-sized image.


    Everything was as it had been for weeks.


    And then the world tilted.


    Her hand squeezed his.


    It was a tiny movement, but it stopped the world. Stopped his breathing. Something that was half a scream and half tears of grief and relief stuck in his throat as he shot up from his chair, trying to leave his hand precisely as it was.


    ¡®Stef?!¡¯


    The pressure against his hand relaxed, her hand going slack against.


    His heart thundering in his chest, he pulled his hand from hers, leaned over her, and clasped her shoulders. ¡®Stef? Stef? Can you hear me? Please, can you-¡¯


    He turned away, desperate, unsure of what to do, feeling as though some moment, some opportunity was slipping away.


    A lifetime ago, he¡¯d held her soul with sheer force of will, and now, it seemed like he¡¯d let her slip.


    Merlin came into his view. ¡®Get your mother, please,¡¯ he said thickly, then turned back to Stef. ¡®Please.¡¯


    He gently cupped the side of her face, and looked for anything, feeling for the slightest breath, pulse, movement of sleeping eyes.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Nothing.


    One momentary twitch of her hand, and-


    He slumped back into his chair.


    There was a weight on his left arm, and he moved to accommodate it, his elbow adjusting to better bear the weight of-


    Of what he had assumed was Merlin.


    Of what-


    A scared toddler, clutching a doll, trusting him to protect her against the endless emptiness of Death¡¯s realm.


    ¡®Shh, shh,¡¯ he said, immediately moving to soothe the scared child, standing so that he could better-


    The weight disappeared, and a young girl in a bloody ballet outfit stood before him.


    Memory morphed from one to the next. A teen girl in a beautiful dress spun. Snippets from each of the aspects, flowing from one to the next, this time, in full colour, rather than a fraction of the rainbow.


    And finally, Stef - his Stef - stood before him, her uniform bloody.


    She held her hands up, and the shard of mirror that had taken her life laid across them. She held it gently, like a priceless artifact.


    ¡®Your wish,¡¯ she said, and the shard became a heart. ¡®Her life.¡¯


    It sounded like Stef, but it wasn¡¯t her.


    And this what he¡¯d been warned of, or close enough to it. The moment where-


    The moment where he had to trust her, to give her the choice, no matter what might come.


    ¡®It is a gift,¡¯ he said, ¡®given freely.¡¯ He swallowed. ¡®Given with love.¡¯


    The not-Stef nodded and faded away as her head rose back up.


    * * *


    Her uniform was bloody and torn.


    Her chest ached like she¡¯d been punched.


    And-


    The mirror had exploded. And-


    ¡®You¡¯ll be disorientated,¡¯ a kind voice said. ¡®Take a moment.¡¯


    Stef looked down at herself. Bloody, but not bleeding, a mess but one easily fixed. She held her head and required a clean uniform.


    The pain didn¡¯t go away, but at least she looked halfway presentable.


    A hundred thoughts, a hundred memories - the rest of her memories - all of her memories - every thought, every pain, joy, sorrow, sadness and hope of her life. Every-


    Everything.


    Shattered pieces of mirror twinkles overhead like stars.


    This wasn¡¯t the living rainbow world. This was-


    Below her, nothing, above her, nothing.


    In front of her, Death.


    And her presence was immediately comforting. Whatever was going to happen wouldn¡¯t hurt, wouldn¡¯t-


    ¡®Hi,¡¯ she managed. ¡®Um-¡¯ She hung her head. ¡®I don¡¯t- I think I should- You have a title or something, or-¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t need to genuflect as Ryan does.¡¯ Death stepped forward, touched her cheek and- And the touch was familiar.


    ¡®I-¡¯ She hadn¡¯t been alone in the wreck of the car. Someone had been-


    ¡®You were alone,¡¯ Death said like she was reading her mind. ¡®And I am allowed to be kind.¡¯


    She looked up and smiled. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said. ¡®For whatever that is worth, thank you.¡¯


    ¡®Gratitude never goes astray. You¡¯re a little more centred now, if I may address the current circumstances?¡¯


    Stef looked up at the twinkling shards. ¡®I monumentally fucked up, didn¡¯t I?¡¯


    ¡®That isn¡¯t how I would put it, but you may.¡¯


    She touched her chest. Shards of mirror in the air, a bloody uniform. One plus one was easy to calculate.


    ¡®What- What now?¡¯


    ¡®A wish was made for you, but it is up to you whether you accept it or not.¡¯


    Death indicated to her sore chest, and following the cue, Stef laid a hand over her heart - or what was left of it, or-


    ¡®It is a gift. Given freely. Given with love.¡¯


    Ryan¡¯s voice, clear as if he was in the room with them.


    ¡®You may-¡¯


    ¡®I accept,¡¯ she said, cutting Death off. ¡®I¡¯ll take it. Yes. Sign the terms and conditions. Whatever. I¡¯m in.¡¯


    So many endless moments and memories of a small life. Of years without anyone giving a shit about her. Of emotions so rusty she couldn¡¯t human anymore.


    All washed away by one suit-wearing magic secret agent.


    A man who wanted to call her family. Who wanted to encourage her. Mutual puzzles missing pieces. A storybook-perfect father with a century of wisdom and dad-isms with no one to impart them to.


    A couple of days of not feeling completely worthless.


    A couple of days of feeling like hope was a possibility, even for someone like her.


    And whatever it cost, it would be worth it.


    Death nodded. ¡®Then close your eyes, little one.¡¯


    Stef nodded. ¡®Okay.¡¯


    She felt a soft kiss on her forehead and gentle static as her body dissolved.


    Nothing became something, became the beep of hospital machines.


    The lingering impression of Death¡¯s soft kiss faded, replaced with a warm hand cupping her cheek.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    It was hard, but she opened her eyes.


    Bright glare faded as Ryan form blocked harsh fluorescents, and she was sure her tears mirrored his own.


    First words were so much more important than last words. And right now, there was only one thing she wanted to say, one thing that would hopefully cover everything her dry and scratchy throat wouldn¡¯t let her express.


    ¡®Hi, dad.¡¯

 42 - Birthday

    The hug was the only thing in the world.


    One arm cradled her head, one wrapped around her back, and both held her to a warm, strong chest.


    ¡®Are you all right?¡¯


    There was the stock answer you were supposed to give to that question. The ¡°yeah yeah, I¡¯m fine, nothing to see here, you don¡¯t want the real answer¡± polite deflection that most people expected.


    If a cashier asked that, you weren¡¯t supposed to give a real answer. They weren¡¯t paid enough to deal with the emotional dump from a stranger.


    If a magic secret agent man asked that after you¡¯d just been resurrected, you were probably supposed to give an honest answer.


    An honest answer was probably key in continuing to live.


    But the hug was so nice.


    She buried her head against his shoulder, eyes focussed on the blue of his vest and tie. The blue that had always kept her safe. The blue of the half-remembered dream that she¡¯d used to pull herself away from nothingness.


    He¡¯d always been there, protecting her from one tiny scrap of memory. So much more than her own family had ever done, infinitely more than her own father had ever done.


    Hell, compared to James, Ryan would probably use a fire extinguisher if she was on fire. Or some magic, fire-eliminating blue goop.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    A prompt to answer. A gentle inquiry in case she wasn¡¯t okay.


    ¡®Stop squishing me, and I¡¯ll try to figure it out,¡¯ she said.


    One more moment of hug, then a gentle ruffle of her hair before he retreated to an arm¡¯s length distance.


    Slowly, she took stock of herself. Toes wiggled like they were supposed to. There was pressure on her legs from the sheet and blanket covering her lower half.


    Lines ran into her arm, slightly squished and kinked from where Ryan had squeezed her like a stress ball.


    ¡®Parker¡¯s not gonna be happy with that,¡¯ she said, reaching to smooth out the first line.


    Halfway to the tubing, her arm froze.


    There was a weird, disconcerting void when an omnipresent background noise disappeared. When you finally turned off your computer, and the fan noise died, leaving you feeling that something was missing.


    And now that weird, sucking, missingness was inside her.


    Something was really weird and wrong and-


    She was so- Quiet. Still.


    She could hear the ambient sounds of the hospital room. The sound of taking in breath and-


    Her heart wasn¡¯t beating.


    She pressed both hands to her chest, felt the square pads of wireless monitors and-


    And no heartbeat.


    She threw her hands forward and clutched Ryan by the forearm.


    ¡®I think I need- I¡¯m having a heart attack or- Oh fuck this is weird-¡¯ Hot, panicky prickles ran shot out of her spine and neck. ¡®Make it stop- Start. Make it-¡¯ Her hands shook as she held onto the fabric of his suit. ¡®Please.¡¯


    ¡®Sir-¡¯ Ryan looked at the voice behind him. ¡®Sir- We need-¡¯


    ¡®All due respect, Director-¡¯ an arm in a lab coat wrapped around his chest and yanked him away. ¡®Out of our fucking way, unless you want to go back to the corpse edition of your recruit.¡¯


    The blond twin doctors replaced Ryan. The blunt on one her left, where Ryan had been, the normal one - her assigned doctor - on her right, accompanied by Jonesy.


    The mean Parker placed a hand on her forehead and shoved her back down into a lying position. ¡®If you like living, don¡¯t move.¡¯


    ¡®Be kind, dear,¡¯ the other twin responded.


    ¡®Stef.¡¯ Jonesy this time. ¡®Do you know Wardenclyffe Tower?¡¯


    ¡®What the fuck-¡¯ she started, her head lifting up a little to try and look at Jones, only to receive another medically-prescribed shove from Mean Parker. ¡®Ye-yeah?¡¯


    ¡®You know how it was destroyed?¡¯


    ¡®Uh-huh?¡¯


    ¡®Not so much,¡¯ Jones said. ¡®A facsimile was destroyed, but techs at the time didn¡¯t want to see this piece of history destroyed, so we have the original in storage. If you like, when you get discharged, I can put you on the waitlist to go see it.¡¯


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡®Jonesy?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, Recruit?¡¯


    ¡®Was it a death laser?¡¯


    ¡®No. But if that¡¯s your area of interest, then-¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ Nice Parker said.


    ¡®Yeah, I suppose that works,¡¯ Mean Parker agreed. He poked her forehead. ¡®So you¡¯re not having a heart attack, so relax.¡¯


    ¡®But-¡¯


    He waggled a finger in her face. ¡®Not done yet.¡¯ He sighed, required a clipboard, then turned to show her the image on it.


    It looked like an ordinary heart, with all of the associated veins and whatnot flowing in and out of it.


    He tore the page off, and the page below showed a love-and-junk heart shape, still connected to the surrounding veins and arteries and other blood tubes.


    ¡®This is what you¡¯ve got now,¡¯ he said, tapping the love heart. ¡®Blood goes in. Blood goes out. It¡¯s not-¡¯


    His kinder twin jumped in. ¡®The new heart seems to filter and circulate the blood without pumping.¡¯


    She sat up, slapping away Mean Parker¡¯s hand as he attempted to poke her forehead again. ¡®So oxygenation levels and-¡¯


    ¡®All normal,¡¯ Nice Parker said. ¡®Everything is happening normally, just without a biological metronome.¡¯


    That¡¯s the weirdest fucking way I¡¯ve heard someone describe an organ.


    The Parkers retreated halfway across the room to talk, and Jones stepped up, a thin pillow in his hands. ¡®Here, use this,¡¯ he said as he set it into her hands.


    The pillow beat with some soft internal mechanism, feeling enough like a heartbeat in her hands. She leaned forward, placed it behind her back, and leaned heavily against it.


    It helped a tiny bit.


    ¡®Can I-¡¯ She looked up at him. ¡®Another one, please?¡¯


    Jones obliged, and this one, she shoved up her shirt, pressing it against her cool skin.


    It wasn¡¯t really the same as having a heartbeat, but it was enough external stimulus to distract her. If she didn¡¯t think about it. If she could stop thinking about it.


    ¡®Thank god for your big brain,¡¯ she said to Jones as she finished adjusting the second pillow. ¡®To think of these-¡¯


    ¡®They¡¯re for kittens,¡¯ he said. ¡®To simulate a mother cat.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Then. Meow.¡¯


    ¡®Anything else you need to flag?¡¯ Jones asked. ¡®The twins and I will be running you through approximately ten billion tests, but right now, anything wrong?¡¯


    She closed her eyes and concentrated.


    All of her limbs seemed to be in the right place. Fingers and toes wiggled without issue. She¡¯d been carrying on a conversation, so that took care of hearing, seeing and speaking.


    Her brain was...everything seemed normal for her.


    All of the rainbow guideposts memories had done their job, and even those memories that hadn¡¯t quite reformed or she hadn¡¯t thought to remember seemed to be in place.


    Childhood. School. Travelling every year to have a white Christmas with the rest of the family. Buttercup. Ballet.


    Hospital. Her first kiss, her only kiss, given by Peter while they hid from their horrible nurse.


    School. Being alone. Drinking to keep her brain under control. Escaping her family. Starting her own life, a small life on her own terms.


    And then the Agency.


    Everything was there. All the good. All the bad.


    ¡®Need to test my taste buds,¡¯ she said. ¡®But nothing else is throwing up a red flag.¡¯ She paused. ¡®Huh. Shouldn¡¯t I be throwing up? Like, I didn¡¯t die on an empty stomach.¡¯


    ¡®We pumped your stomach,¡¯ Jones said. ¡®Otherwise, things would have been pretty nasty.¡¯


    Ryan approached slowly, leaned down, and picked up something from the bedside table. A little crinkly silver packet tied with a pink ribbon.


    ¡®Here,¡¯ he said, offering the packet. ¡®Try these.¡¯


    Jones excused himself and joined the Parkers - then all three of them moved to sit around a large bench in the middle room.


    Probably designing and drawing up the ten billion tests that she¡¯d be subjected to.


    It didn¡¯t matter. She was alive. If that meant getting her knees slammed with doctory hammers and giving pints of blood, it was a small price to pay.


    It¡¯s still weird to be happy to be alive.


    You can get used to it.


    ¡®Can you forgive me?¡¯ Ryan asked as she opened the packet and spilled chocolate-covered coffee beans into her lap.


    ¡®For- Huh?¡¯ She picked up a small handful and threw them into her mouth. ¡®I don¡¯t- Oooooh.¡¯ She picked up another, larger handful and held them to her nose, taking in the deep, rich smell. ¡®Oh, fuck, these are good.¡¯


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    She popped a single bean into her mouth and sucked the chocolate off it. ¡®Forgive you for what?¡¯


    ¡®Your heart- If I¡¯d been more careful in-¡¯


    ¡®Are you apologising for bringing me back to life? Cause if you regret-¡¯


    ¡®Not for a single second,¡¯ he said. ¡®But-¡¯


    ¡®If I can used to-¡¯


    Scars all over my body. A voice in my head. Magic being real.


    ¡®I know it doesn¡¯t look like it, but I¡¯m pretty good at adapting. This is just something new to get used to. I¡¯d rather this than, you know, the alternative.¡¯


    ¡®But I-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m supposed to be the wibbly mess. You¡¯re the big strong narc who knows everything. I¡¯m the idiot who breaks down when she can¡¯t put on socks properly. If you¡¯re glad I¡¯m here, then that¡¯s all that matters.¡¯


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t have made the wish if I-¡¯


    Two facts clicked together, and another jolt of panic ran through her. ¡®But you said- You¡¯re not supposed to make wishes. It¡¯s-¡¯


    Ryan took her hand. ¡®Shh. It¡¯s all right. All of this is sanctioned and above board. It was largely seeking forgiveness and not permission, but- Rank and long service allows for some wiggle room in how rules are applied. You¡¯re not in danger, neither am I.¡¯ He squeezed her hand, then took his hand back, looked at the chocolate stain on his palm, and wiped it away with a handkerchief.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know precisely what comes next,¡¯ he said. He indicated to the Parkers and Jonesy. ¡®There¡¯ll be a lot of input from your treatment team before you are even able to leave the building. After we¡¯re sure you¡¯re all right, there¡¯ll be discussions to be had and decisions to be made, but for right now¡­ For right now, I¡¯m just so happy to see you awake.¡¯


    She reached for him, and he pulled her into another hug.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said, tears falling against his suit. ¡®For everything. For this. For more than you know. For all the times- For so much.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re welcome.¡¯


    ¡®How long?¡¯ she asked after the tears finally stopped.


    ¡®A few weeks. It¡¯s October. Specifically-¡¯ he drew back a little and indicated to the coffee beans. ¡®Well, those are part of your birthday present. Today¡¯s the thirteenth. It¡¯s a little after one in the afternoon.¡¯


    Birthday. Huh.


    She did her best brain version of napkin math. Birthdays weren¡¯t exactly something she had made a habit of celebrating.


    ¡®So I¡¯m twenty-two. Okay, that¡¯s-¡¯


    Ryan coughed.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®Twenty-three.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Ah. Oops.¡¯ She tried to hide her embarrassment behind a grin. ¡®Close enough.¡¯ She picked up the beans and poured some more into her hand. ¡®These are amazing, by the way.¡¯


    ¡®They¡¯re from Fairyland. When you¡¯re discharged, I¡¯ll take you to the cafe.¡¯


    She nearly choked. ¡®This is magic coffee?¡¯


    ¡®Well, fae. I¡¯m not sure it has any intrinsically-¡¯ He stopped. ¡®Yes, it¡¯s magic coffee.¡¯


    She scooped up the beans she¡¯d spilled onto the bed and put them back in the silver packet. ¡®Gonna ration the rest of these,¡¯ she said and put them on the bedside table.


    A card was there.


    She picked up the card, smiled at the almost-in-the-lines crayon colouring, then read the sweet message inside.


    ¡®Jones¡¯ son Merlin,¡¯ Ryan clarified. ¡®I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯ve met him yet.¡¯

 43 - Cake

    In a way, the rest of the day was familiar.


    After the accident, she hadn¡¯t been in a coma - which was apparently Ryan and the others were referring to ¡°being dead for nearly a month¡±.


    No coma, but a long stretch without many memories. A long sleep, like a princess in a castle.


    After she finally had a longer period of wakefulness, the days had been filled with tests. Blood draws and tentative appointments with specialists to address what hadn¡¯t been sorted in the major surgeries.


    A lot of her doctors had been hesitant to give her details - assuming that either she wouldn¡¯t understand what was going on or that what information they could tell her would just cause further pain.


    Usually, there was some variety of adult present to filter this information to an injured child. Most weren¡¯t used to dealing with a kid on their own, who had a family covering the bills but who were largely disinterested in the day-to-day recovery updates.


    Her argument that she¡¯d read Gray¡¯s Anatomy had convinced a couple to use actual medical terms rather than breaking it down into toddler-level language. For others, it had resulted in little more than an eye roll and a disbelieving sigh.


    Her recovery team - which for now was just Jonesy and her assigned Parker - Parker-1.


    Parker-1 had explained that most sets of twin agents - as apparently twins were a rare-but-not-unique phenomenon had similar, simple ways of differentiating one from another. One and Two, Alpha and Beta, nothing so fun as Twin-Red and Twin-Blue or Twin-Always-Truth and Twin-Always-Lies.


    Parker-1 was a lot like most of the doctors who had treated her younger self, focussing on bedside manners and positive results.


    On the other hand, Jonesy was happy to give her tablets detailing the processes and tests that they were running when he had time.


    Ryan had stuck around for the first hour or so, but when she¡¯d repeatedly assured him that she was all right, he¡¯d left to do whatever grownup-with-a-real-job stuff that he¡¯d been neglecting to be with her freshly resurrected self.


    After one particularly massive round of scans and biopsies, both Jonesy and Parker-1 disappeared to do their tests and tabulate their results.


    ¡®I can keep you company,¡¯ Merlin said from his spot, sitting on the bench in the middle of the room.


    Merlin was something of an adorable anomaly - Jonesy had quickly introduced his son before they¡¯d started on the tests in earnest. Merlin had seemed quite comfortable sitting in weird places around the lab for the intervening hours, colouring or playing with various handheld consoles.


    Why a child - she assumed he was either a skinny ten year old or an underdeveloped tween - not that she was one to judge in that arena - was allowed to hang around while Top Secret work went on, she wasn¡¯t sure.


    But everyone had treated it as normal, so she hadn¡¯t bothered to voice the question out loud.


    ¡®Yes, please,¡¯ she said and moved to sit on one of the stools around the long bench.


    And apparently, she was Top Secret, or whatever the actual Agency designation for that was. She was above board in terms of being allowed to be alive, and Ryan had gotten his slap on the wrist for making a wish.


    But it was very much up in the air as to what came next.


    She pulled one of the unmarred colouring sheets from the pile of space-themed pictures and picked up a yellow marker to start on the stars.


    Right now, she was essentially under house arrest. She couldn¡¯t interact with any of the other recruits, not that there was a need to; she doubted anyone even remembered her. She¡¯d been there all of a minute, and then dead for weeks.


    There was probably some novelty in chatting to someone who had been marked as KIA, but beyond that, nothing.


    Not talking to people was easy - that was a skill she¡¯d honed over the years. Having restricted internet access, on the other hand... was harder.


    Jonesy had given her a pile of Agency tech to play with between the tests that he and Parker-1 had been doing. But all of them were in some sort of super-incognito mode. She could browse the net but not log into anything.


    While she was technically ¡°dead¡±, any activity on her accounts was a no-no.


    It was strange. In her little world of rainbow clouds, she¡¯d been unable to contact anyone or anything, alone with bits and pieces of her memory the lack of being able to lose herself in endless, pointless threads hadn¡¯t bothered her.


    And now, being unable to upvote or like a comment that added to a conversation seemed like an arm being tied behind her back.


    But colouring was nice and uncomplicated.


    She slowly worked her way through the rest of the magic coffee beans while working on the colouring page.


    All things considered, it was probably one of her better birthdays.


    Another hour went by, and she looked up as Merlin slipped off the table. ¡®I think that¡¯s for you.¡¯


    She followed his gaze to the back wall of the lab, a space that had been just storage and big equipment. All of that was still there, but now there was also a door.


    ¡®You think that¡¯s a bathroom, cause eventually, I¡¯m going to-¡¯


    The door opened, and a pretty woman with auburn hair in a messy bun opened the door. ¡®Good,¡¯ she said, ¡®you¡¯re both awake. Come on through.¡¯


    She stared at the woman for a moment - there was something immediately familiar about her. She was tall and thin, just like Jonesy; wearing the same Portal shirt that-


    The woman smiled.


    And she had the same vividly, electric green eyes.


    ¡®Hi, Mumma,¡¯ Merlin said and bounced into the woman¡¯s arms.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡®Jonesy?¡¯ Stef ventured.


    Jonesy nodded. ¡®Sorry, forgot you hadn¡¯t seen me in girl-mode.¡¯ Her eyes crinkled a little. ¡®Is-¡¯


    ¡®Have I fucked up on referring to you?¡¯ she asked quickly.


    Jonesy shook her head. ¡®Not at all. My pronouns are any-slash-all, I always answer to Jones, but I also like Andrea when I¡¯m feeling femme.¡¯


    ¡®And mum,¡¯ Merlin said.


    ¡®And always mum,¡¯ she agreed and kissed the top of Merlin¡¯s head. ¡®Anyway, come on through.¡¯


    Beyond the door was-


    Was a party.


    A round table covered in treats, a cake at the centre of it. Ryan stood behind the table, next to a handsome woman in a suit - though her tie was purple compared to Ryan¡¯s blue.


    Blue was apparently the colour for Oceania. She¡¯d seen agents with red as their feature colour - they were Americans, but she couldn¡¯t remember if she¡¯d been told about purple.


    But it was probably rude to just ask.


    She took a step forward and looked at the table, took in the small details of spun sugar, edible glitter, tiny cupcakes with perfectly piped icing.


    All of it was required, surely, but that didn¡¯t take away from the thought behind it. That someone had done this for her.


    That it was being done with love, not because it was expected. Not because it was a chance to one-up the goodie bags given out by some family friend.


    ¡®I hope this is all right,¡¯ Ryan said as he crossed the room to her. ¡®I know today has been a lot, but-¡¯


    She shut him up with a hug.


    ¡®It¡¯s perfect.¡¯


    ¡®You should cut this cake,¡¯ the woman said, her voice carrying notes of London, ¡®before this one explodes.¡¯


    She looked over and saw Merlin almost vibrating as he looked at the cake.


    ¡®Okay, okay,¡¯ she said, blinking back a couple of happy tears. ¡®Where¡¯s a knife?¡¯


    The woman pointed beside the cake to a ribbon-wrapped knife. ¡®Just there, love.¡¯


    Stef rounded the table and looked at the cake. It was a simple, three-tier naked cake, with just a hint of yellow colouring in the light coat of buttercream. Three simple candles sat on top, nestled amongst edible flowers.


    ¡®I feel hesitant,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®to say ¡°make a wish¡±.¡¯


    She grinned and blew out the candles, carefully keeping her mind blank. ¡®There,¡¯ she said, ¡®we¡¯re safe.¡¯


    She cut the first slice, the lines wonky, plopped it onto a plate offered by Jones, then handed the knife over to Ryan, who cut much tidier pieces.


    ¡®Jane,¡¯ the woman said to introduce herself. ¡®And it¡¯s lovely to meet you.¡¯


    She had to stop herself from dropping a curtesy. Jane¡¯s voice sounded so much like her mother¡¯s that it was pulling on the old, rusty levers.


    ¡®Nice to meet you,¡¯ she said, holding herself together.


    Cake was distributed, and everyone found a chair.


    ¡®This, unfortunately, has to count somewhat as a working dinner,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®Inasmuch as we¡¯ve somewhat worked out the schedule for the next few days.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve got any more blood to give,¡¯ she muttered, then filled her mouth with cake.


    ¡®I could test that theory,¡¯ an almost familiar voice said.


    Stef turned towards where Merlin and Jones sat and saw the scary-pretty-goth-recruit girl picking a cupcake off Merlin¡¯s plate. ¡®He insisted,¡¯ Magnolia said and scruffed Merlin¡¯s hair. ¡®I¡¯m just here for cake.¡¯ She licked frosting from her thumb. ¡®And I count as representing combat for this whole situation.¡¯


    ¡®Aide access,¡¯ Ryan clarified as Stef turned back to him. ¡®Now. Jones and your doctor will be doing some more tests. We need to establish your new baselines, should they be any different to what they were before. We also need to-¡¯ Ryan paused and looked down at a largely-untouched plate of food. ¡®We need to understand the parameters of your mirror before other decisions can be made.¡¯


    ¡®That sentence needs more context,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®People who have pieces of mirror inside of them tend to fall into a couple of different camps,¡¯ Jane said. ¡®Sometimes mirror just powers an ongoing wish and can¡¯t do anything else without being deliberately interacted with. Others can make wishes as they please, depleting their reserves with each use, of course. There are some edges cases, of course, some people who can do a mixture, which makes things more complicated. Right now if we can drop you into Category A or B, we can start to make a host of other decisions.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve wished for anything today.¡¯ She paused. ¡®But I don¡¯t think I really tried to either.¡¯


    ¡®No time like the present,¡¯ Jane said. ¡®But make it something small, all right?¡¯


    Stef cupped her hands and closed her eyes.


    I wish for a five-cent piece.


    She cracked one eye open - there was nothing in her hands.


    I really, really wish for five cents. Please.


    Still empty.


    She looked up and realised that everyone in the room was paying attention to her. ¡®Nothing,¡¯ she said. ¡®Genie rules, I guess, I¡¯ll have to rub it to make anything happen.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s what she said,¡¯ Magnolia snarked before stealing something else off Merlin¡¯s plate.


    ¡®Yeah, I- Huh?¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s good and bad in different ways,¡¯ Jane said, grabbing her attention away from Mags. ¡®It means you¡¯re less likely to accidentally wish for the end of the world, and that¡¯s something we can all appreciate.¡¯


    ¡®And the downside?¡¯


    ¡®It means if and when the situation calls for it, you¡¯re going to have to cut into your chest, and that¡¯s not going to be pleasant.¡¯


    ¡®Not that doing such a thing should be your first, third or even tenth impulse,¡¯ Ryan said, his voice serious. ¡®Mirror isn¡¯t an exact science, but the amount you¡¯re carrying seems to be in excess of what is needed to keep you-¡¯ There was the briefest pause. ¡®Up and about. But we don¡¯t know what will happen if you do make a wish. It could be that there will-¡¯ He stopped and smiled. ¡®I¡¯m sorry, this isn¡¯t the conversation you expected to accompany cake.¡¯


    The fact that she could do more than just smile politely and chirp little rote phrases like a trained bird was a definite improvement over most of the birthdays she remembered.


    But that was too depressing to bring up.


    ¡®It¡¯s important,¡¯ she said, ¡®and cake makes it easier. Keep going.¡¯ She leaned closer, grabbed his fork and stabbed it into the cake. ¡®So long as you actually eat some of this too.¡¯


    He took the fork and dutifully ate the soft, fluffy sponge. ¡®Better?¡¯


    ¡®Much. Now. Just lay it out. I think I get where you¡¯re going with this, but I don¡¯t want to assume anything.¡¯


    Ryan looked down at his plate, cleared some space around the cake, then indicated to it with his fork. ¡®Imagine that this is your heart.¡¯


    ¡®I mean, I am eighty-six per cent sugar, so it¡¯s not hard.¡¯


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    ¡®Yessir.¡¯


    Jane snickered, then hid behind a cup of coffee.


    ¡®So far as we know, everything you are, your memories, your soul, all that makes you yourself, is in your heart.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, following.¡¯


    ¡®What we don¡¯t know is how that¡¯s distributed through the mirror if such a description makes sense. We don¡¯t know if, for example-¡¯ He used his fork to carve off a corner. ¡®That were to happen, you would lose a specific memory, for example, or if the-¡¯ He seemed to look for a word. ¡®Density would adjust, and you would be fine until you lost too much mirror.¡¯


    ¡®So avoid making too many wishes unless it¡¯s the end of the world?¡¯


    ¡®That would be the safest course of action, yes.¡¯


    ¡®Am I gonna get back my ability to require?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, of course.¡¯


    ¡®Then I should be fine.¡¯


    Jane¡¯s phone chirped, and she turned it to show Ryan. ¡®Here¡¯s your namesake with the new foal.¡¯ She smiled at Stef. ¡®That¡¯ll be two birthdays I¡¯ll have to remember for next year.¡¯


    Foal. The word pulled on more old levers, but most of these were happy. ¡®Can- Can I see?¡¯


    ¡®Of course,¡¯ Jane turned the phone, and she saw a man standing with a gangly little roan foal. ¡®You¡¯ve got some interest in animals, then?¡¯


    ¡®I did dressage when I was younger,¡¯ she said. ¡®but my-¡¯ She took a mouthful of cake to give herself a moment to think of a nice lie, rather than the ugly truth. ¡®But we sold the horses to some of my mum¡¯s cousins, and I got stuck doing ballet instead.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re welcome to come see my collection,¡¯ Jane said. ¡®I know you¡¯re barely back in the world, and there¡¯s a lot of work ahead of you, but I think I can bully Crawford into giving you a half-day pass if we take the right precautions.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®I may make you muck out the stables in return though.¡¯


    Stef pressed her palms flat to her thighs to force herself to have a normal reaction. ¡®That would- Just be- Be just fine. Thank you.¡¯


    Doing the dirty work that came with the horses had been the best part of that whole part of her life. Looking prim and proper on Buttercup, of being the perfect little doll in a hard hat had belonged to Stephanie.


    Accidentally stepping in horse poop and getting covered in straw and dust. Making the muscles on her arms burn as she brushed Buttercup¡¯s coat to a silky shine. Those moments had belonged to Stef.


    Wonderful, fleeting moments. All too few and all too long ago.


    She looked up to Ryan. ¡®Can I?¡¯


    ¡®If your schedule with Jones permits, I¡¯m sure we can spare a few hours.¡¯


    ¡®With that, I think I¡¯ll take my leave,¡¯ Jane said. After a quick round of goodbyes, she shifted out of the room.


    ¡®That¡¯ll be us too,¡¯ Jones said and lifted a sleepy Merlin from his chair.


    ¡®Then I¡¯ll fuck off too,¡¯ Magnolia said but grabbed one more cupcake from the table.


    ¡®Thanks for coming,¡¯ she mumbled to the guests as they all left.

 44 - Lineage

    ¡®I hope this was-¡¯ Ryan started.


    ¡®You don¡¯t have to keep saying shit like that,¡¯ she said, ¡®or apologising, or whatever. I don¡¯t think you know how far above the baseline of every single fucking person in my life you are.¡¯ She pulled the crinkled silver packet of coffee beans from her pocket. ¡®Why¡¯d you get these?¡¯


    Ryan blinked and looked a little surprised at the question. ¡®Well, in the time I¡¯ve known you, you seem to have drunk an inordinate amount of-¡¯


    ¡®Cause you know I like coffee. Exactly. You got me something you thought I would like. And, to reiterate, I did. Last birthday present I got from my family? Diamond earrings.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m operating at a disadvantage, but I would wager they¡¯re not your style?¡¯


    She smiled and raised her eyebrows. ¡®Worse than that. C¡¯mon, Mister Narc, let¡¯s see if you can see what¡¯s really wrong with it?¡¯


    The answer came almost immediately. ¡®You don¡¯t have pierced ears.¡¯


    ¡®Mm-hmm,¡¯ she said and flicked one of her earlobes. ¡®That¡¯s what my family is like. You give presents because you¡¯re expected to, even if you don¡¯t like the person you¡¯re giving them to. So, for everyone on the shit list, some employee gets a name and a budget, and gifts approximately suitable for your age and gender show up via courier.¡¯ She crinkled the plastic. ¡®So this means more than a hundred little green boxes, okay?¡¯


    ¡®I do have something else for you, though you¡¯ll have to thank Jones as well.¡¯ He stood and retrieved a small control tablet from near the light switch.


    She¡¯d seen it when looking around the room but had assumed it was to control the air conditioning and-


    There was a brilliant sunset over a perfect ocean out the window.


    ¡®Huuuh-uh?¡¯


    The ocean slid to the side like it was in a slideshow, and became a swirling nebula, then a redwood forest, then the bright lights of some city, then finally, back to the view of early evening Brisbane that it had been the rest of the party.


    ¡®That¡¯s not a real window,¡¯ he clarified as he pressed the tablet into her hands. ¡®As we don¡¯t know where your office or suite will end up, they¡¯re currently in placeholder positions without real views. Speaking of which.¡¯ He pointed off to the side, at a door she hadn¡¯t taken any notice of.


    She wiped her mouth with a napkin, pushed back from the table, then walked across the room to open the door.


    It led into what seemed to be a copy of the recruit dorm room he¡¯d given her on the first night in the-


    Frankie sat on the bedside table.


    ¡®Is this my original room? Like, unlucky thirteen?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®We¡¯ve replaced that room with a fresh dorm and simply moved this one to attach to the office space outside.¡¯


    She tilted her head at him. ¡®I had like, four things in that room. That seems like a lot of effort.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s less effort than you might imagine. And for all the changes and upheavals you¡¯ve gone through, I thought any small part of familiarity might do you good.¡¯


    She pulled open the fridge and found the last remains of the fae candy she¡¯d gotten as a recruit. ¡®Nice!¡¯ she cheered quietly, then laid the coffee bean packet beside them - both could serve as a midnight snack later.


    Ryan retreated from the room, then returned a moment later with the phone that Jonesy had given her. ¡®You will get your ability to require back,¡¯ he said. ¡®Probably tomorrow, there are some precautions to be taken to ensure that everything works fine with the mirror. Until then.¡¯ He handed over the phone, and there was an app labelled as ¡°Requisitions¡± open.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Largely it looked like a chat interface, with a dropdown box above the chat input box. ¡®We use this with some contractors and others who can¡¯t be given requiring rights for various reasons. Put your need in here, and it¡¯ll be processed relatively quickly. Common items can be found through the menus. For custom items, describe it to the best of your ability. It won¡¯t be as bespoke as personal requiring, as it¡¯s simply designed as a stopgap measure. Give it a try.¡¯


    She clicked on the dropdown arrow, which opened a list with a search feature.


    She adjusted her thumbs and typed in ¡°water¡±. The list revised itself, giving popular results at the top, then the start of an alphabetical list of every pre-programmed requirement containing the word ¡°water¡±.


    She clicked on the option for a bottle of water, then the request icon.


    The bottle appeared on the bedside table next to Frankie four seconds later.


    ¡®For small objects,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®they tend to appear on the closest solid surface. Larger objects will appear on the ground within a one-metre radius of the person requesting it, unless otherwise specified.¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®I know all of this is a lot,¡¯ he said, ¡®is there anything you need me to answer, anything you need- Well, anything you need?¡¯


    ¡®It was a lot,¡¯ she said as she sat cross-legged on the bed, passing the bottle of water from one hand to the other. ¡®Like, a lot, a lot. But- But the further I get from it, minute by minute, it starts to seem like a dream. Like, you know the biggest, weirdest dream you can have, and when you wake up, you think about it for hours, imagine a movie franchise or doorstopper trilogy about it, then you like, walk into another room, and suddenly it¡¯s all gone?¡¯


    There was a strange look on his face.


    ¡®I said something so weird it broke your programming again, didn¡¯t I?¡¯


    He sat beside her. ¡®Not quite.¡¯


    ¡®Then what?¡¯ she asked as she started to scroll through the option for ¡°cookies¡±.


    ¡®I haven¡¯t dreamed in decades. No agent has.¡¯


    She spun a finger clockwise in the air next to him. ¡®Rewind, expand and elaborate.¡¯


    ¡®The simple version for now,¡¯ he said after a moment. ¡®We¡¯re generated - born - with the ability to dream. But, a long time ago, the world was threatened. A being, a force so old, so colossal it could wipe out the world without effort. It needed to feed. Instead of consuming fae and humanity, the Agency offered itself up. A-¡¯ his mouth twisted in distaste. ¡®...meal, like that, substantial as it was, wouldn¡¯t have been enough to satisfy Sol for long, so instead, with the assistance of the Lost-¡¯


    ¡®The whomst?¡¯


    ¡®Another time,¡¯ he reassured her. ¡®A way for it to subsist on dreams was devised, and from that day until it dies, the dreams of every agent will fuel him.¡¯


    ¡®And that¡¯s the simple version?¡¯


    He nodded sadly.


    She hugged his closest arm. ¡®I could tell you all my weird and fucked up dreams if you like.¡¯


    He gave her an inscrutable look that she was sure was supposed to be the polite, silent version of ¡°abso-fucking-lutely-not¡±.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry though,¡¯ she said as she rested her head on his arm. ¡®That¡¯s got to suck.¡¯


    ¡®There was one more element to the deal that was harder,¡¯ he said. ¡®As a show of good intent to honour the deal, both the Lost and Agency had to give several hostages over. Permanently asleep, permanently dreaming. My director, the real director of this agency, was one of those chosen in the lottery. So it may be a long time, if ever, before you get to meet your-¡¯ there was the slightest pause. ¡®Grandfather, I suppose, though I think he would abhor the term, with the reasoning that it makes him seem old.¡¯


    That was the first real time the topic of family and titles had come up. Somehow its importance easily eclipsed the fact that there was some temporarily satiated Galactus-level threat.


    ¡®Grandfather,¡¯ she echoed. A hundred ways to broach the following words surfaced, then got sucked back under and drowned.


    She uncoupled their arms and resumed passing the water bottle from hand to hand. ¡®I know what you said before I accidentally offed myself, and- And-¡¯ She whispered a tiny ¡°fuck¡± under her breath and stared down at her hands. ¡®You know what I¡¯m- You¡¯ve had weeks to reconsider if I¡¯m too much trouble, or if- Maybe you just felt really sorry for me in the moment and didn¡¯t mean-¡¯


    She¡¯d said two words when she¡¯d first opened her eyes. ¡°Hi, dad.¡± Two words that had felt so very true had encompassed the world and everything she¡¯d wanted to say.


    But maybe he wanted to back out. Didn¡¯t want a problematic child. Didn¡¯t want-


    But he¡¯d said ¡°grandfather¡± without prompting.


    But she still needed to know.


    Needed to hear it in plain, uncomplicated words. Needed to guard her heart in case she needed to withdraw back into herself again. Be alone again. Be-


    ¡®Throughout all of these weeks, whenever it mattered, whenever I felt it could give you any help or advantage, I asked that you be treated as my daughter.¡¯ A warm hand laid on hers, and she dropped the bottle into her lap. ¡®Because that¡¯s what you are, Stef, if you still need me.¡¯


    ¡®Of course I fucking do,¡¯ she said around tears. ¡®I just wanted- I still don¡¯t get what you see in me.¡¯


    ¡®And if I do my job right, one day, you¡¯ll stop asking that question.¡¯

 45 - Prim and Proper

    Scan after scan. Blood, hair and various biopsies. Tests that focussed on her human self. Tests that focussed on the solid chunk of magic in her chest.


    The kitten pillows helped somewhat with the hollow, voidy feeling inside her, but just a bit. They weren¡¯t a long term solution, but they helped in the really bad moments.


    It was like getting used to a weird texture or taste when you had no choice but to endure it. When she¡¯d tried to verbalise it to Jones, she¡¯d simply nodded, commented ¡°bad stim, gotcha,¡± and promised to keep the heartbeat pillows coming whenever she needed them.


    With movement, it was still basically house arrest - the lab, her office and her dorm room. In a weird way, it was almost like being back in her pre-Agency days, where the walls of her apartment tended to be all she saw for days on end.


    At least there was the cool magic window, which could give her any time of day at any location on Earth with the tap of a few buttons.


    Some were preprogrammed loops, but as she dug deeper into the options, she found that some were basically live webcams of her selected location.


    Mostly though, she kept it on one of the space loops or warm morning sunbeams.


    As much as she hated the outside world with the power of a thousand suns, the gentle light from a single sun was nice sometimes.


    And it almost became a ritual for Merlin to join her in the afternoon for a sacrilegiously casual high tea, where they both sat on the floor and yoinked sandwiches from a multi-tiered silver serving stand.


    It was weirdly calming to be around Merlin. Part of it dredged up memories of being at the kiddie tables of various weddings and events her parents had dragged her to, where she got to look good simply by virtue of being next to children who had to be persuaded that drawing over the tablecloths was a bad idea.


    And some of it was the impression that he¡¯d had even more of a fucked up life than she had. There was a story or twelve behind the innocent eyes and oversized clothes. Still, she was sure she hadn¡¯t unlocked enough friendship points with Jonesy to even bridge that conversation yet.


    All that she knew was that they had both been lucky enough to get second-chance parents, and both of them were far better for it.


    She munched on a cucumber and bacon sandwich, leaned against the window wall, and went back to reading through the forum that belonged to the self-titled ¡°mirror mutants¡±.


    It had given her relief beyond words to find out that she was far from the only one who¡¯d had a ¡°reflective encounter¡±, as most of the mutants tended to call it.


    There were several threads that amounted to ¡°tell us your superhero origin story¡± or ¡°describe your powers, and would you swap with the person above you¡±.


    With super ¡°officially mostly dead¡± mode engaged, she was stuck with read-only access. Still, even with a layer of separation, there was camaraderie to be had.


    ¡®May I come in?¡¯


    Ryan¡¯s voice from the door that went from her office to the lab.


    She looked up at him, finished the last bite of sandwich, and tilted her head. ¡®You have an open invitation, or have I not made that clear?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s polite,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®He¡¯s very polite,¡¯ Merlin confirmed, then blew bubbles in his milkshake.


    She patted a spare patch of floor. ¡®Business or snacks?¡¯


    ¡®The former, unfortunately.¡¯


    ¡®Okies,¡¯ Merlin said and started to gather up his things.


    ¡®I don¡¯t have any more blood to give Jonesy. She¡¯s been a goddamn vampire today.¡¯


    ¡®A necessity, unfortunately.¡¯ He stopped short as Merlin gave each of them a squishy hug before heading out through the lab.


    ¡®So if it¡¯s not blood, what am I in for?¡¯


    ¡®Finish up your lunch while I explain,¡¯ he said.


    She ticked a little salute and crammed two more tiny sandwiches into her mouth.


    ¡®I¡¯m fairly sure that you never got a chance to question the organisational structure of the Agency at large. You know here that I¡¯m interim director-¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, I don¡¯t know who you report to, or whatever.¡¯


    ¡®For most day-to-day operations, it¡¯s a relatively linear structure. Agents report to directors, directors to regional directors, and so on. Most of the time, you only deal with one rank above yourself.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, got it so far.¡¯


    ¡®Situations that aren¡¯t everyday¡­¡¯ he trailed off and indicated to her. ¡®A different hierarchy is employed. For your particular case, a man named Enforcer Crawford was brought in. It¡¯s a simplistic analogy, but you can think of enforcers as internal affairs. Unlike someone in the linear order, they¡¯re independent to the Agency where the case is. Impartial. Generally impartial. Crawford knew Reynolds, so it¡¯s very likely that things fell in their favour more so than if someone else had taken the case. The same with Jane being my advocate.¡¯


    She contemplated the tiers of leftover pastries. ¡®That, um, sounds a bit like corruption. Just a tiny bit.¡¯


    ¡®Perhaps,¡¯ he allowed. ¡®Whatever Crawford decreed was backed up by whomever he reports to, so what happened was within the letter of the law. And I can¡¯t say that I¡¯m ungrateful that things had a good outcome.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, so... what¡¯s happening now?¡¯


    ¡®Crawford needs to meet with you, and discuss what comes next. He¡¯ll be here in an hour, so I wanted to give you a head¡¯s up of what to expect and to get ready.¡¯


    Fuck.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    She shot to her feet, tugged at his shoulder. ¡®Come on, then, you¡¯re a quicker vending machine than typing everything out.¡¯


    Her feet carried her into her dorm room, where she grabbed a few things from the wardrobe and dumped them on the bathroom vanity.


    She came back out into the main room and pointed back to the bathroom. ¡®Fresh uniform, fresh shoes, please.¡¯ She walked in and closed the door three-quarters of the way, chocked with a slipper so that she could still hear him.


    ¡®Keep going,¡¯ she said and started to strip out of her soft pants and t-shirt. ¡®What do I need to know?¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s a reasonable man,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®That much should be obvious.¡¯


    She kicked her dirty clothes into an empty space next to the shower, then quickly scrubbed her face before wiping it with one of the Agency¡¯s signature truly fluffy towels.


    ¡®What does he expect me to say?¡¯


    Socks. Pants. Fresh camisole tucked into pants. Shoes.


    She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was damp from where she¡¯d washed her face, and-


    Fuck.


    This was precisely the kind of meeting where Stephanie-mode would be beneficial. Prim. Proper. Put together. A perfect pull-string doll that only said the right things.


    She walked over to the door and cracked it open, now decent enough that the block wasn¡¯t necessary. ¡®Vending machine?¡¯


    ¡®Yes?¡¯


    ¡®I need some makeup. I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s a basic kit requirement or whatever. Foundation, powder, nudes palette, that kind of shit.¡¯


    ¡®Is that what you want, or what you think is expected?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got eyes, right? If I¡¯m gonna go to a meeting that¡¯s going to decide the rest of my life or whatever, then- Then I gotta be better than this.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll need the rest of your uniform, and doing something with your hair wouldn¡¯t go amiss, but-¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy wears makeup, Jane¡¯s stunning, you look like someone ran handsome-dad-dot-exe and I¡¯m- Like- A fucking gremlin.¡¯


    Ryan grabbed her arm and led her to the chair at her desk. ¡®Sit,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®Yessir,¡¯ she grumbled, then felt the sour look on her face fade as he started to brush her hair.


    ¡®Crawford knows the results of your few days as a recruit. He knows how you scored in the placement tests. He¡¯s got personal statements from the agents who interacted with you. Do you think a little lipstick will matter one way or another?¡¯


    ¡®It does in the real world.¡¯


    ¡®Things are a little different here,¡¯ he said as he brushed her hair back, jerking her head a little with each pull. ¡®Do you think I judge Jones¡¯ ideas and input by how fashionable he looks on any particular day?¡¯


    ¡®Probably not,¡¯ she admitted as he clipped it all back with a slim butterfly clip.


    Hair in place, she felt a tingle on her skin as her shirt, tie and vest materialised.


    Ahead of her, a full-length mirror appeared.


    ¡®You look fine,¡¯ he said as she stood to inspect herself.


    She still looked like a gremlin, but...a tidy one, at least.


    ¡®Fine,¡¯ she said. ¡®I¡¯ll defer to your wisdom. What¡¯s he going to ask me? What answers do I need to cram?¡¯


    Ryan cocked his head towards the door, and she followed him back out to the office, where a number of folders had appeared on the round table.


    ¡®I know Jones has given you access to some information about your peers, but I think laid out like this might make some of the numbers more obvious.¡¯


    She cracked the corner of one of the files, which contained a list of names. ¡®Are one of these ¡°taken behind the chemical sheds and shot¡±?¡¯


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    He sat opposite her. ¡®The threat of the mirror hasn¡¯t gone away. It¡¯s currently being used in a benign way, but anyone could take it and use it against us or the world. That¡¯s something that has to be taken into account, so as a baseline, you¡¯ll need to make some rather binding agreements not to act against the Agency¡¯s interests.¡¯


    ¡®I mean, I figured that was step one of being a recruit.¡¯


    ¡®It will be down to his judgement, but some of the people here are grey-listed.¡¯ He held up a hand to forestall her question. ¡®People like Solstice are black-listed, essentially amounting to ¡°shoot on sight¡±, those who are deemed to be active threats to the Agency.¡¯


    ¡®Ipso facto, grey list is a step down from that?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®People who could become threats, or who have been threats and granted conditional leniency. It varies from person to person and the specifics of their history, but more or less it¡¯s a ¡°strike¡± system before they¡¯re put on a black list. You¡¯ll find most ex-Solstice recruits are on the grey list. Some earn their way off it, others remain on it.¡¯


    ¡®The fuck was his-¡¯ she snapped her fingers. ¡®Curt. Is he on a list?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, he¡¯s grey-listed.¡¯ Ryan looked awkward for a moment. ¡®After you¡¯re done with Crawford, there¡¯s a few other things we need to discuss, but let¡¯s focus for the moment.¡¯


    ¡®Me, focus?¡¯ She tried to avoid his stare. ¡®Okay, trying.¡¯


    ¡®First, I think he¡¯ll ask you a question, one I think is a foregone conclusion. Do you want to keep working with us? As a recruit, or in another capacity, as he deems fit?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, of course.¡¯


    ¡®The leads us to, generally, one of three categories. Those that remain fully human, those that are partially augmented, and those that are fully converted into agents.¡¯


    ¡®The- Fuck- What?¡¯ she asked, sentences fighting for space in her brain and mouth.


    Ryan gave a nod, as if such a small feature was an appropriate way to acknowledge the mind fuck of the century.


    ¡®I mean-¡¯ Thoughts were still fighting for space. ¡®Uhhhhhh-¡¯ she closed her mouth as the sound degraded into verbal static.


    A small smile settled onto his face. ¡®I¡¯m happy to say that this is almost the exact reaction I expected.¡¯


    ¡®More info now, pls.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s unlikely that you¡¯ll get to choose which of the three paths he ultimately decrees, but the fact that you¡¯re open to-¡¯


    ¡®Do you know how cool it would be? I mean, I figured I would die before uploading brains became a thing, and- Okay, well, technically I did, but- I mean, like, plugging me into the fucking Matrix to let me jam with the console cowboys in cyberspace is pretty much my dream.¡¯


    Immediately, she shut her mouth and stared down at the table, at the files in front of her, opened the closest one and started to read through the names.


    ¡®I wish you wouldn¡¯t do that.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry, I get carried away, and-¡¯


    He reached across the table and laid a hand on hers. ¡®Not the excitement, the way you shut down afterwards.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a-¡¯ She tried to focus on the names, but they blurred. ¡®I¡¯m not supposed to speak out of turn. I¡¯m supposed to stay where- Where I¡¯m expected to be.¡¯ She slipped her hand from under his and started to press her fingernails into her thighs. A little pain in exchange for concentration. A little- ¡®If I do something unexpected- I mean, James locked his library most of the time so I didn¡¯t get into the good books. There¡¯s no point in getting excited cause either it won¡¯t happen, or it¡¯s something I¡¯m not supposed to-¡¯


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    She kept staring at the table. ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®Stef, look at me.¡¯


    I¡¯m scared to.


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®Alexander hated every mention or indication that I was artificial, as it made him feel less than human. You...I feel as though if you found one of the emergency dump tanks of blue you would go for a swim.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m pretty sure I could use the require app to get an old-timey swimsuit.¡¯


    ¡®Stef-¡¯


    ¡®I mean, do you want to tell me the precise coordinates of these vats or-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re deflecting, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®And you¡¯re being too nice, Narc.¡¯ She lifted her head enough so that she was looking at his chest. Looking him in the face was too much right now, so this would have to do for a compromise.


    She rested her face on her hand. ¡®You don¡¯t- I don¡¯t think you know how fragile this all feels to me. Like I¡¯m on fucking glass - ice - something that¡¯s going to shatter and I¡¯m going to be worse than before- I had balance before. It wasn¡¯t great. But- But I was used to what I had. If I lose what I have now-¡¯ Tears blurred her vision. ¡®I¡¯m not that strong.¡¯


    ¡®I hope you know me well enough to know that I¡¯m not a cruel man.¡¯


    ¡®It doesn¡¯t seem to be part of your programming.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t promise what will happen today, tomorrow, or in the future. I know a lot of parents make the promise that they¡¯ll never leave - that¡¯s always struck me as a cruel promise that only sets their children up to take their loss all the harder when it happens. Life¡¯s fragile. That¡¯s not something I need to tell you. I won¡¯t promise you that I¡¯ll be around forever. I can¡¯t promise that life will always be easy. What I can say is that I can foresee very few reasons I would choose to leave.¡¯


    He stood, rounded the table, and knelt beside her, slowly spinning her chair so that she was facing him. ¡®We¡¯re both taking a chance, but so few people get a second chance at a family that I think it¡¯s a gamble worth pursuing, don¡¯t you?¡¯


    She leaned forward, wrapped both hands around his neck, and planted her face into his shoulder, the hug of a small child hoping a parent could protect them from the world.


    The hug of someone who desperately needed to hope that happy endings - or at least happy beginnings - existed.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ she said, her voice shaking, ¡®I¡¯ll try. I promise I¡¯ll try.¡¯

 46 - Decisions

    With ten minutes until Crawford was due to arrive, Ryan left, giving her one last ¡°good luck¡±.


    They had tidied the office area, making everything as presentable as possible. Ryan had assured her she looked fine - and a quick trip to the bathroom mirror backed up his words, showing her that she was probably as presentable as was possible.


    Stef looked at the clock. Five minutes to go.


    She opened the requiring app and set up a carafe of water with a few glasses - there was no knowing if Crawford was going to bring company. It wasn¡¯t what she¡¯d been told to expect, but it was better to be prepared.


    She placed her phone to her left, a notebook and pen to her right, and sat with her hands folded in her lap. An attempt to be the perfect stationary NPC, waiting for someone to interact with her.


    When the clock struck the hour, a business card appeared in front of her on the table.


    At the top, it read ¡°From the office of Enforcer Crawford¡±, then below an embossed silver line, a message written in blue pen.


    {Please join me in my office. Tear this card to activate a shift.} Below was a scrawl that presumably Crawford¡¯s signature.


    She quickly slipped her phone into a pants pocket, grabbed her notebook and pen, then stood.


    ¡®Hm.¡¯


    ¡°Tear this card¡± brought to mind a very specific image - ripping it directly down the middle, like you¡¯d do with a business you never intended to deal with again.


    But experimentation was always a good idea.


    She tore a very small corner from the card.


    The world went sideways.


    When the world settled, she was looking at an office.


    If there was a sliding scale, where Ryan¡¯s was the most straightforward kind of basic, James Francis ¡°fuck off and die¡± Mimosa¡¯s was premium, then this had to be some kind of ultra-deluxe.


    To a lot of people, it would simply look...fancy, but there were so many details that spoke to it belonging to someone old, powerful, rich, or all of the above.


    She dug deep and yanked on some of the Stephanie levers, ensuring her posture was as good as it could be, her face as polite and bland as a doll, and movements were such that they¡¯d cause the least wrinkles.


    She was alone in the office, which led to the first decision.


    The chair behind the desk was obviously out. There were a couple of guests chairs in front of the desk - those were a distinct possibility.


    Like Ryan¡¯s office, there was a small meeting area - an expensive couch and two high-backed chairs. On the wooden coffee table that had probably cost a year of her apartment¡¯s rent sat an open cigar box with a small selection of cigars and cigarillos.


    ¡®Hmm.¡¯


    Across the office, on a wall that mostly shelves. Some books, some pieces of art, a few photos - sat both a humidor and a drinks cabinet.


    Thoughts raced as possibilities were calculated.


    Stop overthinking.


    Have you met me?


    Enforcer Crawford wasn¡¯t there, so - if she were being paranoid, and it hadn¡¯t often paid to be otherwise - then everything about how the office had been staged to be his first introduction to her.


    When you could set up auto-cleaning routines, boxes of cigars didn¡¯t get left out.


    It could indicate that he wanted her to sit in this section of the office. He could be testing to see if she would take it as an invitation, and doing so would make her seem too casual, or too forward, or-


    Or sometimes a cigar was just a cigar.


    It was like the recruitment tests. Had to be. The test itself wasn¡¯t important. What was important was how you went about it. What tactics came to you first, what attitude you adopted.


    Or she was reading entirely too much into something innocent.


    She sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, her notepad resting on her knee.


    As measured by the antique clock on the wall, four more minutes ticked by, then the door opened.


    Jumping up would look unprofessional, so she rose slowly, measured her pace, and met him in the middle of the office. ¡®Enforcer Crawford, I presume?¡¯ she asked as she extended a hand. ¡®It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you.¡¯


    A touch of her mother had come back into her voice, in cadence if nothing else. Measure, precise, the right word in the right place.


    Crawford held onto her hand for a moment too long. ¡®You didn¡¯t introduce yourself,¡¯ he said as he released it.


    ¡®To do so would be redundant,¡¯ she said. ¡®You know who I am, my name, my rank, my situation. You can call me Stef if you wish.¡¯


    Ryan looked somewhere in his forties but seemed older than the look betrayed. However, the idea that he was over a century old was something she had to remind herself about.


    Crawford, on the other hand, who was only a few decades older than Ryan, immediately gave off the vibes of a world-weary warrior who had seen everything the world was, good and bad.


    This was a guy who had deserved the fear and respect that came with the rich, old and powerful impressions that the office gave.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    It was easy to feel worthless around Ryan. To this guy, she couldn¡¯t be more than an ant.


    Crawford sat behind his desk and indicated to the chair nearest her notebook. ¡®If I were to tell you that there¡¯s an asteroid heading to Earth-¡¯


    ¡®Without hesitation.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t finish my sentence, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said, ¡®but I mean, there¡¯s very few ways you could end that sentence that don¡¯t approximate to ¡°extinction-level event¡± and then ask if I¡¯d be willing to sacrifice myself - my mirror, really - to save the world. And I gave you my answer. Without hesitation.¡¯


    ¡®All right. I¡¯m listening.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m probably putting a pessimistic spin on things, but I mean, there¡¯s got to be a reason for the apparent contradiction between ¡°no wishes ever, ever, ever¡± and allowing the mutants to exist. I¡¯m genuinely, absolutely, sure that some of it is out of the goodness of the Agency¡¯s collective hearts, but- But it also kind of sets the precedent for having some ambulatory weapons of mass destruction around, doesn¡¯t it? You get the bonus out of that mutant¡¯s time as an agent or recruit or whatever, but when the shit hits the fan, you¡¯ve got a resource you can call on.¡¯


    ¡®Most eventually do come to that realisation. Fewer start with it.¡¯


    ¡®Realism has never been my issue. I¡¯d also imagine there¡¯s a fairly decent correlation between the amount of mirror a person has as compared to how readily they imagine that they¡¯re a stockpile waiting to be used.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t say that most people are so blase about the idea.¡¯ He poured water into a cut crystal glass. ¡®It¡¯s not as mercenary as you make it sound, though. First and foremost, those that join the gang of - I wish they would find a name other than ¡°mutants¡± - are people we first and foremost value as Agency personnel.¡¯


    She nodded - that made sense. It couldn¡¯t be every person who had some encounter with mirror would be afforded entrance into the mutant group chat. Some were probably...dealt with quietly.


    ¡®And it is only in end of the world scenarios that such considerations are made.¡¯ He smiled - his first since entering the office. ¡®And those crop up far less often than you may imagine.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got my answer,¡¯ she said. ¡®I¡¯m already into overtime, so whatever extra I get, I¡¯ll call that enough.¡¯


    ¡®You realise that as an agent, there are certain freedoms that you¡¯ll lose, and that-¡¯


    Agent.


    He stopped talking as her eyes started to twitch.


    ¡®I have to assume you knew this was a possibility.¡¯


    She schooled her face back to neutral, threaded her fingers together, and drove her right thumb into her left palm, a little pain to concentrate.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t-¡¯ She swallowed. ¡®I didn¡¯t expect you to drop it so casually.¡¯


    ¡®Is it an outcome that you¡¯re opposed to?¡¯


    HUD NOW PLZ


    Keep your inside voice.


    BUT HUD-


    Spyder.


    ¡®No, not at all. I- I think it would be amazing.¡¯


    ¡®The process has several steps, and not all of them are pleasant. Your mirror adds some complexity, but it¡¯s something we¡¯ve managed with several of your peers. There¡¯ll be a few - more than a few - particulars you¡¯ll have to agree to. Still, if in principle, this is something you¡¯re happy to agree to, I¡¯ll get my people on the paperwork.¡¯


    What if I¡¯m a disappointment?


    Ryan wouldn¡¯t have allowed for this outcome if he didn¡¯t think you could handle it.


    ¡®I was only a recruit for a couple of days,¡¯ she said. ¡®Won¡¯t that cause an issue? Isn¡¯t it jumping the queue or- Something?¡¯


    Crawford nodded. ¡®I see where you¡¯re coming from, but no. Mirror aside, this isn¡¯t entirely uncommon - a lot of agents with children ask for them to be fully augmented once they hit adulthood. What essentially happens there - and with you - is that you have a person with rank but not seniority. Particulars will become clearer over time, but agents in your category often are treated like a variant of recruit. You¡¯ll have more privileges and responsibilities than a regular recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Like an aide?¡¯


    ¡®Similar enough,¡¯ he agreed. ¡®And may I be honest with you?¡¯


    ¡®Of course.¡¯


    ¡®This decision isn¡¯t entirely altruistic, even aside from the points I¡¯ve brought up regarding your mirror. During your-¡¯ Pause. ¡®Absence, there was an audit performed on your Agency, and Ryan was one of the areas found lacking. He¡¯s appointed a temporary aide, which I hope will be made permanent, but issuing him a secondary agent in addition to that aide will give him some more support.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll be happy to give whatever help I can.¡¯


    Crawford rose from his chair and extended a hand. ¡®Then that¡¯s all we need to cover right now.¡¯


    She stood and shook his hand. ¡®Thank you for seeing me, and thank you for the opportunity.¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®I¡¯ll be shifting you back unless there¡¯s anything else?¡¯


    She shook her head, and the world slipped, replaced a moment later with her office.


    Immediately, she reached into her pocket for her phone to call-


    Ryan was standing by the window with a slightly worried look on his face. ¡®How did it-¡¯ he started, before she slammed into him, matching the energy of the hug he¡¯d given her on resurrection.


    ¡®It went well, I take it?¡¯


    She held onto him for a moment longer, then stepped back and stood straight. ¡®Soon-to-be-Agent Mimosa reporting for duty.¡¯


    ¡®I was hoping that this would be the outcome,¡¯ he said. ¡®From the moment you figured out what agents are, it¡¯s been obvious how excited you are about the intersection of magic and technology.¡¯


    He pulled a small rectangular leather box from an inside pocket and presented it. ¡®Here¡¯s the technology,¡¯ he said.


    She popped open the box, and inside were a pair of cufflinks - small, square, each with four lines of binary embossed with teeny-tiny ones and zeroes.


    The translation was easy. It was one of the first words she¡¯d committed to memory.


    S-T-E-F


    ¡®I love them.¡¯


    ¡®And this is the magic,¡¯ Ryan said as she started to fit the cufflinks into her sleeves. He set a piccolo wine bottle on the table, then poured small equal measures into two stemless glasses.


    The gesture was nice, but immediately she baulked at the idea of drinking.


    ¡®I haven¡¯t had a drink in a long time,¡¯ she said as she accepted the glass.


    So many bad memories. So many unhealthy memories. Self-medicating was always a bad idea. Self-medicating with booze as a young teen was an even worse idea.


    This was a safe place though. Safe surroundings. Safe person. This was a tiny glass of wine to celebrate. This wasn¡¯t taking a shot before class to keep her inside voice in. This wasn¡¯t vomiting on the quad because she hadn¡¯t learned how to manage the dose.


    This wasn¡¯t her father threatening to institualise her unless she sobered up and stopped making trouble at school.


    This was her dad, proud and wanting to celebrate the start of her new life.


    And for the first drink in years, the first drink had for joy, rather than sorrow, she could make an exception.


    ¡®Sit first,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®I¡¯m not that much of a lightweight,¡¯ she said but sat anyway.


    ¡®This isn¡¯t ordinary wine. It¡¯s unicorn wine. Take a sip..¡¯


    She did and analysed the taste. Wine had never been on her list of drinks she¡¯d used to get shit-faced and silent, so that was another step away from the bad memories. It was red, old, tasted expensive. And-


    And Ryan was glowing, just a little bit.


    He held up a hand, and a coffee cup appeared there, plain white, but...sparkling like there was some weird outline filter on it.


    He moved it from side to side, and a faint blue trail followed it.


    He placed it down, and the blue sparkles settled and slowly faded.


    ¡®Am I high?¡¯ she finally managed.


    ¡®You¡¯re seeing magic,¡¯ he replied. He disappeared, shifting away, but left a Ryan-shaped collection of sparkles in the air, and another as he shifted back in, the sparkle trail following him as he sat across the table from her.


    ¡®It¡¯s beautiful.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s more effective in Faerie, where you would see a hundred different kinds of magic anywhere you look, but I thought this might be a nice first experience.¡¯


    She dragged the cup across the table, then ran her fingers through the ever-dimming trail of magic.


    ¡®Unicorn wine isn¡¯t produced anymore, so those that have any keep it for special occasions. Weddings, anniversaries, significant birthdays, that kind of thing. I have a few bottles in storage and-¡¯


    He paused and looked at her with a solemn expression.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want one thought in your mind to be that I¡¯m wasting this or that this occasion doesn¡¯t warrant celebrating. Wine sitting in storage means nothing. Having reasons to celebrate. Having people to celebrate with. These are things I haven¡¯t had for a long time. I don¡¯t think you realise how significant a change you¡¯ve made in my life, Stef. I love you, I appreciate you, and this is the first of a thousand moments we¡¯re going to celebrate.¡¯


    She lifted her glass, raised it, and he clinked his against hers. ¡®Cheers,¡¯ she said softly, a lump in her throat. ¡®All of that, back at you.¡¯

 47 - Ready to Start

    Stef stared at the three-foot-tall crystal.


    On her first day as a recruit, she¡¯d had no baseline for what was and wasn¡¯t normal within the Agency, so it hadn¡¯t seemed out of place.


    Now, with the Venn diagram of magic and tech being a near-perfect circle, it seemed to stick out like a sore thumb.


    Everything about the Agency was...simple. Streamlined. Simple commands and defined parameters.


    The crystal didn¡¯t fit into that worldview.


    ¡®Andrea?¡¯


    Andrea raised her head from the preparations she was making at her computer. ¡®Mm?¡¯


    ¡®I-¡¯


    There was a straightforward way to test the theory. She folded her hands in her lap, out of sight of the tech.


    Require: cookie.


    The light weight of a cookie materialised in her palm.


    Now, I didn¡¯t wish for that, right?


    No.


    ¡®That thing¡¯s bullshit, right?¡¯ she said, pointing to the crystal with her empty hand.


    Andrea looked at her, looked back to her computer, clicked a couple of times, then looked back. ¡®It¡¯s impolite not to bring enough to share.¡¯


    Stef grinned, broke the cookie in half and handed the larger half over.


    ¡®Okay, spill.¡¯


    Andrea dunked the cookie half into her tea. ¡®Social engineering, like so much of what we do. We arrange things so that we get the desired reactions and outcomes. We look like feds, at least in this day and age, because it¡¯s what flips the switch in civilian brains to listen and accept our questions or commands without much questioning. We don¡¯t immediately offer up the ¡°lol we¡¯re AI¡± truth immediately to new recruits because most of them are still adjusting to magic being real. This thing,¡¯ she said, patting the crystal, ¡®is just another bit of our faux mythology. Solstice, in particular, have a lot of false impressions about how we operate what our powers and limitations are. So the more apparent frippery that¡¯s involved with our magic, the more they think they understand us. Hell, there¡¯s still an ongoing theory that requiring and shifting require vocal or somatic components.¡¯


    Stef grinned. ¡®Okay, that¡¯s awesome.¡¯


    The crystal disappeared, and Andrea pushed a white case over to her. ¡®You got your phone with you?¡¯


    She pulled out her phone and laid it beside the case.


    ¡®You¡¯ll have a new app on there.¡¯ Andrea unzipped the case, and inside were a pair of futuristic-looking wraparound glasses - one uninterrupted sheet of clear curved plastic. Andrea tapped one end, and the clear plastic flooded with electric blue light, lines and boxes settling a moment later.


    ¡®We¡¯re not going to start agentifying you just yet-¡¯


    ¡®Is that the real word?¡¯ she interrupted.


    ¡®It¡¯s my preferred term,¡¯ Andrea replied. ¡®But you can start with these.¡¯ She lifted them and offered them to Stef. ¡®HUD glasses.¡¯


    Stef hurriedly wiped her hands on her pants to clear away the cookie crumbs, stilled her hands to stop herself from ripping them away from Andrea, and gently accepted them.


    ¡®They might be a bit disorientating at first,¡¯ Andrea said, ¡®like the first time you put on a VR headset.¡¯


    ¡®I...may have puked the first time I rode a virtual rollercoaster,¡¯ she admitted before slipping on the glasses.


    She closed her eyes and settled the glasses comfortably, giving herself a moment to get used to the feel.


    Computer in the brain, this is all I ever wanted.


    She opened her eyes and knew that this was another one of those steps forward that would change everything.


    Running from her family. Accepting Dorian¡¯s offer. Becoming a recruit. Saying yes to Crawford.


    And now, a sneak peek of her - literal - new outlook on life.


    It was a very simple interface. All that showed was a clock in the upper right-hand corner and a lower central taskbar with a couple of simple icons.


    She turned her head slowly from left to right, getting used to viewing the world with an overlay. As she did, the taskbar collapsed, becoming a Field logo icon in the lower left.


    She turned her head a couple more times, aware that a very subtle eye-tracking cursor followed wherever she looked.


    When she looked at Andrea for a moment, a tooltip appeared, identifying her as Agent Jones, Technical Agent. Under this information were three small icons that were easy enough to interpret as text, voice and video options.


    Beside these three icons was a down arrow, indicating more options - this expanded into a larger list of icons, some of which weren¡¯t clear until she moused over them.


    Shift to location, request meeting, see schedule, see location and a half-dozen more.


    ¡®Hmm.¡¯


    Rolling the eye-tracked cursor over the icons was easy enough - and like mousing over regular icons, alt-text displayed, and that was good, it meant it wasn¡¯t opening menus and programs without a conscious input, but-


    But there had be a way to click, or-


    She looked at the chat icon and blinked - which popped open the chat box straight away.


    A couple of blinks later, she¡¯d sent a smiling emoji.


    ¡®That¡¯s the way most people start,¡¯ Andrea said, sending back a nerd emoji. ¡®But for agents, it¡¯ll become more natural, and you won¡¯t have to use a physical indicator to interact with it.¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®It¡¯s on lowbie mode for right now. Giving you everything at once might be fun but also stupidly overwhelming.¡¯ Andrea held up a hand. ¡®Yes, yes, of course, there¡¯s an option to view everything, but listen to me first, okay?¡¯


    Stef slipped off the glasses. ¡®Yes¡¯m Jonesy.¡¯


    ¡®The new app on your phone will work you through a bunch of modules training you on getting used to using the HUD.¡¯ Andrea tapped her fingers on the desk. ¡®I know of a lot of cases where these are issued recruits complain about it essentially being homework. They just want to start using all the functions without being stuck in the tutorial¡­¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s fun in just jumping in feet first and finding out things as you go,¡¯ Stef admitted. ¡®I think that¡¯s part of what made Dorian¡¯s project exciting, that what he initially showed off when canvassing for programmers was just a shade away from complete nonsense. And a lot of times when I start games, I ignore tutorials and just try and fuck about and find out- But once you get past that initial excitement and actually understand what the fuck you¡¯re doing, the experience is so much better. It¡¯s like finally getting a function to click, and you feel accomplished.¡¯


    ¡®I understand completely, but after the initial excitement fades, a lot of recruits try and skip the basics, so you end up having to gather a group and classroom it.¡¯


    ¡®Not with me,¡¯ she said, pushing earnestness into her voice. ¡®Every step the tutorial shows, I¡¯ll do. I¡¯ll get the achievement for clicking on something a thousand times or whatever.¡¯


    Andrea smiled. ¡®Achievements kick in after module seven.¡¯


    ¡®Fuck yeah,¡¯ she said and reached for a high-five, which Andrea hit with a satisfying, on-target smack.


    ¡®I fear I¡¯ve got bad timing,¡¯ Ryan said from somewhere behind her.


    She swivelled on her chair, targeted him, and sent a barrage of emojis. ¡®Is it work?¡¯ she asked as she begrudgingly slipped the glasses off.


    ¡®No, Jane¡¯s ready to show us around her estate,¡¯ he said. ¡®And-¡¯


    ¡®And it would be rude if I spent the entire time figuring out how pixel-perfect I have to be with my clicking,¡¯ she said, finishing the intent of his sentence, if not the actual wording he would have used. ¡®Okay, okay, I¡¯m not so- I¡¯m still not good at people-ing, but I¡¯m not going to be rude. And I can do horse talk.¡¯


    She slipped the glasses back into the carrying case and pushed them towards Andrea. ¡®Can you keep them safe for me?¡¯


    Andrea quirked an eyebrow. ¡®Would you also like me to put a temp block on the requisition licence so you can¡¯t require one?¡¯


    Stef felt herself make several weird faces. ¡®It hadn¡¯t actually occurred to me that I could require them. But. No. I have some measure of self-control.¡¯ She looked at Ryan. ¡®A little bit. Promise. I¡¯ll be good.¡¯ She slipped off the stool, clapped her hands to her chest and required a clean uniform - now with the binary cufflinks as part of the base loadout.


    ¡®This isn¡¯t an official meeting,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®you don¡¯t have to wear a uniform.¡¯


    She gave him a deadpan look. ¡®You¡¯re wearing one.¡¯


    ¡®I-¡¯


    ¡®Okay, settled.¡¯ She turned back to Andrea. ¡®See you later.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t get trampled,¡¯ Andrea intoned seriously, then winked.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The lab disappeared, and grass almost too perfectly green to be real appeared beneath her feet.


    They stood before a large country manor, perfect gardens and lawns so far as the eye could see, a line of tastefully elaborate fountains leading up the drive towards the front door.


    She reached for Ryan¡¯s hand before she realised what she was doing, then stared down as she squeezed his hand for comfort.


    She¡¯d always been alone. Even before her family had told her to GTFO. Even before getting dumped at boarding school, only allowed back to the family estate for certain holidays. Even- Always. Always alone.


    There¡¯d never been someone to reach for to comfort her. Nightmares were cured by dolls or plush toys, not one of her parents rushing in to hold her and tell her that there was nothing to fear.


    No one to tell her that she wasn¡¯t broken. Or that it was okay that she was broken, that her worth wasn¡¯t in how well her brain functioned.


    No one to love her. No one to comfort her. No one ever.


    And now, mere anxiety had her reaching out for reassurance and knowing it would be there.


    ¡®What¡¯s wrong?¡¯ Ryan asked at least a six-out-of-ten level of dad concern in his voice.


    Jane¡¯s manor was smaller than her family¡¯s estate. Still, it was pulling on so many Stephanie levels that holding Ryan¡¯s hand was the only thing stopping her from running or texting Jonesy and asking for a shift to the middle of Canada.


    ¡®Reminds me of family,¡¯ she said.


    The door opened, and a butler opened the door. ¡®Director, Recruit, you¡¯re expected. Please follow me.¡¯


    ¡®This you¡¯ll find interesting,¡¯ he said, his voice shifting back to secret-agent-teacher. ¡®You see that man?¡¯


    ¡®I mean, yeah,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®Do you think we hire human staff to look after our residences?¡¯


    ¡®Fae?¡¯


    He shook his head and took a couple of steps closer to the door, gently pulling her along.


    ¡®Recru- No, that would count as human. It would be a waste to have agents do this.¡¯


    Another couple of steps closer, and the speed of her thoughts started to overtake some of the edges of her anxiety.


    ¡®Any guesses?¡¯


    He wouldn¡¯t - probably wouldn¡¯t - be asking if she didn¡¯t know the answer. So that meant it was something she¡¯d seen before, and that left a limited number of-


    ¡®A sim?¡¯ she ventured.


    He nodded. ¡®When there¡¯s a need for a basic function to be carried out, or we don¡¯t need true intelligence or sentience, sims will often do that work.¡¯


    He gently detached his hands from hers and passed his jacket to the butler. Now, for the first time, they actually matched, full uniform, minus the jacket - though she still had her sneakers compared to proper leather shoes.


    ¡®Household staff, for agents who maintain larger residences - though automatic subroutines take care of things like cleaning, as they do within an Agency, many see the value in someone they can talk to, a face they can issue commands to, or in this case, answer the door.¡¯


    The entry foyer immediately cut her anxiety in half. Externally, the place looked like any other manor that might have belonged to friends of the family; inside was far from the impersonal art gallery that most of those homes tended to be.


    In the place of art pieces that could cover the cost of a typical home, most of the walls that she could see were covered in photos.


    As they walked deeper in, following the sim butler, the trend continued, showing scenes from a long, long life. Some framed art started to join the collection - both childish fingerpaints and other relics from a child¡¯s life and pieces that were all signed with the same signature.


    ¡®Jane¡¯s wife,¡¯ he said as he saw her looking.


    ¡®Who you¡¯ll meet later,¡¯ Jane said as she walked up the hall, dressed in a simple pair of slacks and a white blouse. She gently embraced Ryan. ¡®Welcome to my home, Newborn.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ Ryan said.


    Jane extended a hand. ¡®I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re a hugger.¡¯


    Stef shook the hand. ¡®Mostly not,¡¯ she admitted. ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®Nothing to be sorry for, love. Now, I¡¯ve got a little afternoon tea set up in the back garden.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®I¡¯ll feed you, then work you hard.¡¯


    Okay, a uniform is probably not the best choice for shovelling horse poop.


    Change later.


    Jane led them through the house, out the back door, and to a luscious patch of grass, expertly surrounded by tall trees, which only let in the prettiest filtered light through their leaves.


    A long white table covered in food was surrounded by comfortable chairs. In one of the chairs, a middle-aged man bounced a baby on his knee. ¡®Toby went to get mama,¡¯ he said to Jane. ¡®Third time¡¯s the charm, right?¡¯


    Jane looked at them. ¡®I love my wife more than the heavens and earth, but no power in the universe can get her to any on time.¡¯


    Stef opened her mouth to make a joke, then clamped down - but whatever face she¡¯d made was enough to catch Jane¡¯s attention.


    ¡®You can speak freely here. Everyone knows all about you.¡¯ She pointed to the man. ¡®My son, Alejandro.¡¯ She paused. ¡®Ryan Alejandro, he¡¯s a namesake, but I doubt that means much to you right now.¡¯


    Alejandro nodded, then stood and passed the baby to Jane. ¡®I¡¯m going to chase them down,¡¯ he said as he headed towards the house.


    ¡®This is Leaf,¡¯ Jane said as she settled the baby onto her hip. ¡®At least for now, their first naming day is in a few months.¡¯ She adjusted the baby¡¯s hat. ¡®Toby¡¯s part nymph and their family has traditions about not choosing a name straight away.¡¯ Jane indicated to the table. ¡®Come on, sit, Chaos will wake before my wife gets here.¡¯


    Stef followed Ryan to the two unclaimed chairs but felt her gaze keep slipping towards the baby.


    Scars burned, and she did her best to keep her face neutral.


    ¡®This is all lovely,¡¯ she said, hoping her voice sounded almost natural as she selected a glass from the middle of the table.


    ¡®Green for alcoholic drinks,¡¯ Jane said, ¡®red for soft drinks.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯ she said, then looked around at the glassware - every glass, no matter the shape, had some indication of either red or green on them. The stemware had a bead of colour mid-stem. Others had slices of colour worked into the pattern or full-coloured bases.


    ¡®It¡¯s a fae courtesy,¡¯ Ryan explained as he poured them each a shimmering purple drink, its jug marked with a red stripe. ¡®There are other colours, depending on the situation, but it¡¯s to convey to those around you and those serving the meal what your preference is.¡¯


    The baby babbled, and she focussed on the drink.


    Other than passing prams when out and about or sitting near a parent on public transport, she hadn¡¯t been close to a baby in years. Babies, being so unpredictable, didn¡¯t tend to attend the fancy events at her family¡¯s estate.


    No need to ruin someone¡¯s thousand-pound tie with milky spit-up.


    And she¡¯d forced herself to make peace with the fact that motherhood wasn¡¯t in the cards for her. That all her dreams and hopes of a perfect little daughter - one whom she¡¯d already picked a name for - had to be put away from the hard light of reality.


    Wonderful little Lucy wasn¡¯t to be.


    But that dream had been so much a part of her for so long that letting it go wasn¡¯t so easy.


    It was a foregone conclusion if you were a girl. You were born. You grew up. You had a baby.


    You...got to correct all the mistakes your own parents had made. You got to give that baby all the love you¡¯d been denied.


    And it was just part of the life plan. Part of everyone¡¯s life. Grow up, then baby. It was part of the goddamn fabric of the universe.


    At least, it was like that for seemingly everyone else.


    Sometimes, the fabric of the universe twisted, crushed your body under a truck, and left you unable to be a real girl.


    Unable to ever have a tiny baby of your own that would look up at you with love and give you the family you¡¯d never had.


    ¡®Um,¡¯ she said, ¡®bathroom?¡¯


    Jane snapped her fingers, and the world went sideways, the grass under her feet being switched for tile.


    She immediately made sure the door to the large, full bathroom was locked, grabbed a towel from the rack, and crammed herself into a corner next to the bath.


    ¡®Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!¡¯ she shouted into the towel.


    FUCK.


    She was supposed to be - whatever she was supposed to be - something, anything, normal. Enjoying afternoon tea in the shade, chatting about nothing over tiny sandwiches.


    Instead, she was spiralling, and she wasn¡¯t sure there was a bottom to it.


    She¡¯d tried to make peace with never having kids. She¡¯d gotten rid of every cute outfit she¡¯d spent too much on. Burned a few and scattered their ashes to try and get closure.


    Tried to tell herself she¡¯d be the worst parent on Earth. Tried to convince herself that even if a baby was dumped in her lap that she wasn¡¯t capable of being what it needed.


    Babies needed people who could look after themselves, and she was barely capable of that. Babies couldn¡¯t live off way too many cans of soft drink, instant ramen and a sleep schedule as fucked up as it was possible to be.


    She knew the logic. She knew every reason why it was a bad idea, knew how bad it would turn out, even if it was possible.


    And it still hurt her heart so much it felt like dying.


    But that deep, horrible pain wasn¡¯t there this time. That was one new fact learned - hearts made of mirror couldn¡¯t feel psychosomatic pain.


    But hearts made of wishes could probably pop a child into existence.


    It was simple enough to try. Get something sharp, cut through skin, jab her fingers into her chest and wish.


    And it would lead back to the place of logic that she hated so much.


    As many good intentions were in her heart. As much love her a life not yet formed as she had. As many stars as she¡¯d wished on for a fairy tale, it wouldn¡¯t work.


    A year ago, it wouldn¡¯t have mattered. A year ago, alone and full of stories she kept telling herself about a perfect future, she would have made the wish, consequences be damned.


    Now, so much had changed so quickly.


    For the first time, everything she had ever wanted was one wish away. She could be a mother. She could be...normal. She could get rid of the voice in her head and the ever-present knowledge that she was a worthless piece of shit.


    A few wishes and the world would turn into a storybook.


    And that was never the way fairy tales ended.


    Wishes like that were lies.


    Cinderella dolled up and went to the ball, but the prince proposed to the scullery maid, reality stripped of the glamour provided by the fairy godmother¡¯s magic.


    She could wish herself to be someone else, but then that would be someone else getting the happy ending, and whatever made her...her would be dead and discarded.


    And she¡¯d just clawed her way back from being dead.


    Whatever perfect bubble Stef and Lucy existed in was a world she could never touch, a dream fading in the light of morning.


    A gentle buzz indicated an incoming message on her phone.


    The push notification showed Ryan¡¯s profile picture - unlike Jonesy, he¡¯d never changed it to something more personal.


    {Are you all right?}


    No reply came to mind other than making some tasteless joke about poop.


    She couldn¡¯t stay in the bathroom forever, no matter how safe it was.


    She looked from the message to the profile picture, and back again.


    Things changed.


    Things could change.


    Ryan had done the proper life plan thing, grown up, had a kid, been a wonderful parent, and now...apparently that kid hated his guts.


    And then, one day, after assuming he¡¯d be alone forever, he¡¯d picked up a stray and had a second chance to dispense all of his over levelled dad prowess.


    And maybe, one day, that could happen for her.


    She could grow up, be a proper agent for a couple of decades, and find some lost child in a wardrobe who needed an imperfect mother.


    Maybe, by then, she¡¯d be ready.


    Maybe, by then, she¡¯d be done growing up.


    But right now, she was a half-baked cookie.


    Lucy would have been a way to give all the love she¡¯d never gotten.


    Life hadn¡¯t given her that.


    But life had given her a second chance to get all that love herself.


    And maybe that was better.


    And maybe it still hurt.


    And maybe the hurt would fade.


    She wiped her face on the towel then set it aside.


    {Jonesy gave me requiring back, right?} she tapped into the reply box.


    {Yes. Is there a problem?}


    {I tried ¡°require: hugs¡±, and it didn¡¯t work.}


    She looked up at the door and slowly counted down from five under her breath. On ¡°two¡±, there was a knock.


    ¡®You can open it.¡¯


    Ryan stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and crouched in front of her. ¡®Is it something you want to talk about?¡¯


    ¡®Not...not yet. It¡¯s old stuff. Things I¡¯m working through.¡¯


    Something that might be finally ready to start healing.


    He offered a hand down to her, and helped her to her feet. ¡®Understandable. Just know that I¡¯m always willing to listen.¡¯


    ¡®You know that goes for me too, right?¡¯ she said. ¡®Stuff about your son or whatever. This- This new family thing we¡¯ve got. It¡¯s different for me. You¡¯re not stepping into a role that was previously occupied by someone I loved. For you, it¡¯s- I¡¯m not a replacement, but you loved - still love, I think - your son. There¡¯s still got to be a comparison in your mind. Still shit you probably want to talk about.¡¯


    He reached across and straightened some of her hair. ¡®A comparison of experiences, but not of people. Don¡¯t ever feel like I¡¯m measuring you against Alexander. I take you on your own terms, and if you feel otherwise, call me on it.¡¯


    She hugged him, staring at the always-safe, comforting blue of his vest and tie. ¡®I¡¯m- I¡¯m not- It still feels weird to say ¡°dad¡±, even if that¡¯s definitely the spot you occupy in my head. But-¡¯


    ¡®I love you too, Stef.¡¯ He opened the bathroom door. ¡®If we head back now, we still may beat Kay to the table.¡¯


    She nodded, grabbed his hand and followed him back towards the garden.


    I think I¡¯m-


    Not a child, but not where she should have been. Someone who could barely take reality as it was and had only made it this far through tears, frustration, and luck.


    The part of her that had always wanted the book to end, the cover to close, and for her story to be over so she didn¡¯t have to rail against what she wasn¡¯t capable of anymore.


    So many things weren¡¯t possible alone. So many things were so fucking hard when no one had ever taught you how to do it.


    Video tutorials could teach you how to use a plunger but didn¡¯t give you headpats and tell you that a mistake wasn¡¯t the end of the world.


    Being more, trying, cracking out of your shell, none of it was safe to do without a safety net.


    And now she had one.


    I think I¡¯m ready to grow up.


    It was going to suck, and every failure was going to come with a thousandfold more tears than not trying, but at least there would be someone to wipe them away and tell her to try again.


    And maybe that was all she¡¯d ever wanted.

 48 - Onward

    Stef slid into her chair and allowed herself to smile at Leaf.


    Things would hurt. Maybe always hurt. But- But there was no reason she couldn¡¯t enjoy the cuteness of a child right in front of her.


    ¡®All right?¡¯ Jane asked.


    Ryan saved her from questions about the long bathroom break by making a deadpan comment that she¡¯d been defending the honour of a fictional character.


    Jane had simply pointed out that Kay was still missing, then stopped Leaf from choking on an orange wedge.


    ¡®Any idea who your docent is going to be?¡¯ Alejandro asked as he sat back in his seat but declined to take Leaf, instead pointing out that he hadn¡¯t had a chance to eat yet.


    ¡®Docent?¡¯ she echoed.


    Alejandro made an arc with his hand, skin disappearing as it reached its apex, replaced with flowing blue code. ¡®Not sure if you knew what I was,¡¯ he clarified, as his hand touched the table and his skin once again covered code. ¡®I got upgraded in my late twenties, but I¡¯ve got natural aging turned on, at least for now. I¡¯ll stop when I get so handsome that Toby loses their mind every time they see me.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m pretty sure that was the first time we met,¡¯ a tall figure said, then slid into the chair beside Alejandro, as Kay, clothes dotted with paint, sat beside Jane.


    Her eyes followed Toby - she¡¯d seen nymphs before - one of the first fae she¡¯d seen had been a little nymph girl at the breakfast buffet Curt had taken her to. A look that was part plant and part human, somewhere along the bell curve of what she would have imagined if someone had just said ¡°picture a dryad¡±.


    Toby was different. They were tall - easily the tallest person at the table, with skin as white as snow, speckled with patches of vitiligo-like grey, a blank canvas for the rows of ivy and heather tattoos that ran up and down their arms and legs.


    Their hair was black and shaved, leaving just a fine layer of fuzz over their head.


    Jane handed over Leaf, who immediately began to play with their parent¡¯s tattoos, which moved and changed under the baby¡¯s touch.


    ¡®Getting the upgrade is...weird,¡¯ Alejandro continued, ¡®it¡¯s almost like learning your body all over again. You won¡¯t be rolling on a playmat with Leaf, things have to go extraordinarily sideways for motor control to be corrupted like that, but it will literally feel different when you¡¯re moving for the first few weeks.¡¯


    ¡®And the hand thing,¡¯ Toby interjected.


    ¡®Oh, of course. Recruit, are you left or right-handed?¡¯


    ¡®Sinister,¡¯ she said, holding up her left hand.


    ¡®Oh, then I am very, very sorry.¡¯ He looked towards Jane. ¡®They still haven¡¯t changed that? That was hell for my docent.¡¯


    What the fuck are they going to do to my hands?


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡®Agents - all agents,¡¯ Alejandro said, ¡®are-¡¯ he paused. ¡®I always go to say ¡°omnidirectional¡±. Ambidextrous. But with a bias towards their right hand. Everything, every action, every fighting move, every protocol, is programmed right-hand dominant.¡¯


    ¡°I¡¯m right-handed now¡± is such a downgrade from ¡°I know kung-fu¡±.


    In fairness, you¡¯ll probably get both.


    ¡®So your docent is someone who has been through this and will be there to answer all your dumb questions about what is and isn¡¯t normal. Your senpai for a couple of weeks.¡¯


    ¡®Gods forgive me for birthing a weeb,¡¯ Jane muttered before Kay slapped her arm.


    ¡®I volunteered, but mum said she might have someone else in mind?¡¯


    ¡®As best as we can, we try and match new augments with people we feel are compatible. It¡¯s not a perfect process, but we try, for example, not to match an introverted tech with a gregarious liaison.¡¯


    Her phone buzzed. ¡®That¡¯s my friend request,¡¯ Alejandro said, ¡®official or not, feel free to ask me weird shit.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ she said. ¡®I¡¯ll try not to bother you too much.¡¯


    Light conversation continued as everyone slowly ate their way through the portions of the feast lain across the table.


    Toby, with a sleeping Leaf strapped to their chest in a comfortable baby sling of vines, excused themselves to lay down for a nap.


    Jane looked at her. ¡®Want to meet my herd?¡¯


    Stef nodded excitedly, and with another snap, she, Jane and Ryan were standing in front of a long line of stables.


    ¡®A lot of these are traditional breeds,¡¯ Jane said, introducing each horse as they went past, stopping to give some a friendly pat or required carrot. ¡®Some are fae breeds, and some are a little of both.¡¯


    Jane bowed her head to the next horse, one so tall that the top of Jane¡¯s head barely reached the horse¡¯s shoulder. ¡®This breed is Serait, traditionally a warhorse. They¡¯re proud, stubborn things. King-in-the-sky here is nearly as old as you, Newborn, and could still pull a canon.¡¯


    They continued down the line, with Jane showing off horse after horse, each in immaculate, suspiciously poop-free stables.


    Right. Cleaning routines probably do outbuildings as well.


    Ten points, genius.


    The last stable had its window closed, something which Jane grumbled about before hooking it back.


    Compared to the Serait, or the white horse whose hair was curly, almost like a sheep, there was nothing particularly unusual about this stall.


    An aging bay with a white blaze. A perfectly ordinary-


    There was a lump in her throat the size of a bowling ball.


    Slowly, she reached up, fingers sliding across the familiar whorls of the horse¡¯s face. Buttercup, for her part, leaned her head over the stall door, whickered and snuffled at her hair.


    ¡®But you¡¯re glue,¡¯ Stef whispered, holding her horse¡¯s face with both hands, staring at ocean-deep brown eyes she hadn¡¯t seen since childhood. ¡®How- How-¡¯ she whirled towards Jane and Ryan. ¡®How?!¡¯


    Ryan looked a little surprised, but Jane¡¯s smile was wide.


    ¡®I would echo her question,¡¯ Ryan said, looking to Jane.


    Jane stepped forward and unlatched the stable door to better enable girl-horse hugs.


    ¡®Ryan¡¯s idea,¡¯ Jane said, ¡®I can¡¯t take credit for that. He wanted to get you a birthday present and had good reason to believe that a horse would be suitable. I thought I would take a little initiative. The sale records were easy enough to follow, and one moderate cheque to her old owner gives you back something that was stolen.¡¯


    It was Buttercup. It was really, truly Buttercup.


    Tack appeared on Buttercup¡¯s body, and Jane pressed a hardhat into her hands. ¡®Go. Ride. All else can wait.¡¯


    Ryan nodded. ¡®Go.¡¯


    She buckled the hardhat and barely stopped for a second to require a riding outfit before climbing up onto Buttercup¡¯s back.


    All so familiar, all so wonderful.


    If Alexandria had been the centre of her childhood, been the one thing she couldn¡¯t live without, Buttercup had been a close second, but one lost all too soon.


    She kept Buttercup¡¯s pace to a gentle walk as they stepped out of the stables and onto the packed earth arena.


    She lifted her head, looked at the blue sky white clouds, and simply let herself live in the moment, cementing every aspect for a memory to be treasured forever.


    Hand-carved signs were pointing towards a riding trail.


    She smiled, adjusted her hard hat, nudged Buttercup into a canter, and rode off into the afternoon sun.

 49 - Doubts and Answers

    ¡®I like you,¡¯ Mags said.


    Curt ran the sentence through his head a few times, then propped himself on an arm to look over at the still-naked Mags. ¡®Obviously,¡¯ he said. ¡®You don¡¯t kick me out as soon as we¡¯re done. I know that¡¯s a rare privilege.¡¯


    She required a pillow, slipped it behind herself, tossed a towel aside, retrieved her phone and stared at it for a moment before looking back to him.


    ¡®You don¡¯t think the afterglow is sacred. I hate when people insist on silence after fucking. If you¡¯re in love, it¡¯s different, but when it¡¯s just sex, I don¡¯t need some stupid countdown hanging over my head before I can check on things.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t imagine you sleep with a lot of people who don¡¯t get that about you. It¡¯s basically in the ground rules, right?¡¯


    ¡®Unspoken, but you¡¯re correct. But sometimes you don¡¯t get a full read on someone until you fuck them or fight them.¡¯ She set her phone aside. ¡®No fires that need putting out.¡¯


    ¡®Can I shower here, or should I leave?¡¯


    ¡®Go ahead,¡¯ she said. She stood, and as she did, her hair tied itself up into a bun. He allowed himself to catch the last few seconds of her bare form before a spaghetti-strap top and soft shorts covered her body.


    Her back rippled with fine muscle and lines of light scars. Nothing kept her down for long, and there was something so intimidating and so alluring about that.


    And he was glad he could call her a friend. Even aside from the benefits, she¡¯d been one of the first, strong connections he¡¯d made as a recruit.


    She¡¯d been wary of him from the outset but had always trusted him when it mattered. And as time had gone on - and he¡¯d become a better person, had opened his eyes and started to overwrite every lie the Solstice had told him, the wariness had gone away.


    And he hoped he was more than a half-decent lay for her. He was pretty sure he was - there were few enough people who she let her shields down around that he was sure he was part of a select, special group.


    He stumbled over his own discarded pants, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door to the floral-scented room.


    One quick shower later, he stepped back out, clean, tidy, uniform in place.


    On the other side of the living space, Mags sat cross-legged on a large, square Ottoman, in front of a dressmaker¡¯s dummy covered in a half-finished dress.


    Pages of notes sat on her lap. For a moment, he watched her touch various pieces of the dress, lines of stitches appearing and disappearing with a touch.


    ¡®You¡¯re staring, O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t know you designed them yourself,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®Redesign, more like,¡¯ she said and shuffled her notes. ¡®Usually, the original design is something I see. Screen set up a dropbox where people can anonymously send me screenshots of inspo. That gives me a base. It takes a while from there.¡¯


    ¡®The fine line between fashion and fight-worthy?¡¯


    She gave him a withering look.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ he said, ¡®then explain.¡¯


    She narrowed her eyes and seemed to be considering if he¡¯d unlocked friendship points for this bit of her life. After a moment, the Ottoman extended into a rectangle. ¡®Sit. Shut up. Listen.¡¯


    ¡®Yes ma¡¯am.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s talking, O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    ¡®Half the reason you keep me around is for my mouth, Mags.¡¯


    She punched his arm, then turned back to the half-finished dress. ¡®Combat exists for the unexpected. For the dangerous. For when you lot need saving. What can go wrong for us is broader than what can go wrong for you. So I have to look cute and be ready for as many contingencies as I can.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, totally understandable.¡¯


    ¡®So it starts with hidden weapons-¡¯


    ¡®No shit.¡¯


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡®But then things get interesting,¡¯ she said, her eyes glittering. ¡®Ribbons and straps that are alternatively reinforced with wire that can be used to garrote or tie someone up, or cord that can hold my weight. Accents that are real jewels or real rare metals that can be used in trade. First aid materials in hidden pockets. So much. And then it¡¯s all got to be kept to a reasonable weight. Between my loadout and what Taylor has, there are few situations we couldn¡¯t deal with.¡¯


    ¡®You know that¡¯s fucking impressive, right?¡¯


    ¡®Of course. Doesn¡¯t stop every second newbie from underestimating me.¡¯


    Newbie. He felt a kick to his good mood. He¡¯d tried to start conversations with Ryan every so often over the last few weeks, but every time, his courage had fled.


    No news was good news. He had to believe that.


    And there had been a switch in Ryan¡¯s attitude that told him that there was maybe more reasons to hope for a good outcome that he wasn¡¯t allowed to know about.


    He had a meeting with Ryan later - maybe this time, he could build up the courage.


    But until then, he had things to do - and he didn¡¯t want to intrude too much on Mags¡¯ limited personal time.


    ¡®I¡¯ve-¡¯


    ¡®If you¡¯ve got shit to do, go,¡¯ she said. ¡®I don¡¯t take it personally when you cum and go.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re so fucking eloquent,¡¯ he said. With a grin, he gathered his things from the floor, dismissed his old clothes, and left Mags to her project.


    He loved how uncomplicated their relationship was - and that a lack of complication didn¡¯t mean a lack of depth. There was no dancing around feelings, no hint of love on either side.


    And even if she had time to date, he doubted he¡¯d be at the top of the list.


    Hours slid by, containing paperwork, aide training modules, and a long lunch with Raz, who happily gushed about the new guy he was seeing.


    Finally, three PM rolled around, and he made his way to Ryan¡¯s office, a neat stack of paperwork tucked under his arm.


    He knocked, and the door swung open.


    ¡®Come in, Recruit,¡¯ Ryan said, without rising from his chair.


    The first few times Ryan had used ¡°Recruit¡± after being appointed temporary aide, it had almost seemed like a passive-aggressive reminder that he wasn¡¯t a real aide. However, the more he¡¯d used it, the more that little paranoid thought had slipped away and had come across more as Ryan simply being in a rut. That he was used to using ¡°Recruit¡±, and that there was no malice behind it.


    ¡®I think this is everything,¡¯ Curt said, laying the paperwork in the centre of Ryan¡¯s desk.


    Ryan looked at the pile for a moment but made no move to inspect any of it.


    ¡®Curt?¡¯


    ¡®Sir?¡¯


    ¡®In all your time as a recruit, with all the debriefing sessions that you¡¯ve had, with the position that you¡¯re being offered, have you told us everything that we need to know?¡¯


    ¡®Have you told us everything that we need to know?¡¯


    With one question, his world was spinning.


    Today had been good. As much as ¡°good¡± existed on the sliding scale of shit, that was his life as a recruit.


    A simple, routine patrol that had yielded nothing dangerous. Some enjoyable time with Mags. Lunch. Easy paperwork. What could be a typical day in the life of Aide O¡¯Connor.


    And now, he wasn¡¯t sure if his heart was beating; or if it was about to burst out of his chest.


    There was no menace in Ryan¡¯s voice, nothing that was making his fight-or-flight instincts go too far into overdrive. However, it was still a question that had the potential to fuck his life forever.


    Kobayashi Maru. A no-win situation.


    Playing dumb wouldn¡¯t serve him. Asking for the question to be repeated would do nothing but stall a few seconds - he knew he hadn¡¯t hidden his reaction to the question well enough.


    All he could do was answer. And whatever he said was going to be wrong, whatever-


    He reached forward and squared the pile of paperwork, letting his gaze linger on Ryan¡¯s face for just a moment. Just long enough to parse whatever emotion the agent was choosing to show.


    He¡¯d always been good at body language, at subconsciously reading those little tells that people let off. Still, that ability was a mixed-bag when it came to agents.


    When you were dealing with people who could choose what emotions they showed, you could never be one-hundred-per cent sure of what they were actually feeling and what was careful social engineering.


    You actually had to get to know an agent to know what level of masking they did. Whether they had their ¡°normal¡± expressions and the standard, one-button-press emotionlessness when they wanted to show nothing, or if they went for more fine-tuned levels of public emotion.


    Ryan was often hard to read, but...in a human way. He didn¡¯t often go for robot-face, instead relying on being naturally low-key in what emotions he showed to the world.


    It had been why he¡¯d read so much like a ¡°default agent¡± before he¡¯d really gotten to know Ryan - so often, he just seemed so utterly blank.


    It was taking time to tease out Ryan¡¯s different levels of impassive, but he was getting better at it, and what he saw now was a challenge.


    This question - this answer - was really important to Ryan, more so than whatever aide security check it represented.


    The truth was a step off a cliff, and it wasn¡¯t up to him if he flew.


    ¡®Of course I haven¡¯t.¡¯


    Already, he knew he¡¯d made the right choice.


    He folded his hands in his lap and straightened his back. ¡®Even with as many-¡¯ he swallowed to maintain control, ¡®discussions as I had with the Adelaide team. With question after question, I couldn¡¯t possibly have disclosed everything that I knew. What an insignificant fact is to me might be relevant as a key piece of information one day. I¡¯ve answered all the questions I was asked volunteered what I think is significant, but, no...of course, I haven¡¯t told you everything. Unless I went through every single moment of every single day in as much detail as I can remember, then...no, there¡¯s things that have been missed. I handed over phone numbers, but did I remember to check every dead burner phone I¡¯d thrown into a drawer? Probably not, because who thinks about dead phones? Did I go through door numbering conventions? No, because I assume you¡¯d know that already, but what if it¡¯s changed since the last time you had intel from that area. And- The manner in which the questions were asked weren¡¯t conducive to allowing me the time to think about anything other than answering the question exactly as it had been asked.¡¯


    ¡®That is a commendable answer, Recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you, sir,¡¯ he said, without meeting the agent¡¯s gaze.


    ¡®It was the truth, and I¡¯d like to repay the favour.¡¯

 50 - The Ways Forward

    There were little tricks all over the Agency, some far more subtle than others.


    One of those little pieces of subtlety was the elevators, where the main, obviously accessible set of buttons listed a selection of floors - the ¡°occupied¡± floors of the Agency. In contrast, if you needed to go to a storage floor, the roof or the basement, you needed to use the smaller panel to type in the floor number.


    Curt slid his ID against the reader and typed in the number of the unoccupied floor. One, judging by the logo that appeared on the little information panel, belonged to Tech.


    Tech. He¡¯d expected Medical, but depending on a few variables and specificities, Tech would make an equal amount of sense.


    Not that he knew what to expect.


    All Ryan had given him was a location and the fact that Newbie would be waiting for him there. Alive.


    Everything else, apparently, was up to her to explain.


    When the lift doors slid open, he was greeted with possibly the most boring floor he¡¯d ever seen in an Agency - a feat in and of itself, given how generic they tended to look.


    As instructed, he pressed his card against an unassuming card reader near the elevator call button and turned back to see a dark blue line appear on the floor, a map of where to go.


    A few twists and turns in - likely just to discourage any wayward visitors - the blue line dead-ended at a door that looked like all of the others.


    And now, so close to what he wanted to see, he couldn¡¯t lift his hand to knock.


    She knew he was coming and that she¡¯d consented to see him - that much Ryan had told him, but nothing more than that.


    How did you even say ¡°hello¡± to someone you¡¯d lost and grieved?


    He knocked, and a moment later, the door popped open. No yell of ¡°hi¡±, no greeting, nothing but a door opened by a requirement.


    He reached for the handle, a prayer coming out as a sigh, and pushed the door open.


    A combination of both Solstice and Agency training had ensured that he always swept a new room - looking for dangers, threats, getting a general layout at a glance.


    But nothing would come into focus, except a messy bob of brown hair, and the slight look of panic on Stef¡¯s face as she looked up at him from where she sat on the ground in the middle of the room.


    Slowly, she raised an arm, revealing that her hand and forearm were stuck in a chip can.


    ¡®Help,¡¯ she said, shaking her arm pathetically, ¡®plz.¡¯


    ¡®Jesus Christ, Newbie,¡¯ he said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡®Ho- How- How?¡¯


    She shook her arm again.


    He slipped off his jacket, threw it onto the table next to the door, and joined her on the floor, careful not to sit on any of the random pieces of a dismantled computer that surrounded her like a dragon¡¯s hoard.


    ¡®Hand.¡¯


    She lightly batted him on the cheek with the tube, then pointed it at his chest and held still. ¡®Please be careful. I need this hand.¡¯


    He grabbed the tube. ¡®Unclench your fist.¡¯


    She tried to tug her arm out. ¡®There¡¯s a chip in here.¡¯


    ¡®Unclench...your...fist.¡¯


    She groaned like a cranky toddler, relaxed her arm a bit and allowed him to pull the tube away. He turned it up, and the broken pieces of what had been a chip slid into his hand. A requirement made it whole again, and he handed back the chip, but not the tube.


    ¡®But- I want-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve lost your tube privileges, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s okay, I don¡¯t know where my Oyster card is anyway.¡¯ She bit into the chip and avoided his gaze. ¡®Should I say hello? How ¡°pretending to be normal¡± do you want this to be?¡¯


    He stared at her, almost ashamed that he could feel tears pricking behind his eyes. Joy turned inside out was grief, but grief turned back into joy felt so heavy in his chest.


    Though he doubted there was anything more real than being greeted by a genius who refused to let any chip remain uneaten.


    ¡®I haven¡¯t known normal for a long time, Newbie, and I don¡¯t think pretending will do either of any favours.¡¯


    ¡®Good, cause a lot of this is still fucking weird, and other bits are going to be weirder and if I needed to put up a mask, then this conversation was gonna be real short.¡¯ She picked up a piece of RAM and inspected it. ¡®But, I- Um. Wanted to take the chance.¡¯


    ¡®Where do you want to start?¡¯


    ¡®You can give me my tube back.¡¯


    ¡®Not happening.¡¯


    ¡®But I was going to wrap LED lights around-¡¯


    ¡®Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®I kinda. Um. Died.¡¯


    He handed the tube back.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡®The mirrorfall night. You know how some idiot broke the mirror? I¡¯m idiot. And- I forgot how physics work.¡¯ She grabbed the collar of her shirt and yanked it down enough for him to see the top of a ragged scar.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    She started to peel the back off strip lighting and wrap it around the chip can. ¡®That ah, actually made the second time I died. Guess I have to do it again. Things are better in threes.¡¯


    ¡®Please don¡¯t.¡¯


    ¡®Ryan told me that he gave you some basic cover story about me being close to death. Pretty much, he just left out the mirror bit. I was all Princess-Bridey not-quite-dead but more-dead-than-alive for weeks.¡¯


    One question begged to be asked, but it might be more than she wanted to share. ¡®You don¡¯t have to answer but- Did someone make a wish, or was there a piece of mirror in you that slowly resurrected you?¡¯


    ¡®Ryan made a wish.¡¯


    ¡®The Agency policy on wishes would seem to indicate that was pretty risky.¡¯


    ¡®In some cases, they allowed exceptions.¡¯ She looked in his general direction but didn¡¯t make eye contact. ¡®Some wishes get approved, some Solstice make pretty good recruits.¡¯


    ¡®Point taken. So what happens now? Coming back as a recruit?¡¯


    ¡®Coming back, yes.¡¯ She twisted more lights around the can then set it aside. She stared at her hands for a moment, then picked up a sizeable graphic card box and began unboxing it. ¡®Not as a recruit.¡¯


    The fact that he was still a temporary aide loomed large. ¡®Are you going to be Agent Ryan¡¯s aide?¡¯


    She looked up from the box, made a weird noise, her shoulders twitching, snorted, then began to laugh so hard she started to choke.


    For a moment, it seemed like an affected reaction, if a slightly over-the-top one; then hand shot out and grabbed his arm as she made strained noises.


    Immediately, he was up on his knees. He braced one arm across her front, hand locked onto her right shoulder, and with the other, he gave her back a quick thump. The noise improved. Another thump and she slumped against his arm, no longer choking.


    ¡®Look, you can kick the bucket one day, Newbie,¡¯ he said, quickly taking his hands away, remembering how touch-averse she was, and handing her a bottle of water. ¡®But maybe don¡¯t rush it?¡¯


    She guzzled some water, a rivulet running down her chin before she set it aside and lifted the neck of her shirt to wipe her face.


    ¡®I take it, that¡¯s a ¡°no¡± then?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got to be competent to be an aide,¡¯ she said, her voice a little hoarse, ¡®I¡¯m smart, I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m competent.¡¯


    She set the graphics card box aside and stood, going over to the table to retrieve a few more small component boxes. Most of the larger boxes, she placed in a pile near the RAM, but a small one, she handed to him. ¡®Hold that a minute.¡¯


    Dutifully, he held onto the box as she sat.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know how you¡¯re-¡¯ She stopped herself. ¡®We went back and forth for a while about what exactly to tell you. The other recruits are gonna get some not-quite-real version of the truth.¡¯ She rolled the tube in her hands. ¡®This was my decision, ultimately. Ryan trusts me with my own autonomy, except when it comes to flamethrowers and rocket launchers.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t think weapons are usually part of-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve still got some mirror in me. And I¡¯m coming back as an agent.¡¯


    ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, I said that a few dozen times. I mean, it¡¯s so cool, I think I- It happens with a lot of people who have bits of mirror still stuck in them or have superpowers cause of a wish. Easier to keep track of everything.¡¯


    And easier to control potentially dangerous assets.


    He started to ask, ¡°are you okay with that?¡±, but her expression told him everything he needed to know. A kid given a new puppy, a new bike and a month off school wouldn¡¯t have been happier.


    There were concerns. There were dangers. Agents were higher priority targets. Agents could die in painful ways that recruits couldn¡¯t.


    And if the decision had been made, all of this had probably been discussed at length, and it wasn¡¯t up to him to be a killjoy speaking with the dying remnants of Solstice suspicion.


    ¡®I assume Agent Jones is-¡¯


    ¡®You can call him Jonesy, you know.¡¯


    ¡®-is taking care of all this? I¡¯m going to have to make some requests. I know there¡¯s some remote override sequences and stuff that are built into the agent code, and I¡¯m going to need an app where I can push your buttons.¡¯


    ¡®So I can¡¯t play video games when you¡¯re trying to talk to me?¡¯


    ¡®So you can¡¯t play video games when I¡¯m trying to talk to you.¡¯


    ¡®Fine,¡¯ she said with a long, long sigh. ¡®I¡¯m sure we can work something out.¡¯


    ¡®Why?¡¯ he asked after silence had fallen for a moment.


    She froze for a long moment, then shuffled her boxes of components a few times before looking up and just past him.


    ¡®You-¡¯ She looked away again, then down at the tube. ¡®You were kind to me.¡¯


    ¡®That shouldn¡¯t earn-¡¯ he started. She tossed a stick of RAM at him, and he shut up.


    ¡®You were kind to me, and you didn¡¯t have to be. Not just polite. Not just doing your job. Kind. I had a-¡¯ She clenched her hands near her throat, flexing her fingers in and out. ¡®When I couldn¡¯t- When I just couldn¡¯t anything. And you gave me the talky board app. You were patient. You didn¡¯t treat me like a problem. And I thought that- I thought that was an indicator of a good person. And I think I trust you. Just with my life. It¡¯s not very val- I¡¯m doing and gonna do, so many new things, and I thought I could take a leap of faith.¡¯


    ¡®Shouldn¡¯t a genius know it¡¯s better translated as ¡°leap into faith¡±?¡¯


    She rolled her eyes. ¡®Yes, Padawan, I¡¯ve seen The Good Place too. Either way, I¡¯m leaping. I just hope you¡¯re not a spike trap.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll do my best,¡¯ he said. ¡®Promise.¡¯


    She looked at him briefly, then away again. ¡®And then maybe- Maybe we could be friends too? I don¡¯t really have any and-¡¯


    ¡®Newbie, it¡¯s not the fucking Khitomer Accords. You don¡¯t have to ask. There¡¯s no-¡¯ He set the little box aside, pulled his notebook from his pocket, scrawled ¡°friends¡±, then signed his name. ¡®Official enough for you?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯ll do,¡¯ she said and tucked it into her pocket.


    He grabbed the small box and tried to hand it over. ¡®Don¡¯t forget this.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Fuck. Right. That¡¯s yours.¡¯ He quirked an eyebrow at her. ¡®Oh, just open it. It¡¯s not a glitter bomb.¡¯


    He popped open the box, and inside was a simple silver pen, a small Field logo engraved on the slide.


    ¡®You¡¯re either really early or really late for my birthday.¡¯


    She tapped something into her phone, and the Agency logo turned into a smiling emoji before switching back. ¡®See, Ryan got me cufflinks as a ¡°you¡¯re gonna be an agent¡± present. And they have my name in binary on them, but you can actually change the design to whatever you want. I thought you should get a present too.¡¯


    ¡®For, I assume, agreeing to continue being your babysitter?¡¯


    ¡®For all the paperwork you¡¯re gonna be doing as Ryan¡¯s aide.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve been doing-¡¯ he started, the answer coming out before his brain had thoroughly analysed all the context clues. ¡®I¡¯m gonna need you to say it, Newbie. Properly, so I know you mean it.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s another leap into faith. Ryan needs help, real help, and from right now, it¡¯s official.¡¯ A silver wand appeared in her hand, and she lightly tapped him on the head. ¡®I dub thee Aide O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    He stood, walked over to where his jacket lay, and grabbed his ID wallet. Closing his eyes for a single second, he sent all his hopes and fears into the void. Opening his eyes, he flipped it open and saw his new rank reflected on his ID.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know if I-¡¯


    ¡®Please don¡¯t do the faux-humble bullshit,¡¯ she said, popping open another tube of chips. ¡®You were always the best candidate, Ryan told me as much, he just needed- Sometimes things have to change, and nothing changes if nothing changes.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll do my best, I promise.¡¯


    A smile settled onto his face, and he realised that the weight in his chest had disappeared.


    Sometimes, against all the odds, things could be okay.


    Not a happy ending, but at least a happy-for-now.


    And that was enough.


    She nodded. ¡®You¡¯re competent. I¡¯m a genius-¡¯ She paused, a strange look coming over her face. ¡®Between us, I think it¡¯ll be okay.¡¯


    ¡®You okay?¡¯ he asked.


    She held up her arm, already stuck in the new tube.


    ¡®Newbie, how the-?!¡¯


    Again, he yanked her hand out. ¡®There you go.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she said, playfully stiff, ¡®Aide O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    And there was only one thing to say in return. He had his new title and his new way forward, and so did she. ¡®You¡¯re welcome, Agent Mimosa.¡¯

 00 - Mirrorshades Cover & Updates

    Stef has a chunk of dead planet where her heart should be. A piece of mirror able to grant wishes, powerful enough to end the world.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Naturally, the Agency is wary of such a resource and likes it tightly controlled.


    In Stef''s case, that means becoming an agent - a dream come true for her, becoming something that''s equal parts magic and technology. Becoming someone who can play video games in their head - if Ryan doesn''t lock down the parental controls.


    It''s not one simple button though, and on top of the endless tests, the accidental tweaks of code that leave her unable to see or move, there''s a stack of paperwork as tall as she is.

 01 - New and Novel

    Truly new or novel problems to deal with were a rarity.


    There were always enemies with new tactics, new Solstice or fae weapons, or factions warping, combining or fracturing.


    All - most - of those problems could ultimately be solved by her commander¡¯s go-to move, a quick, elegant snap of the neck.


    Rare did conversations need to happen, and that suited Taylor just fine - and she knew she wouldn¡¯t have lasted as aide for so long if she didn¡¯t know how to operate on his wavelength.


    Or...perhaps he still would have used her as his aide, but they wouldn¡¯t have the relationship they did now, they wouldn¡¯t be as close as they were.


    She wouldn¡¯t be his favourite weapon to aim at a problem.


    Magnolia kept her breath steady as Taylor touched her arm, adjusted its position slightly, and better aimed her knife at the target.


    Sometimes - most - of the time, she wished he had some idea of the effect he had on her, that he could comprehend even one per cent of how achingly fucking horny he could make her.


    It would make blindfolded practice a hell of a lot more interesting. Unfortunately, as things were, and as things would remain, they were memories and sensations to lock away in her spank bank.


    His presence disappeared - stepping back, rather than shifting away - how he¡¯d disappeared wasn¡¯t the point of today¡¯s exercise. Still, it was a skill he wanted to drill into her.


    And, whilst not perfect, she was a lot better at picking up when someone had shifted in or out of a situation than most recruits.


    Most recruits - or at least more than she would have liked - tended not to actively work on their situational awareness.


    Her recruits, her teams, had exercises that specifically worked on it. To know how to still themselves, to listen for small, secret sounds, to understand the change in breathing.


    For her recruits, it could be a matter of life and death. For Field recruits, whilst some were good at immediately assessing a situation, most seemed to assume they¡¯d have back-up when things went to shit.


    Training supervisors in Central were always working on newer and better exercises. Still, very few had been successfully gamified to the point where recruits would seek them out, outside of mandatory training.


    Years before, someone had worked out that a way to train people to pick up on basic situation awareness was to gamify dashcam crash footage.


    Short, punchy videos, videos that the internet had proved well and truly that people would seek out and watch on their own, turned into quizzes.


    The concept was easy enough. Play a video, then have the recruit try to determine as much about the situation as possible - not the accident itself, necessarily, but whatever other information could be gleaned from the few seconds of footage.


    Could they determine a location? If it wasn¡¯t a place they immediately knew, what factors had been present to narrow it down. Had there been any highway or street signs; if not, what licence plates had been available; what foliage, plants or biomes could be seen.


    The more information they could provide, the more points they got, and the higher they went on the scoreboards.


    And it was easy, fun and quick to do. And while the benefit was subtle, there was definitely a correlation between Field recruits who played the dashcam game and those that had started to write better reports, or those that realised situations were about to go south quicker than their colleagues.


    Standing alone in a room, listening to the sounds of sim NPCs breathing or shifting in and out was far less attractive; so had far fewer fans.


    There was the sound of fabric moving, a specific sound she¡¯d learned to associate with Taylor nodding, and she focussed on the targets in front of her.


    There were six sims in front of her, at a distance of about twenty feet. Only one target would breathe at a time, and it would be for a random number of seconds, then that target would shift - closing the window on that target.


    As each target was hit, the breathing would get quieter and quieter, to the last barely perceptible target.


    So far, she had averaged three targets each time. A number that she chastised herself about each time but seemed to be precisely where Taylor expected her to be on the training curve.


    She could hear Taylor breathing. Steady. Calm. A rock. Her rock. As often as she tried to match her breathing to his, she could rarely hold the sync for more than a few minutes.


    He was breathing. She was breathing. The rest of their private gym was quiet, bar the usual subtle sounds of life that any building had.


    And then, ahead of her, someone began to breathe.


    Taylor¡¯s breath fell from its pattern, and she knew it wasn¡¯t the sim target.


    A second later, the sim NPC started to breathe - solidifying in her mind that they were no longer alone.


    Someone had appeared without walking into the room. And whilst nearly anyone could be shifted into a room, few people were comfortable enough to dare breaching Taylor¡¯s privacy with no prior warning.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    And if there¡¯d been warning, he would have stopped the activity, getting her ready to deal with whatever was encroaching on their time.


    He also hadn¡¯t moved or otherwise reacted. That dramatically cut down on the number of people it could be.


    One obvious name came to mind, and it would prove a good last part of the blindfold training if she could confirm it.


    She flared her nostrils and took in a deep sniff, and the faintest trace of a familiar cologne registered.


    A smile spread across her face, and she adjusted her stance a little, moving from a ready-to-throw position, and faded towards the cologne.


    With each day, week and month that went by, she was getting better at fading from spot to spot. While slower than an agent¡¯s shift, it had its own advantages.


    And one day, she¡¯d be able to do it properly.


    For those fae races who could fade, it was an ability that you learned to harness while in childhood. It was something you mastered alongside walking, flying, and any other mode of transportation inherent to your people.


    But when you grew up with a human father who tried to make you suppress everything fae about yourself...it was like starting the process of learning to walk in your teens.


    And now, a decade or more after she¡¯d really started trying to learn the art, she was still barely above the equivalent of toddling around, gripping furniture for balance.


    She held the image of the far side of the gym in her mind and rocked her body back a little, like the small movement you¡¯d make to steady yourself from falling.


    And with that, she dropped from the normal plane of the world.


    She reached up and pulled the blindfold - a strip of fabric from her own skirt - from her eyes and looked forward.


    Fae who knew what they were doing could exist almost forever in this step of their fade, but the less experienced you were, the faster the world collapsed around you.


    The fade world around her was ephemeral. A space you couldn¡¯t touch and wasn¡¯t solid to the touch, bar where your feet were, and even then, sometimes, it felt like the strange gravity of this not-world wanted to pull them through the cloud-like barriers beneath you.


    It was a strange space of clouds, of photo-negative reality, or askew colours and the ghosts of things around the space where you¡¯d disappeared from the world.


    People who knew what they were doing could just walk through this space, crossing miles and miles of space with each step, so long as they kept a destination or direction in their mind.


    Lower-skilled fae could only keep a very direct, most times very close, destination.


    Her lack of long-distance ability didn¡¯t matter most of the time - often, as now, it was simply used to get the drop on someone. Still, hopefully, by the time she had wrinkles that came from age, rather than stress, she could step into the fade, and step out a hundred miles away.


    The image of the other side of the gym appeared ahead of her, and around it, the world began to collapse into a tunnel.


    She ran forward, chasing the destination before it collapsed and dumped her out partway along the journey.


    As she got closer to the telescoping end of the tunnel, partial, ghostly images of the sims appeared, and amongst them, one tall, welcome visitor.


    She stepped around the back of Grigori, spun the knife in her hand, broke out of the fade, and stabbed him in the kidney.


    Grigori¡¯s familiar, larger-than-life laughter filled the gym, then strong hands grabbed her and threw her to the ground in front of him.


    She kicked out, swept his legs from under him, and then launched herself onto his supine form, legs spread as she sat on his broad chest.


    ¡®On your back is always a good look for you,¡¯ she said, matching his grin.


    ¡®Always a pleasure, Mags,¡¯ he said, shifted from under her, then offered a hand down to her.


    She stood and watched the weird, sweet moment of Grigori greeting Taylor. This time it was a simple hug, but each and every interaction between the two were memories to treasure.


    Some people were puzzles inside of enigmas inside of puns wrapped around mazes.


    Taylor was layers of walls and moats and defences.


    She knew she had scaled most of those walls - so much closer to him than anyone else in their Agency.


    Grigori faced none of the defences.


    They couldn¡¯t be more different when viewed from the outside. Taylor, solitary, words measured and rare. On the other hand, Grigori was the immediate life of any room he walked into, a gregarious party onto himself, with a family that carried the backbone of the gutted Russian agencies.


    They had a history, long and storied, but so much of it was things she¡¯d had to infer from things Grigori had said.


    A few quiet words passed between the agents, and they started to spar.


    Content they¡¯d be bruising each other for at least half an hour, she moved to sit on the bleachers and work on their new and novel problem.


    And it didn¡¯t escape her notice that Grigori¡¯s visit was suspiciously well-timed.


    More questions to be asked. Questions that this time, hopefully, would get something closer to a real answer.


    Taylor had died and come back. That much she knew and had known for a long time. However, the circumstances around it were above even her paygrade as an aide; and they weren¡¯t a story that Taylor had ever offered.


    And it wasn¡¯t her place to dig into it - his secrets were his to hold, even if knowing what had happened would likely help her serve him better.


    Now, under their Agency roof, they had another person who¡¯d survived kicking the bucket - and today was to be their first scheduled meeting to put forward Combat¡¯s contributions to Mimosa¡¯s full augmentation.


    It was going to be interesting for a few reasons. While there had been plenty of partial augmentations during her time as aide, there¡¯d never been the circumstances for someone to get a full upgrade.


    And while partial augmentation was most often a seamless process, something that was little more than Jones clicking a few permissions sliders, agentification was far more complex and needed a lot more tweaking.


    On top of that, there were endless questions about how the mirror was going to interact with Mimosa¡¯s blue and the delicate balancing act that it was going to take to bring her into line with general agent parameters.


    And, far more mundanely, was the problem of how to cater Combat testing and QA to a nerd that belonged in a lab coat running code with Screen, rather than cosplaying the MIB¡¯s ¡°bring your kid to work day¡±.


    New problems, new solutions, a hundred things she¡¯d accounted for, a hundred that she hadn¡¯t.


    She stared at the latest drawing that Merlin had stuck into the back pocket of her work folder - an attempt at a chibified version of herself, resplendent in crayon and pencil.


    And whenever she didn¡¯t look directly at it, the tip of the knife that the chibi held glinted just a little.


    She¡¯d worried the first time she¡¯d noticed the little touch of magic - usually, any of the little gifts that he gave her that hinted that he was anything other than a traumatised child were things to be cherished but hidden away.


    Merlin needed to be protected. He¡¯d already been hurt too much in his life.


    But Merlin had been the one to stick the drawing in the folder, and that meant that he was aware of what he was doing, aware of the risk, or...perhaps had just made the little bit of magic work just for her. Maybe anyone else who saw it would simply think it was some glitter.


    Maybe and maybe and maybe. For now, he was safe.


    She spared a look at the two sparring agents. Somehow, mysteriously, Grigori¡¯s shirt had come off, and sweaty muscles were catching the gym¡¯s fluorescent lights as he tried to grab Taylor in a headlock.


    Whatever was stirring under Taylor¡¯s calm visage, whatever was going to happen, she was glad of the back-up.

 02 – Breakfast Routine

    ¡®I hate you.¡¯


    ¡®No, you don¡¯t.¡¯


    ¡®I hate you.¡¯


    Curt stared at the coffee tray in his hand, looked at the crumpled mess of blankets that hid Stef, picked a corner of the bed that likely didn¡¯t contain any bits of sleepy hacker, and sat.


    ¡®Graaaaa,¡¯ she protested from somewhere to his left.


    ¡®I got coffee from the pie cart, but if you¡¯re not interested, then I¡¯ll just be extra caffeinated.¡¯


    Slowly, a hand emerged from the blankets at the foot of the bed and made grabby motions.


    ¡®Nope,¡¯ he said, ¡®you gotta be a full person to get coffee. No disembodied hands.¡¯


    The hand stopped making grabby motions. ¡®Do you think agents can detach their limbs? Like, surely there¡¯s got to be situations where it would be useful.¡¯


    ¡®Newbie, not over breakfast, for god¡¯s sake.¡¯


    Slowly, a dishevelled hacker rolled out from under the blankets. For the first couple of mornings, he¡¯d been wary of invading her space like this, even if it was to wake her up, and he¡¯d been a gentleman and kept his distance and his eyes averted, sure that she wouldn¡¯t want someone seeing her in her pyjamas.


    He¡¯d doubted that walking trash gremlin Stef Mimosa slept in sexy lingerie. Still, most girls didn¡¯t like to be seen in any kind of nightwear unless specifically invited.


    Over those first couple of days, it had become clear that she seemed to crawl into bed wearing whatever she¡¯d been wearing during the day, seemingly without a thought spared for comfort or convention.


    And simply bringing coffee was enough to buy him entry into her ungraceful, often monosyllabic waking process.


    So, in a uniform, minus tie, crumpled by eight hours of sleep, she popped the plastic lid from the coffee cup and poured sugar into it. ¡®Pie cart?¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s a group of rotating fae businesses that do a morning run so recruits can buy delicacies you can¡¯t require.¡¯


    She put the lid back onto the coffee, had an experimental sip, made an approving noise, then a tray appeared in front of them - one serve of eggs Benedict for each of them.


    This new routine was only a few days old, and already there was becoming a his & hers split of responsibilities - he¡¯d bring drinks, often something fae, or fae-adjacent, to introduce her to more of the world of magic; and she¡¯d require something fancy from her life growing up as a little rich girl, so that he could expand his palate beyond simple egg and bacon muffins or cereal.


    ¡®This is pretty tame,¡¯ he said, ¡®I¡¯ve had eggs Benny before.¡¯


    ¡®Eggs Royale, technically.¡¯ She stabbed into her egg with her fork. ¡®I figured you¡¯d appreciate this though, it¡¯s that devil in the details, more than meets the eye thing. Most people could smash out some version of this. Still, it¡¯s an entirely other experience when you worry about the providence of every element. Where the salmon was caught; what the chickens were fed, what kind of flour goes in, all that.¡¯ She licked Hollandaise off her finger. ¡®Aren¡¯t people getting pissed that you¡¯re getting to skip out on training?¡¯


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    He broke the yolk over the sourdough toast. ¡®You¡¯ve got to first assume someone gives enough of a shit to wonder where I am. And if anyone did ask, all Mags has to say is ¡°not here¡±, then you filter down to the people who have the balls to enquire further when she¡¯s obviously not inviting conversation. I think the consensus is either that I¡¯m injured, or Mags is letting me sleep late in exchange for certain favours.¡¯


    ¡®You bringing her coffee too?¡¯


    He took a short drink of his own coffee. There were certain ways he had to handle Newbie with care - and high on that list seemed to be an intense discomfort with anything sex-related. Treading carefully was the only way forward.


    ¡®If I say ¡°sleep¡± is the operative word in that sentence and ask you to extrapolate from there, can we move to the next point?¡¯


    He looked at her face and almost saw the moment she went from processing to understanding.


    ¡®Ooooh,¡¯ she said teasingly. ¡®Is she your girlfriend?¡¯ She paused. ¡®I feel like I¡¯ve asked that before, but I can¡¯t remember the answer. Mags and Curt sitting in a tree¡­¡¯ she sang before biting into a piece of toast.


    ¡®What are you, twelve?¡¯


    ¡®Only if it gets me nuggets off the kiddie menu.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re friends, sometimes there are operative-word benefits. That¡¯s all.¡¯


    And she¡¯d never settle for someone like him. He was a good friend, someone who had her back when she needed it, but a white picket fence wasn¡¯t in their future.


    And that was okay. He still needed to work a lot on himself before he could think about anything other than friends-with-sexy-benefits.


    ¡®So today,¡¯ he continued. ¡®More of the same of what we¡¯ve been doing. Combat¡¯s going to be submitting their first draft of their training proposal. Anything overnight about your docent yet?¡¯


    ¡®Jane¡¯s setting up a meeting in a few days. Said I should brush up on the major Courts, which is something Ryan already flagged he wanted to talk about, so I can do that bit of stuff with him later.¡¯


    ¡®That probably means that your docent is-¡¯ he paused. ¡®Well, there are a few possibilities. First, they could be from an Agency whose primary function is to liaise with one of the majors. Otherwise, they could just have strong family ties with a court.¡¯ He took a minute to eat a big section of his breakfast. ¡®Agent Jones?¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy.¡¯


    He swirled a square of toast through the rich sauce. ¡®Agent Jones.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m gonna fix you, Padawan.¡¯ She lifted the blanket, dug around for a moment, and then pulled out a large tablet. ¡®So the big question-¡¯ Pause. Tap. ¡®She¡¯s dealing with today is what version of the OS to start me on. Up to date OS is four-point-two-point-point-point blah blah with all the hotfixes. Point two was the major update. They¡¯ve only started recently generating agents straight with clean four-point-two software. Mostly, they start with a stable release somewhere between three-four and three-seven, then run updates before the babby agent opens their eyes.¡¯ She snorted. ¡®And now all I can imagine is like, full-grown agents rolling around in diapers and like, those big frilly cartoon bonnets.¡¯


    He bit down on his tongue. Conversations that included references to regular, vanilla sex had to be carefully censored; this was not a time to mention that there had to be an entire group of people who had that exact fetish.


    ¡®So what are you getting started on?¡¯


    ¡®Probably three-seven. Supposed to be smoothest for augments. Well, augments like me. If I was what the cover story said, then three-five would be better, but we¡¯re gonna count on people not giving enough of a shit to care about that minor plot hole.¡¯


    ¡®Better stuff for half-agents in that release?¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®But, really, it¡¯s at the tech¡¯s discretion. This is more...VFX of phasers coming from the wrong spot than beaming through the shields.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®You¡¯re learning to speak Stef, I can adapt a bit too.¡¯


    He looked down at his breakfast, hiding his emotions with toast and coffee. ¡®Appreciated, Newbie.¡¯


    It was something small. Something that would have been inconsequential to most people.


    To someone who felt like they had to fight for every tiny scrap of connection, it put another light in the sky.


    ¡®Pull out your homework,¡¯ he said, face set in its perfect Recruit Curt friendly and neutral, ¡®let¡¯s see how much I have to red pen this time.¡¯

 03 – Top Secret

    Being top secret was weird.


    It was like being back in her old life in certain ways - the life where she had no reason to go outside unless there was something she couldn¡¯t get delivered through an app.


    Outside had been a sometimes thing, and that had been fine. Outside was loud, noisy, overwhelming, and full of people.


    But not having the choice seemed really limiting.


    Crawford had allowed certain spaces to be added beyond the walls of her suite and office, like Jane¡¯s estate, but visiting there was still strange, still too much like her bio-family, even if it did come with the beyond wonderful chance to keep reconnecting with Buttercup.


    Reynold¡¯s garden was a good compromise between really leaving the Agency and looking at the same set of walls all day.


    It was an ongoing sim room, one that the previous director had spent decades handcrafting and perfecting.


    The result was rolling countryside, with paved paths that joined individual, immaculate gardens.


    It was somehow more real than real. Greens that should have only existed after hours of colour correcting a photograph; soft, tamed wilderness that rivalled the beauty of anything Ghibli had produced.


    She lay on a hill, shaded by an oak tree, on grass soft enough that she didn¡¯t mind interacting with the outdoors.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    ¡®Hmm?¡¯


    Ryan sat beside her and placed some folders on a roughly-level patch of ground. ¡®Did you do the pre-reading I asked?¡¯


    She sat up, crossed her legs, and picked up her HUD glasses. ¡®Yep,¡¯ she said, ¡®and I tried doing it all through these. I wanted to get - well, start to get - used to organising information in three dimensions.¡¯


    ¡®And?¡¯


    She couldn¡¯t keep the grin off her face. ¡®It¡¯s so...natural,¡¯ she said, putting all of her glee into the word. ¡®Organising tabs is one thing. Even keeping windows of different tabs only has so much value, same with using multiple monitors. This¡­¡¯ her hands shook and flapped with excitement. ¡®It¡¯s so easy to prioritise and cross-reference and keep running notes while not losing my place.¡¯ She forced herself to ball her hands and dropped them into her lap. ¡®Okay, I probably didn¡¯t have a hundred per cent of my focus on comprehending the info, but I¡¯ve at least got the broad strokes, and how I¡¯ve got the workspace packed away for later will make it easier to get back into it the next time I¡¯ve got time for research.¡¯


    A month ago, a year ago, all those words all at once would have been unthinkable. A lifetime ago, words said to another man she¡¯d had to think of as ¡°father¡± would have been met with disgust or disinterest.


    Now, all she saw was pride and happiness radiating from Ryan¡¯s face.


    ¡®So, what is your basic understanding?¡¯ Ryan asked.


    ¡®Seven major Courts, though that¡¯s a number that¡¯s been different in the past and might be different in the future. There¡¯s no seelie-slash-unseelie kind of divide, even going waaaaay back in history. The closest to that kind of divide was the Golden and Silver courts, and those are so lost to history that no one knows how real they are and how much they¡¯ve been mythologised.¡¯


    This earned a nod.


    ¡®And there¡¯s no sort of¡­¡¯ she wiggled her fingers trying to look for words. ¡®Hard and fast rule about who gets to be a Court or not. Currently, it¡¯s tidy in that there¡¯s one Major per continent, but neither the reach nor influence of those courts are strictly limited to those geographic areas; it¡¯s just where their home base is.¡¯


    Another nod.


    ¡®Kings is the oldest. It¡¯s...all about laws and rules and whatnot.¡¯


    Fae law made the tangled growth around Sleeping Beauty¡¯s castle look like the soft grass she sat on. So far as she¡¯d dared to look into it - which was very much a surface-level take - there were so many contradicting laws that every single situation had multiple ways it could be handled.


    And the Kings existed to both try and streamline these laws. To unify, clarify, and act as the final arbiter when cases were dragging through the regular judges-and-robes small-c-courts.


    There were the Silence, the Court of Life, the Liars, the Plenty, and finally, the two that interested her the most: the Court of the Mad, which preferred to be called Madchester, as its home base was beneath Manchester; and the Court of the Lost, their local Major.


    Compared to the other five, Madchester and the Lost seemed to be primarily concerned with charity work. Madchester gave a home to anyone who society threw away. Gave space to people who just needed to converse with walls or have somewhere safe to be.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    In another life - maybe still in this life, depending on how long keeping a dirty orphan around amused Ryan - it would have been a good place to live.


    Madchester cared for everyone; the Lost kept their primary focus on children - they were a fae court that seemed to exist to give imaginary friends to children.


    And that was the kind of beautiful, wonderful side to magic that had always made her splash in puddles, look into shadows and wish on stars.


    It had left one question in the forefront of her mind. And though there had probably been half a dozen ways to find the answer, one of which would have been as simple as emailing the Court...it had seemed best to wait. To ask Ryan, who¡¯d been insistent on the Courts being one of her research priorities.


    If it had just been for her possible incoming docent, he likely would have flagged which court that docent was affiliated with.


    If it had been for work purposes, it probably would have been something filtered through Curt¡¯s schedule. And this was the possibility that made the least sense, as Queen Street didn¡¯t seem to be an Agency that was particularly concerned with Court work.


    To add to that, when weighted by file size, there was significantly more information about the Lost - not a disproportionate amount. Still, it was there if you looked for it.


    And Ryan liked to give her little challenges, to make her think, and work things out for herself.


    And she had a childhood full of half-remembered dreams of a pirate captain.


    Whether or not Hook had been real, a question of the practicality loomed.


    ¡®The Lost,¡¯ she said. ¡®Kids. When most kids have an imaginary friend, they know it¡¯s imaginary. It¡¯s a game. Like playing with dolls. I had all these storylines where I had Doctor Moreau monsters and meteor showers and all that, but I still knew I was playing with teddies whose heads I¡¯d ripped off and attached to other dolls.¡¯ She tilted her head to the side. ¡®But if the Lost are sending real people who give the kids adventures in a simulacrum of Narnia or whatever, how...how do the kids not turn out screwed up? You¡¯d know it was real, but everyone around you would tell you that magic wasn¡¯t real, and it would turn into this huge gaslighting situation.¡¯


    ¡®Well, what do you remember?¡¯


    ¡®He was real? Hook was real?¡¯


    Ryan nodded slowly. ¡®Think, what do you remember?¡¯


    Somehow, it was almost like finding out about magic all over again - something impossible, something that had always been true in the deepest recesses of her heart, but something that - up to that point - had been unable to withstand the light of reality.


    ¡®It¡¯s...almost more like facts,¡¯ she said slowly, trying to verbalise the strange way her memories coalesced around the Captain. ¡®I know I had Captain Hook as an imaginary friend. I know I spent hours playing in my room, but it was also a pirate ship or Neverland or whatever. It¡¯s like remembering imaginings from a lifetime ago or a dream or whatever. I don¡¯t remember it being real magic. It¡¯s all so faint, which makes sense cause I was a kid, but...Explain?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re quite right in your assumptions that leaving children with memories of magic would often do more harm than good, so...it¡¯s the memories that are changed. Not removed, not even altered, just...aged at a faster rate. Playtime from the day before becomes the week before, a week segues into a month, into a year, and the child is allowed distance from it. And the more distance you get from any event, the more your mind writes and rewrites it, making it conform to something that makes sense.¡¯


    ¡®The fallibility of human memory wins again, I guess.¡¯


    ¡®It serves their needs. Often, a child only needs support for a short time, or in worse cases, the child is removed from the situation.¡¯


    ¡®No one ever tried to take me away from my shitty parents.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a matter of priority, unfortunately. The Lost are a major Court, but in a lot of ways, they lack many of the resources of the others. They only have the ability to extract so many children, and those whose lives are in danger have to come first. I¡¯d ask that you not think too poorly of them for that, they do what they can.¡¯


    She squeezed his hand. ¡®And I guess we wouldn¡¯t be talking if they¡¯d yoinked me out. So it¡¯s a happy ending anyway.¡¯


    ¡®A happy beginning,¡¯ he corrected gently, ¡®nowhere near an ending yet.¡¯


    ¡®Can- Do you think I can contact the Lost? See if the Captain still-¡¯


    She stopped as he held out two business cards. The first was an appointment time, and the second was one of those little magic cards that you tore in half to activate a shift.


    ¡®While you were in your coma, I wanted to learn more about you, and did a Court search as a matter of course. I¡¯ve spoken to him, and he remembers you, of course, you aren¡¯t easy to forget, Stef. And- Your horse, it was his idea. He told me the story of how it was taken. I had simply asked Jane to help arrange another animal, but she was able to track down Buttercup.¡¯


    ¡®I was gonna ask, but every time I thought to, I got distracted. Or tripped over hay. Or stepped in poop. I was just so excited I forgot.¡¯


    A piece of paper appeared in his hands - a partial screenshot of his HUD, and he handed it to her.


    Pinned to an empty corner was a small image. A photo of her asleep in a pile of hay, face dusty and dirty, Buttercup leaning down, likely about to nibble on her hair.


    ¡®I had hoped you would take the gift in the manner in which it was given, but...I haven¡¯t seen joy like this in a long time.¡¯


    ¡®A happy beginning,¡¯ she said. ¡®I keep worrying that something is going to pull the sheet out from under me, but I¡¯m trying to temper that paranoia, just a little bit.¡¯


    ¡®Things aren¡¯t perfect, and I can¡¯t imagine they ever will be. Reynolds...it¡¯s banal, but always said to look for the good in a situation. He was a lot more positive a person, I think, than either of us, so I have adopted-¡¯


    ¡®Me!¡¯


    He gave a slight shake of his head. ¡®I have taken the stance of looking for growth, rather than good. Good isn¡¯t always possible or reasonable, but you can often learn something about a situation, yourself, or the world, even on the worst days.


    ¡®Today, I learned that uniforms are surprisingly resistant to grass stains.¡¯


    ¡®Not if you generate enough speed going downhill,¡¯ he said, an almost-sad smile on his face. ¡®That¡¯s something I have empirical proof of.¡¯


    She looked at the appointment card - it wasn¡¯t for over a week - and tucked it into an inside pocket of her vest.


    ¡®This...might call for peer testing, though.¡¯


    Ryan stood. ¡®I¡¯ll meet you at the bottom of the hill.¡¯ He shifted from his spot beside her, taking the files with him.


    With one last look at the rustling leaves above her head, she looked at her positioning, shuffled her butt a couple of feet to the left, tucked her arms, and went spinning down the hill.

 04 – Softer, Kinder

    It wasn¡¯t weird to look at your own body.


    It was really weird to look at your own body from a distance.


    Stef reached forward and grabbed the hand of the simulacrum, feeling its weird room temperature texture.


    ¡®I know I disassociate pretty well,¡¯ she said mildly, ¡®but this is another level altogether.¡¯


    Andrea snorted, then went back to what she was doing.


    The simulacrum, the first step of agentification, stood in the centre of the room like a short, bored shop mannequin. It was her, to down every detail, every pale freckle, every hair on her arm and, under the light hospital gown, every inch of horrible scarring.


    ¡®I know it¡¯s weird,¡¯ Andrea said. ¡®Whether you do this by choice or necessity, it¡¯s always weird.¡¯ Andrea scooted her chair closer to Stef, two oversized slushy cups in her hand. ¡®Here, drink.¡¯


    Stef looked between Andrea and the sim. ¡®Have you done this?¡¯


    Andrea nodded. ¡®A lot of agents who want to play with gender in a visual way do. Some just with clothing, others want to take advantage of functionally being able to shapeshift.¡¯ Andrea flicked a couple of things on her tablet, and two additional Jonesys appeared.


    One was the boy-mode Jonesy that she was familiar with - long blond hair that would make an anime character jealous, round glasses and a nerdy shirt under a lab coat.


    The other was¡­ wasn¡¯t quite Jonesy. The hair was too short - floppy hair, and more of a dirty blond than it was now, and a starched uniform shirt under the lab coat.


    After a moment, the nerdy boyband reject Jonesy disappeared, leaving just Andrea and her boy-mode self. ¡®I didn¡¯t want to look too different. I still wanted to look like me, no matter how I was feeling, but it took a while to find the elements that made it feel just right.¡¯ She tucked back the hair on the Jonesy sim. ¡®It¡¯s like getting a bespoke suit, but you have to go stitch by stitch to make it feel right.¡¯


    Stef stared at her own sim. Her body was always something she¡¯d done her best to distance herself from - even if not in such a literal way.


    As a kid, her body has been a disappointment. She hadn¡¯t been effortlessly graceful like her mother, and that had been something close to an unforgivable sin.


    The accident and the resulting scars had been an ongoing source of shame, but more than that, it had been a constant reminder of exactly how little she featured in the thoughts of her family.


    It would have been less than no effort. Half a mention to an assistant or valet to arrange the necessary restorative plastic surgeries, to give her a life where stretching the wrong way wouldn¡¯t mean her school blouse would show off disfigured flesh to classmates who already thought she was easy pickings.


    It had meant a life never wearing a swimsuit without some kind of cover. Forever making sure sleeves were long enough and being reminded how little she meant every time she stepped into a shower.


    And now, with a couple of words, she could ask Andrea to change anything and everything she¡¯d ever hated about herself.


    A few taps and clicks could mean a glow-up from gremlin to gorgeous.


    Stef, age twelve, crying herself to sleep every night in her hospital bed, would have jumped at the opportunity.


    Stef, age sixteen, understanding that attending a pool party, even as a pity invite, would have curled the finger on the monkey¡¯s paw.


    Stef, age¡­whatever she was now, simply stared at her doppelganger.


    ¡®I think I¡¯m learning some things about myself,¡¯ she said quietly.


    ¡®If you¡¯ll forgive the pun,¡¯ Andrea said after a long pull on her slushy, ¡®I think this experience has forced a lot more self-reflection than would have happened otherwise.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ she said, then spent a few long moments slurping at her slushy.


    There was a question coming. A lot could be left unsaid, and a lot had been said in a few words. Still, sooner or later, Andrea would need an honest answer, if for the checkboxes on the paperwork, if nothing else.


    ¡®There is one change coming,¡¯ Andrea said, putting her slushy down. ¡®And it¡¯s one I assume you haven¡¯t seen, else I think you would have commented on it.¡¯


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡®There is a looot of paperwork, Jonesy,¡¯ she said, making a meal of the word. And it wasn¡¯t a lie either - if it had been printed instead of in files and slideshows, the stack of paper would have likely been taller than her.


    And she was doing her best to keep on top of it, to understand what she could, and to question what she didn¡¯t.


    In many ways, it was like a softer, kinder reboot of her time in hospital - when there were so many things happening, few of which she¡¯d fully understood.


    And not all of her doctors were ready to have in-depth medical conversations with a gangly child, one largely held together with stitches and hope.


    She¡¯d had no backup. No family. Mother had died, and James had apparently only been at the hospital long enough to identify her body.


    Every other bit of contact from her family had been directly aimed at the hospital staff, circumventing her like she was a pesky pothole.


    Someone associated with her family had dropped off a box of her things. A plastic tub that seemed to have been filled with the first couple of dozen books and toys within arm¡¯s reach of her bedroom door.


    When she¡¯d been released from the hospital, she¡¯d gone directly to boarding school; and in that time, her father had sold their house.


    What had happened to the rest of her childhood, to her other books and toys, to the dolls hidden away behind drawers because they weren¡¯t pretty and perfect like Stephanie should have been playing with¡­ she¡¯d never had the courage to ask.


    Part of her suspected that everything was in labelled boxes in some storage locker, along with the rest of the unused furnishings and decor from the house.


    The other part of her knew that the cruel twist in James¡¯ soul would have made sure to tell the movers and packers to throw out everything in her room. To take the time to be a bastard rather than allow any small measure of grace.


    And in the few times she¡¯d seen him, when they¡¯d been at the same family event, or she¡¯d heard him visiting the family estate during those rare times she¡¯d been allowed ¡°home¡± from school, she¡¯d done her best to disappear.


    Words of anger, confrontational questions, and the desire to scream at him until her throat bled¡­all of it always fled with one look.


    Even now, she did her best not to picture his face.


    She stared at her sim for another long, silent moment.


    Wishes. Wishes were so dangerous.


    If Andrea was correct, the amount of mirror in her chest could create another moon in the sky, raise a continent, or make some other fundamental change to the world.


    It was way more than what would be required to change everything about her.


    One scalpel, one cut, and a bit of painful digging could change her from the ground up.


    But not one iota of her felt tempted.


    Not one?


    Maybe a few?


    It was the same sort of conclusion she¡¯d come to, crying on Jane¡¯s bathroom floor, trying for the millionth time to come to terms with the fact that having a child wasn¡¯t something that was ever going to be in the cards.


    One wish could wipe out the shitstain waste of space that she was and leave a functioning, sane, allistic, pretty person in her place.


    But if she did that, she¡¯d be dead, and twice was probably already enough for one lifetime.


    Well. Three. You¡¯re not going to live forever.


    ¡®Shh,¡¯ she whispered into her slushy, then started, realising that she¡¯d spoken out loud, and clumsily segued into blowing air through her slushy straw.


    It was almost the smallest of differences, but the world lay in the difference.


    She wanted to change. She didn¡¯t want to be changed.


    She wanted proud-dad smiles from Ryan when he didn¡¯t have to remind her to complete something. She wanted the satisfaction of finishing a small task after only procrastinating for half a day, not a whole day. There was a day coming when she saw herself in the mirror and only hated herself with the power of nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine burning suns instead of a full thousand.


    And for maybe one minute every day, it seemed like change was actually possible.


    Only one?


    Maybe a few.


    ¡®If it¡¯s the kill switches,¡¯ she said, almost meeting Andrea¡¯s eyes, ¡®I know whatever I¡¯m allowed to know within my security clearance. I was kind of surprised it wasn¡¯t more hidden. Then again, I mean, Suicide Squad members always know about their brain bombs.¡¯ She broke up some icier chunks with her straw. ¡®I almost felt it was weird to bring up. I mean, it¡¯s not like you couldn¡¯t kill a recruit with a couple of clicks, right? I¡¯ve got like, millions of nanites in me right now. You¡¯ve just got to like, Wonder-Twins-Activate,¡¯ she said, awkwardly high-fiving herself, ¡®form of ¡°an aneurysm¡± or ¡°blood clots¡± or whatever. I mean, fuck, you could shift a drop of snake venom directly into someone and watch their blood turn to jelly.¡¯


    Andrea stared for a long moment. ¡®I mean,¡¯ she said finally, ¡®you¡¯re not wrong, Spyder. But it sounds wrong saying it so casually.¡¯


    Then talk to someone who cares about their life.


    That¡¯s you. That¡¯s supposed to be you. Deduct one Ryan-smile from the running tally.


    ¡®It¡¯s not that,¡¯ Andrea said. ¡®All agents are ambidextrous but right-hand dominant. And you¡¯re sinister.¡¯


    ¡®Oh fuck off,¡¯ she said before she realised the words were coming out of her mouth. ¡®Alejndro said something about it, but you¡¯re really gonna flop me like an old manga?¡¯


    ¡®Got to be standardised, I¡¯m afraid. Given how you¡¯re breezing through the HUD training, using your right hand might be more of a change than going post-human.¡¯


    ¡®Are you gonna tape up my left hand until I do it right?¡¯


    ¡®Of course not,¡¯ Andrea said, her eyes glittering, ¡®I¡¯ve got a stack of freshly-cut switches to use.¡¯


    Stef stuck her tongue out.


    ¡®There¡¯s little bits of programming that help unconsciously prioritise the use of the right hand over the left. It¡¯ll be a change, but that¡¯s going to be a running theme. Now¡­¡¯


    Andrea let the word hang in the air.


    Stef took one more look at the sim. ¡®No changes. Maybe I¡¯ll make adjustments later, but I want to start as I am.¡¯ She reached out and booped the room-temperate nose of her doppelganger. ¡®Final answer. Is that okay?¡¯


    The sim pixelated for a brief moment then disappeared. ¡®Absolutely okay, Recruit.¡¯ Andrea reached a hand towards her shoulder but hesitated. Without a word, Stef leaned just a little towards the hand and smiled when Andrea gave her a gentle squeeze. ¡®I¡¯m proud of you. Change or no change, knowing where you want to start is a big thing.¡¯

 05 – Stories, Secrets

    Screen had described the sim as a haven for discerning frogs, and it wasn¡¯t hard to see why.


    Magnolia adjusted herself so that her head was propped on folded arms, giving her a view out into the strategically-lit caverns.


    Water dripped in a manner specifically programmed to relax whoever was listening. The large pool in the centre had a waterfall that ran gently, and despite appearances, none of the surfaces were ever slippery under your feet.


    And in direct opposition to half of her DNA coming from a bird, there was something calming about being in an enclosed space.


    The masseuse sim worked on her shoulders, making the occasional scripted comment about how knotted her muscles were and that she really should make relaxation a bigger part of her routine.


    Two mandated hours of doing something for herself were already enough to push at the comfortable margins of error she¡¯d built into her schedule.


    But Jane had been right, she needed it. Even if that was a thought she kept so quiet that even Merlin wouldn¡¯t be able to hear it.


    It felt selfish. It was selfish. Every moment that a sim was massaging her, or every time she dipped into a clear ocean, alone but for the sounds of gulls was a moment she wasn¡¯t preparing for the next battle. The next asshole to wave a gun in her direction. Seconds she wasn¡¯t spending anticipating the next stupid issue that would ruin her commander¡¯s day.


    And the first time it became an issue, the first time she was caught with her pants literally or metaphorically around her ankles, it would be the end of Magnolia¡¯s Relaxation Time T-M.


    She never brought her workbook into any of her sims. That was the one hard and fast rule she¡¯d made for herself.


    Her phone, on the other hand, was something she allowed.


    As a compromise, it was set to her custom Urgent-Only profile, which would keep the bullshit at bay whilst alerting her to anything that she really needed to be aware of in real time.


    So far, with twenty-seven whole minutes of relaxation done, there¡¯d been no emergencies.


    A couple of taps changed the playlist that was being piped through the ambient speakers, and she closed her eyes, allowing the masseuse to grumble gently at her arms.


    Thirty minutes.


    Half-sketched ideas of recruit reviews and scheduled changes passed through her mind.


    Forty minutes.


    ¡®Fuck this.¡¯


    This was the worst part, and it happened every single time.


    It was stressful to relax. Stressful when there were a hundred other things she should be doing. Stressful knowing that this was one of them, but that she wasn¡¯t properly engaging with the task.


    And thinking of relaxation as a task was probably the start of what was wrong.


    She forced herself to relax, letting out a breath so long it tested her lung capacity, made sure to let out the tension in her jaw and give herself over to the experience.


    And for a few blessed moments, she did relax.


    Her phone chimed.


    {Mind if I join you?}


    Grigori. At least this was somewhat expected. She sent back a simple thumbs-up, then shooed the masseuse away and sat up.


    A requirement adjusted her hair so it was piled atop her head, and another gave her a simple black bikini.


    She stood, walked away from the massage beds, and started down the rock steps into the large, cool pool as Grigori, more naked than the day he was born, quickly followed her.


    His nudity meant very little. When it came to Grigori, it was practically a neutral descriptor. He was comfortable with his body, clothed or unclothed, and he welcomed all looks of appreciation.


    And she enjoyed looking, but it had long since passed being a mystery, so it wasn¡¯t something that commanded her full attention.


    He fully submerged himself for a moment and then, with a few smooth movements, swam to the large, rounded rocks that served as a comfortable place to sit and converse.


    No words came immediately - something that rang loudly that this wasn¡¯t going to be a simple, light conversation or a quickie between good friends.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    She waded to the waterfall, tipped her head back, and let the constant, gentle pressure engulf her for a moment.


    ¡®He still hasn¡¯t told you anything, has he?¡¯


    The words broke through, even despite the noise of the waterfall.


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said as she stepped out of the spray.


    This wasn¡¯t exactly an old conversation, as every time it happened, it was different. Ever-changing permutations, even if their lines in the sand stayed pretty much where they¡¯d initially been drawn.


    Taylor had died. Taylor had come back, and Ryan had been the one to instigate his resurrection. And Taylor had come back¡­wrong, was so far from the man who had died as to be a completely different person.


    A summary. The most surface of details. Vague to the point of uselessness.


    And something she¡¯d long ago made peace with not knowing. Even knowing this much were things told to her by others, not facts offered up by Taylor.


    A lot of people talked about him, more than spoke to him. And it was easy to intuit which version of the man they preferred, and it wasn¡¯t the redhead whose silent form occupied a sizable percentage of her spank bank.


    Grigori had always wanted to tell her more. Well, once he¡¯d realised how much she¡¯d cared for his best friend.


    It had been Grigori dropping the term ¡°best friend¡± that had been a record-scratch moment in her early recruit career. Words said with obvious and genuine affection, aimed at a man who most of her own Agency treated like some kind of ambulatory weapon of war.


    As good as she was about keeping her cards close to her chest, it had taken some time for her own affection towards Taylor to filter through to Grigori and longer still for him to bring her into his confidence.


    And that initial conversation, when he¡¯d first asked what she¡¯d known about Taylor, had been far more intimate than the dozen or so times they¡¯d fucked during his previous visits.


    He¡¯d given her the summary slowly. Each word pulled slowly, their care telling her that there was so much story behind every syllable.


    Grigori had left her to sit with the information for a while, then, not in so many words, had asked if it had changed anything, had changed her feelings, or her intentions.


    It hadn¡¯t changed them, but it had complicated them - or at least made her realise that the situation was more complicated.


    If it hadn¡¯t been love at that time, it had become that in the intervening years. Had become a love she¡¯d kill or die for. Had become central to every moment of her life, even if it was an affection unlikely to be returned.


    Her feelings were her problem.


    Whether or not her commander felt the same or could even feel the same way had no material impact on how she approached interactions with him.


    In a closer-to-perfect world, there¡¯d be a chance for change.


    ¡®You still want to wait to hear it from him, don¡¯t you?¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®Even if it¡¯s for his own good?¡¯


    This wasn¡¯t an angle he¡¯d pushed before. Usually, it was just from the point of view that she should know, that it would help her understand the reaction some people had to him and would give her the key to unscrambling some of the unspoken stress in their Agency.


    Never because it could be of benefit to him.


    Ever since he¡¯d appeared in the gym, she¡¯d been running scenarios in her head. With everything going on, his timing couldn¡¯t be a coincidence.


    It wasn¡¯t an anniversary or anything like that. None of his previous visits seemed to line up like this, so that spoke to the circumstances rather than the date.


    Two possibilities loomed large. One, that it was related to mirror, but she¡¯d discounted this, as it would have necessitated a visit closer to the mirrorfall itself, not coming in the wake of¡­well, Mimosa waking up.


    And on the mirrorfall night, Taylor had been Taylor, acting pretty much where her expectations had been, working without any visible trauma response.


    That dovetailed into a more specific idea - that a mirror-powered individual had been involved.


    The second was that it had been a relatively new agent - or augment - that had been responsible.


    Five words stuck in her throat. Five words that would be ridiculous if heard by anyone other than the two people in this room. ¡®I want to protect him.¡¯


    ¡®I know.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s his story to tell, Grigori. But- What do I need to know to keep him safe?¡¯


    More words that would be stupid if heard by any other recruit. Taylor was a brick shithouse that you threw at problems, not someone who needed help.


    Everyone needed help. Even her commander.


    Disappointment was writ large across Grigori¡¯s face, but he relented after a moment. ¡®It isn¡¯t the same, it¡¯s not history repeating, but it¡¯s two tracks running close together. I don¡¯t know how he¡¯s going to react to this situation. This child is a spectre, representing far more than herself.¡¯


    ¡®How much history is repeating itself?¡¯


    ¡®Enough.¡¯


    ¡®Are you going to be here?¡¯


    ¡®As much as I can. My family can handle almost anything on their own.¡¯


    ¡®Give me a head¡¯s up when you can?¡¯


    ¡®As much as I can,¡¯ he said again. ¡®Most of the time, I don¡¯t feel the absence of Reynolds. I liked the man, but I¡¯m carrying the memories of so many others, I have to let some go.¡¯


    ¡®I know,¡¯ she said quietly.


    This was another part of Grigori that few outside of his admittedly large family saw. Regular recruits just saw a jovial man who would flirt with anyone. Even younger agents, privy to the information, rarely saw its impact.


    Any agent who¡¯d lived through it knew enough to leave the topic untouched unless it was initiated by Grigori himself.


    Of all the agents specifically generated for Russia, Grigori was the only one remaining.


    He was the only agent who¡¯d had to witness and grieve for an entire country¡¯s worth of colleagues and friends.


    In the end, it had been worth it - at least, that was the line everyone repeated. One agent, no Solstice - a bitter pyrrhic victory that had kept his land free of Solstice for decades.


    And as far as the country went, even Central was hesitant to tell Grigori how to run things - bowing to him on almost every matter.


    In the time since no agents had been generated to replace the dead - any agent that was there now was either a fully-augmented former recruit or someone whom Grigori had asked to transfer in.


    And when you were the one carrying that unimaginable grief on your back, it was understandable that there were some losses that you had to accept, and it was easy to see how former Director Reynolds fell into that category.


    The man wasn¡¯t even technically dead from what she understood, just¡­unlikely to ever walk the halls of any Agency ever again.


    That was another story where a hurried summary was as much as most knew.


    But whatever was going on, it would have been a boon to have Reynolds in Taylor¡¯s corner. As useless as most fathers could be, Grigori had given her the impression that Reynolds had been one of the good ones over the years.


    Grigori cupped her face and gave her a long, warm kiss on the cheek, then rested his forehead against hers. ¡®We will keep him safe. It¡¯s what you do for those you love.¡¯

 06 – Concentration

    ¡®Hey, Padawan?¡¯


    Immediately Stef shut her mouth as Curt held his hand up.


    ¡®What¡¯s the clock say, Newbie?¡¯


    She looked at the oversized stopwatch, currently in the final leg of counting down from twenty minutes, then looked back at him, forcing her expression to be as innocent as possible. ¡®Do you think-?¡¯


    ¡®What does the clock say, Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Tick-tock, tick-tock?¡¯


    He returned to his paperwork with a pointed look as his only admonishment.


    So far, the clock system had been somewhat effective. There was a lot of paperwork to be done, stuff both to do directly with the agentification process, as well as what amounted to the most comprehensive cram course of what every recruit should know.


    And little of it could get done when she was¡­wiggly.


    The interest in getting the work done was there, but concentration didn¡¯t always follow interest.


    So after repeated days of a pattern of one page of work roughly equating to half an hour of procrastination, Curt had instituted the clock.


    It was like being back in primary school and having designated quiet work periods. Twenty minutes at a time when conversation was shut down, and she had to do the task in front of her.


    To his credit, he understood that forcing a train wreck onto a track was a difficult task at best. So while she had to do ¡°work¡±, that ¡°work¡± didn¡¯t necessarily have to be one task, or a specific task.


    Sometimes, when one thing seemed impossible, switching to something that she¡¯d ignored during the last quiet work period now seemed¡­possible, if not easy.


    And there was also a growing collection of little toys in the basket that sat in the middle of the round table.


    It had started with a fidget spinner, of course. A little cube had joined it. A bag of randomly coloured dice that clinked and clunked together in such satisfying ways that it made her brain feel good. Various squishy toys, and finally, what seemed to be a bunch of children¡¯s meal toys from Famous Fry¡¯s.


    With five minutes left on the clock, she pulled two d20s from the velvet bag and rolled them together in her right hand, which rested on her bouncing knee.


    She started to read the paragraph for what was surely the sixteenth time, felt her eyes slide away again, and switched to the next thing in the pile.


    Oh, thank god.


    This one was at least easy - it was a copy of her recruit inventory loadout, or, ¡°default uniform requirement¡± as the title identified itself.


    This was one of the forms best filled digitally, so she carefully ticked a box on the upper left-hand corner, and her tablet lit up, the digital copy appearing on the screen.


    There was a separate section for each piece of equipment, covering the various options and preferences.


    Even something as simple as her tie broke down into subsections.


    Colour - this was a locked dropdown box, listed as the default for Queen St. Below this was an option for size, style, and knot style.


    Next were all the options for tie clips, including what amounted to ¡°import a custom design¡±, which involved requiring your preferred clip and registering it as the personalised option.


    Tie and shirt were easy.


    Something buzzed as she moved onto the vest.


    There seemed to be an order of magnitude more options presented for the vest - including an entire set that appeared or disappeared depending on whether or not the vest was set as the ¡°outer layer¡±.


    Protection played a significant role in the ¡°outer layer¡± options. Most Agency uniforms were already designed with some level of protection in mind. Still, those precise levels could be tweaked depending on user preference and needs.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Suits weren¡¯t bulletproof; you could get close at max settings, but you would have to sacrifice some comfort for that safety. It also meant that - presumably - dramatically tearing your sleeve off to stuff in the wound of an injured colleague would be nigh-impossible.


    Her current settings hovered somewhere around default, which was designed for comfort and a range of movement, with the view that Field recruits were less likely to be shot at their than Combat counterparts.


    She okayed the security options, then was presented with what was probably going to be a wonderful rabbit hole to fall down: the option for things to be included in her vest pockets.


    There was also an option to add more pockets, with a delightful drag-and-drop interface to change the exact position.


    She immediately slammed her fingers down, added four more pockets at random spots, then tapped on the tick for the current design to execute.


    Then let out a weird, mutated giggle as the fabric of her vest rippled and tickled as the new pockets appeared.


    ¡®Jesus Christ, Newbie,¡¯ Curt said, jumping in his chair.


    Science meant seeking out data.


    She wrapped her legs around the legs of her chair and shuffled closer to Curt, then leaned close and wrinkled her face. ¡®What¡¯sssss in its pocketsssssss, Preciousssssss?¡¯


    This barely got any reaction. ¡®Weren¡¯t there other riddles before that? My only experience with The Hobbit is the time Raz invited me to this party where a group of increasingly drunk Techs tried to act out the whole thing. I left before it was over, but there are rumours that it turned into an or- Organisational nightmare.¡¯


    ¡®A- Huh?¡¯


    He reached for her tablet to inspect what she¡¯d been working on. ¡®Oh, you know, people couldn¡¯t remember who was supposed to be playing what part. Shit like that.¡¯


    ¡®Pocketssssss,¡¯ she said again.


    ¡®I¡¯m gonna need real human words, Newbie.¡¯


    She dragged her tablet back from him and pointed to the options. ¡®You can set default items in your pockets. What do you have?¡¯


    ¡®Ooh. Okay, that makes sense.¡¯ He pushed his chair back from the table a bit, hooked his thumbs into his vest and neatly pulled it over his head. ¡®Here, have at it. It¡¯s nothing interesting.¡¯ He looked down at his shirt and tie. ¡®Can I tell you a secret?¡¯


    ¡®Probably?¡¯ she mumbled as she undid the buttons on his vest and laid it open on the table.


    ¡®I prefer this,¡¯ he said, gesturing to his shirt and tie. You know, with a jacket, of course, never been a fan of the vest.¡¯


    ¡®So why wear it? You don¡¯t have to, right?¡¯ She dug into the first pocket and found a slim billfold containing just a civilian ID and credit card.


    His lack of response gave her pause, and she looked over at him, her hand already digging into the next pocket. ¡®Olstice-say stuff?¡¯ she asked gently.


    ¡®You don¡¯t have to censor the word, Newbie. But Yeah. I¡­¡¯ He trailed off. ¡®The rules aren¡¯t guidelines for me. Dress code, I follow it. It¡¯s a small price to pay for a second chance.¡¯ He reached for one of the squishy toys in the basket, rested his hand on it for a moment, and then withdrew, leaving the toy where it had been. ¡®It¡¯s not a lot to ask, so I do it.¡¯


    Each word was carefully chosen. Almost rehearsed.


    ¡®I¡¯m not good at peopleing,¡¯ she said. ¡®But you-¡¯ She looked at the other tablet, one with the soundboard open and waiting, in case words got hard. ¡®But you¡¯ve got- You know I¡¯ve got stuff. You¡¯re allowed stuff. You can talk. I don¡¯t know how- I can listen, even if I can¡¯t help.¡¯


    He looked away, his eyes sweeping the room for a moment before returning to look down at the table. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said, and something about it had an implied ¡°please drop the subject¡± appended like a full stop. ¡®Now, have you found all the things in my pockets?¡¯


    She shook her head, and as she did, her eyes fell on the stopwatch, and its face, which now indicated she¡¯d been working for fifteen minutes past when she¡¯d been legally allowed to stop.


    Curt noticed her looking, met her gaze, and gave her a smile. ¡®What were you going to ask before?¡¯


    ¡®Okay. So. Agents don¡¯t need to breathe, but words, voice, sounds, they¡¯re produced by shoving air over whatever is in your throat and stuff. So, can they like, speak without physically taking in air? Can they just open their mouth and project words like there¡¯s a speaker where their uvula is?¡¯


    Curt stared. Curt blinked.


    ¡®Look,¡¯ he said, after apparently taking a moment to reboot his brain. ¡®I¡¯m sure that¡¯s a perfectly valid question, but why ask me?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m a lot more fucked up around Ryan than I am around you, so as a courtesy, I do try and tamp down on some of my weirder questions. Sometimes. Look. I try.¡¯


    ¡®So ask Agent Jones?¡¯


    She leaned forward, a smile spreading across her face. ¡®Call him Jonesy, and I will.¡¯


    Curt leaned back and seemed to consider it.


    She was a lot more fucked up in private than she was around Curt - even though he¡¯d grokked onto the fact that she wasn¡¯t normal, there were levels of crazy that hadn¡¯t been unlocked yet. More friendship XP was required for him to be privy to the voice in her head.


    And, by the same token, she knew he was probably hiding his own shit behind closed doors.


    Life couldn¡¯t have been kind to an ex-Solstice amongst a bunch of suits.


    But Jonesy wasn¡¯t someone to be afraid of. Jonesy was safe. And maybe she could help facilitate feeling even one tiny bit of a per cent more comfortable.


    ¡®One time, or all the time?¡¯


    ¡®Most of the time.¡¯


    ¡®No deal. I will stretch to dropping the ¡°Agent¡± title when it¡¯s just us.¡¯


    ¡®Fine.¡¯ She quickly flicked to Vox, selected the chat with Jones, wrote a version of her voice-air-speaker question, showed it to Curt, and then hit send.


    Three dots appeared, then a gif of someone steepling their fingers.


    ¡®You can test it for yourself soon enough,¡¯ she said, reading the answer aloud. She looked at Curt and grinned. ¡®I need to add that to the list.¡¯


    Curt leaned over, dug into one of the pockets she hadn¡¯t explored yet, and pulled out the slim Stef-to-English dictionary that he was writing as they continued to work together.


    With a slightly bemused look that he seemed to have stolen from Ryan, he flipped to one of the back pages, and added a note under the heading of ¡°To Do¡±, a list that was already at least a dozen items long.


    ¡®Finish your loadout, then we¡¯ll break for lunch.¡¯

 07 – A Step of her Own

    In truth, taking care of Buttercup had always been an optional thing. He¡¯d been stabled somewhere expensive, where each groom and hand had been experts in keeping each and every horse in perfect, photo-ready condition.


    But it had been one of the few areas where she¡¯d been allowed to get any kind of dirt on her clothes. Approved dirt. Sanctioned grim. Overlord okay muck.


    It showed initiative in a way that was allowed.


    She¡¯d loved Buttercup, but every moment she¡¯d spent caring for him was another moment where she was allowed to be something close to herself. Real Stef, not perfect Stephanie.


    And then, with some long-forgotten crime or slight, her father had stared her dead in the eyes and told her that he¡¯d sold Buttercup for glue.


    Several miracles later, she was once again brushing the coat of her beloved horse.


    Jane¡¯s manor and stables had sufficient sim stablehands to keep the herd of horses in excellent condition. Every ailment immediately cared for, every need filled.


    But a little extra TLC didn¡¯t hurt.


    The ride had been short, but it had served a few purposes. The first, just to do the ¡°go outside¡± thing that was hard when you were top secret.


    The second, to test using the HUD glasses on horseback, to get used to more active HUD elements on the go, and to proverbially walk and chew gum at the same time.


    The third was largely pretence, to have something approaching a reason to give Buttercup a thorough brushing and pamper session.


    She spun the hookpick in her hand, dislodged the last small stone, then reached for the blue curry comb.


    Footsteps made her pause, put down the comb, then look out over the stable¡¯s half-door.


    Jane and Kay, both in riding gear, waved in her direction. Kay took her wife¡¯s hardhat and headed for stalls further down the row as Jane walked over.


    ¡®Good ride?¡¯


    Stef nodded. ¡®I know I keep thanking you, but-¡¯


    Jane reached forward and pulled a leaf from her hair. ¡®Your thanks are appreciated, but this is freely given. It¡¯ll be thanks enough the day you don¡¯t feel the need to say ¡°thank you¡± like it¡¯s a fee for the agistment.¡¯


    ¡®You might be waiting a while, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m immortal. I can wait.¡¯ She turned and accepted the reins for a tall fae horse with an opalescent coat. ¡®Your docent will be here in forty minutes. Afternoon tea is set up in the garden.¡¯


    She nodded her thanks and waved as Jane and Kay set off on their ride.


    Forty minutes. That was more than doable.


    She slipped the HUD glasses on, set a couple of alarms, then brushed Buttercup until he shone.


    Buttercup all set, she stepped out of the stall and headed to the house.


    However, the moment she stepped into the sunlight, some brain space cleared. Mental RAM that had been dedicated to the Care and Love of Horses came available and was immediately taken by Doing Proper Grown Up and Agent Stuff.


    Jane hadn¡¯t told her much about her docent - and apparently, her docent knew just as little about her in return.


    Jane has simply commented that files rarely told the whole truth and that meeting each other would give a better impression.


    She knew that, at least for her part, that was surely true - on paper, she was a disaster.


    Away from paper, I¡¯m not much better.


    A brand new recruit that had fucked up, accidentally killed herself and had just been revived because a lonely agent had gone ¡°I want that one¡± to the weirdest puppy in the store window.


    Comfortingly though, Jane thought they¡¯d be a perfect match, so hopefully, her docent was going to be at least as fucked up as she was.


    More mental RAM cleared and considered that compatibility.


    With over twenty minutes to go until the arranged meeting time, she put on the finishing touches to ensure that she was all nicely ready and prepared.


    Way too late or way too early, those seemed to be her two moods.


    A couple of eye-tracked clicks around her HUD showed a minimap of the manor and its grounds - with an overlay that showed Agency personnel, shaded according to their relative levels of blue.


    A sliding scale of electric blues, of which she sat around the middle, higher than a regular recruit, due to the extra blue coursing around her body to prep for agentification, but lower than that of true partial augments and agents.


    Jane¡¯s dot was far off and away, on the shady riding trail. Several sims were visible, doing their jobs of maintaining the house - these were marked with a cross-hatched blue to indicate their artificial status.


    And towards the front of the manor was one dot of the perfect shade of blue - one full agent, walking in small circles around the entrance hall.


    Exactly what she¡¯d be doing, if she was twenty minutes early to meeting a new person. Especially when the outcome of meeting that person wouldn¡¯t change the future, but would change how everyone involved felt.


    Milla was going to be her docent, even if they didn¡¯t get along.


    Words of caution from both Jane and Enforcer Crawford - gentle, off-the-books words, indicated that even though everything about her agentification had been approved, and that she was far from a unique case¡­that it was still best not to rock the boat.


    She stopped, refreshed her skin, requiring away any dirt and sweat. Another requirement had a fresh uniform in place - one now fully customised thanks to the inventory loadout.


    One look at her cufflinks, Ryan¡¯s little present to celebrate the agentification outcome, centred her, and with more courage than she really felt, she walked into the manor, trying to be ready for whatever outcome came.


    It could only truly go so bad. There was an upper bounding box on how shit it could be, and that was a comfort - at least when she held the fact in her mind.


    The rest of the time, it was really easy to spiral into paranoid scenarios.


    As Jane¡¯s son Alejandro had put it, a docent was there to basically be her ¡°senpai¡±. Someone who had been through the process before, someone who was more of a peer than a superior, so that certain questions would be less awkward.


    If things went to plan, she¡¯d be meeting a new, long-immortal-life friend, who would tell her that it was normal to sneeze out of one nostril every other Tuesday, but only if there was a full moon.


    If things went to shit, she¡¯d just have to get over herself and ask Jonesy all the questions that were too weird to ask Ryan.


    She stopped in front of a big glass-covered art piece, caught her reflection, and adjusted her tie and hair a little.


    Ryan had offered to be there with her.


    And ninety-nine per cent of her wanted him there with her.


    And that was still so strange.


    She¡¯d never had anyone she could rely on. Her mother had looked out for her beautiful little Stephanie, had loved that perfect doll, and her parents had provided everything one could ever need.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    But in terms of want¡­ she¡¯d done her best to truly fade into the background, to push her wants down so that they were nearly invisible, to cause so little trouble that she became an afterthought.


    And after her parents were out of the picture, even that semblance of someone being there for her had gone away as surely as someone flipping a switch.


    School had been a blur. One filled with half-remembered classes, experiments in figuring out exactly how much alcohol was needed to keep inside voices in, and to be more zombie than trouble.


    No one had been there for her. No one had really raised her. No one had been in her corner.


    And she¡¯d adapted to that. That was situation normal.


    And then an angel in a suit had decided that her ¡°normal¡± was bullshit and that she deserved better.


    As terrifying as it was, that had become the new normal.


    She was doing something new. Meeting someone new. And she wanted her dad. Wanted a comforting hand to ruffle her hair and tell her everything was okay.


    There was a sneeze from the entry hall.


    But one nostril or two??


    A small voice said ¡°excuse me¡±, presumably to the house at large, and some of her anxiety melted away.


    She rounded a corner and walked down the art-filled hall towards the manor¡¯s front door and found Milla hurriedly wiping at her nose with a cloth handkerchief, one with a purple Field logo embroidered in the corner.


    ¡®Um,¡¯ she said, all pretence at trying for a cool or collected greeting fleeing. ¡®Hi. Um. Milla?¡¯


    Milla stuffed the hanky into her pocket, swapped her briefcase to her left hand, and held out her hand. ¡®Yes. Nice to meet you. Stef?¡¯


    Stef shook Milla¡¯s hand. ¡®Yep. But. I mean¡­¡¯ she made a vague motion at Milla¡¯s head. ¡®You can see that, right?¡¯


    ¡®I can see what your file says,¡¯ Milla said, swinging her briefcase in small circles. ¡®But I make sure. Paperwork doesn¡¯t always have someone¡¯s preferred name. I¡¯ve got a module where my notes about people pop up on top of the regular tooltip. Useful for names, but also, um, triggers, allergies, pets, partners. Reeeally great for people you don¡¯t interact with a lot.¡¯


    A chat bubble blinked in Stef¡¯s HUD glasses. Milla¡¯s icon was a chibified version of herself - light brown skin, short curly hair, round glasses, under a rainbow that said ¡°lesbean¡± in the centre.


    Stef clicked the chat bubble, and there was a link to the module. ¡®There it is. You¡¯re using the glasses now, but if you talk to your Tech, all your settings and mods will follow you once you fully suitify.¡¯


    ¡®I was hoping for that but thought it would be cleaner for the install if they didn¡¯t have to carry over any data.¡¯


    Milla made a dismissive noise. ¡®It¡¯s a tiny import. Also makes your first couple of days easier if you¡¯re vaguely used to it. And agents like it cause it¡¯s almost like a baby version of-¡¯ Milla stopped talking. ¡®We, um, shouldn¡¯t be talking here, right?¡¯


    She stared at the floor. ¡®Right. Um. Jane put food out in the garden for us.¡¯


    Milla nodded. ¡®How baby are you?¡¯ she asked as Stef pointed down the hall. ¡®I didn¡¯t read your file. I wanted to, even though Jane said not to, cause sometimes it¡¯s good to read stuff even though you¡¯re not supposed to, to know what you¡¯re not supposed to and then you can sort it out later-¡¯


    ¡®-like reading spoilers when a movie is supposed to be shitty, instead of wasting your money. Right!¡¯ Stef said, a little too loudly for inside, and immediately slumped, expecting her grandfather or his valet to phase through the closest wall and berate her.


    ¡®Yes, fucking exactly,¡¯ Milla said, in a forceful whisper, seeming to also sense they¡¯d been a bit loud. ¡®But I don¡¯t think Jane would have given us tickets to a shitty movie, right?¡¯


    Stef gave a small smile. ¡®Probably not.¡¯


    The afternoon tea waiting in the garden could have provided nibbles for a couple of dozen people. Under normal circumstances, it would have been seen as wasteful - even when service and staff tended to get leftovers as perks, there were certain things that didn¡¯t survive sitting out in the open for a couple of hours and needed to be binned.


    In this new world though, where you could pull whatever you want. Unless it was a rocket launcher or a bioweapon. This was probably just ¡°afternoon tea number four¡± or some other standard macro requirement that made entertaining as easy as a single thought.


    ¡®Very new,¡¯ she said, finally remembering that Milla had asked her a question. ¡®I was a recruit for like five minutes before all this happened, but I¡¯ve been doing a lot of homework to try and catch up to what I should know.¡¯ She placed a piece of delicate shortcake on her plate, then immediately covered it in a dollop of cream. ¡®But, I guess it¡¯s probably safe to assume I know nothing.¡¯


    Milla stared at a tower of tiny, crustless sandwiches, chose none, but took three scones from the next plate. ¡®Okay. But I¡¯ll try and not treat you like an idiot. I¡¯m going to over-explain and- And.¡¯ She turned her attention to the selection of marmalades. ¡®This brand is fae, just so you know,¡¯ she said, picking up one called ¡°Bon Net¡±. ¡®But really good. Not that- I didn¡¯t mean that fae stuff isn¡¯t good. Just the flavour profiles can be different to what you¡¯re expecting.¡¯ Milla slumped a little, then sat in one of the wide chairs down at the far end of the table, away from the towers of choices.


    Stef grabbed a bottle of sparkling juice, then sat opposite her new docent. ¡®I think,¡¯ she said, staring at her glass as she poured. ¡®Jane was probably right.¡¯ She looked up and just past Milla. ¡®We¡¯re probably going to be a good fit.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve never been a docent before,¡¯ Milla said. ¡®That¡¯s not a secret. We¡¯re gonna look at each other¡¯s files when we get home. You¡¯ll see that. Becoming an agent doesn¡¯t-¡¯ She stopped talking, and began to spread the bright orange-and-red preserve across the scones, a few small lumps showing that there were edible flowers in the recipe.


    Doesn¡¯t what?


    There were lots of things that becoming an agent wouldn¡¯t change. Probably wouldn¡¯t change.


    The session with Jonesy and the simulacrum of herself had shown her that physical appearance was mutable at the push of a button or tap of a tablet.


    As Jonesy had said, many people did take the opportunity to do a little bit of plastic surgery. Change things they¡¯d never liked about themselves. Get rid of a mole that had always bothered them, even out a skin tone, change a hairline, get rid of scars, or - in general - make them look more like themselves.


    This wasn¡¯t something that would warrant stopping mid-conversation and focussing on baked goods.


    That was a maneuver that was way too familiar for it not to be¡­way too relatable.


    But saying it out loud was¡­dangerous. Probably wasn¡¯t, but felt like it. Safer to seem¡­normal to people. To present as bland and close to factory settings as possible.


    Because you never knew who was safe.


    And it was going to be a stalemate until one of them said something.


    She poked at her shortcake with a delicate fork.


    And maybe Milla was waiting for her to say something. And maybe Milla was just trying to build up the courage to say something, and inserting her own words would break that fragile attempt at bravery and shut down her docent even further.


    She embedded her fork in the cake so that it stood straight, leaned back a little, and selected a shortcut icon in her HUD.


    In her hands, down her lap, away from where Milla could see, a tablet - one with the soundboard app already loaded - appeared, her fingers tingling slightly as the requirement became solid.


    This thing was safe around Curt. Being herself was safe around Ryan. Jonesy had some idea of how weird she was - even if she tended to show off a different kind of weird around Jones. Curt got shutdowns and nonverbal moments. Ryan got the full gamut of crazy, whilst Jonesy mostly suffered verbal vomit and fixations on minutia.


    So far, it had been safe to be at least parts of herself around a few people.


    Maybe it would be okay to add one more.


    ¡®Brain?¡¯


    The voice was small and not the computer-generated voice of her app.


    ¡®Brain stuff?¡¯ her app said, just a split-second later.


    She looked up from her tablet and made an effort to look Milla in the face.


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ Milla said after a minute, ¡®agentification changes what you are, but not who you are. If it was going to change the who, what would be the point? It would just be easier to pull a baby out of a tank.¡¯ Milla snapped her fingers. ¡®Oh, that¡¯s what I was going to tell you. I assume you know baby agents don¡¯t require parent agents, yeah?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    ¡®Except they kinda, not really, but kinda do? Some more than others. Most agents have multiple indirect lineages, some have more direct heritage. I¡¯m gonna start at the beginning, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Probably best,¡¯ Stef said, leaning just far enough for her fingers to grab a sweet, open-faced sandwich decorated with edible flowers.


    ¡®Okay, so this practice is old, older than suits, than knights, than whatever, k? Someone in the long-ago times figured out that fresh, baby angels had quite a high failure rate. Like those seeds that sprout that don¡¯t become plants? They¡¯d either be something like dead on arrival, or function for a bit, then stop. It¡¯s a lot, like, a lot, a lot to wake up and suddenly be a person and have all of the knowledge of the universe at your fingertips. You¡¯d blink for the first time, understand the entirety of agent biology, then understand everything about agents, the Solstice, the everything else. So much. Too much for clean, baby brains to take in. So they just BSOD and never come back.¡¯


    Stef nodded. ¡®Obviously they found a solution though.¡¯


    ¡®Wisdom of the people who¡¯ve done it before. Recycling was already a common practice - don¡¯t lose what you can use later. And the more they looked at the angels who worked, the more they saw commonalities - that they¡¯d used small pieces of code from people who¡¯d been recycled. Little bits of ¡°why bother to code this particular bit of knowledge¡±, additions over and above just the fresh OS. So they ran with that. Iterated on it, until what we have now.¡¯


    Milla required two pieces of paper, each with a gingerbread person outline, and a few coloured markers. ¡®Pretty much, there¡¯s two types of agent generation. Most are like this,¡¯ she said, and began to colour random sections onto the first gingerbread shape. ¡®We¡¯ll take fighting skills from Agent Y, because the new agent is their height; tech knowledge from Agent X, cause they¡¯re doing the same job; general knowledge from Agent Z, and so on and on and on. All of this is scraped of personality, so it¡¯s not like you¡¯re making a chimera of dead agents or interfering with an augment¡¯s personality.¡¯


    ¡®And the second type?¡¯


    ¡®Templates.¡¯ Milla coloured the left half of the second gingerbread shape. ¡®Much the same process, but instead of X, Y and Z, the majority of the new agent comes from one single source. And templates tend to beget templates, so it becomes almost like this weird family line of parent, child, child, child, child. Your dad¡¯s one.¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    Milla winked, then looked slightly guilty. ¡®I didn¡¯t look at your file, I kept that promise, but I didn¡¯t not look at anything. So I had a look at your dad¡¯s file. Director Ryan¡¯s in a template line, his former was one of the Duskers that looked after Brisbane. Can¡¯t tell you a percentage or whatever, that¡¯s above my security clearance, and it¡¯s generally a fox pass to ask. I¡¯ve already done the equivalent of looking up your family tree before meeting you, so I¡¯m on shaky, gauche-y ground already.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll put that on my to-do list to ask about.¡¯


    Milla smiled, then lifted her glass. ¡®I think we¡¯re going to get along fine, youngling. Now, what¡¯s your first weird question?¡¯

 08 – Where Things Started

    A lot of people thought Taylor was irrational, that you couldn¡¯t work with him, that it was impossible for anything involving him to get done with any kind of efficiency.


    Those people were wrong.


    Or, at least there was more nuance than what they imagined. That it was easy if you knew him, if you bothered to understand how he worked.


    Or if they did the sensible step of bringing everything to her, and she¡¯d do the hard work.


    Not even Grigori could organise Taylor like she could. Grigori could convince him to do things that she¡¯d never dare ask, or cross lines she¡¯d never approached, but Grigori didn¡¯t have to get paperwork done.


    Magnolia pulled the cap off a sports bottle and downed half of the orange drink, let her eyes linger on Taylor¡¯s half-naked form as he did pushups a few feet from the bleachers, then returned to her workbook.


    She had done a lot since he¡¯d recruited her.


    Well. ¡°Recruited her¡±.


    She wasn¡¯t the first or last recruit who¡¯d been coerced into the position, but with most of those cases, there seemed to be more acknowledgement of the situation. There¡¯d be some recognition that someone hauled in as a criminal had worked their way up to being a model recruit or aide.


    With her, everyone seemed to prefer to mentally rewrite history so that she¡¯d always been the way she was now.


    Ryan never looked at her and worried she¡¯d fuck off and resume her hooligan ways, he just looked at her and hoped she¡¯d continue to manage Taylor.


    In a lot of ways, it was nice. Even with a rocky start, this was the only place where she¡¯d ever been allowed to be herself. To be all facets of herself, hiding nothing, and not being ashamed for any of it.


    No where else, no when else, had this ever been true.


    When it had been just her and her dad, she couldn¡¯t be fae. And, mostly, she¡¯d made peace with how he¡¯d treated her for the first half of her childhood. He¡¯d been without resources, without any connections to the fae world, stuck raising a daughter who had been dumped on his doorstep as an egg.


    It had been self-preservation for the both of them, keeping her feathers clipped and hidden under at least two layers, blaming her white hair on a medical condition, and making sure that she didn¡¯t get too close to any of her classmates.


    That, at least, had been easy.


    But then, thanks to a chance meeting, they¡¯d been introduced to the Agency and for the first time, they¡¯d had resources, and he¡¯d loosened the reins a little on how fae he let her be.


    But then¡­girls had come along. And he couldn¡¯t handle a daughter that was fae and gay.


    So she¡¯d stomped down on everything about herself, kept everything under a lid, sucked herself into a tense package of bird, girl and queer; and stayed in self-imposed chains until she could run away.


    And those years had been bad, but the cycles of shit had been worth it to finally start to figure out who she was. Starving cause whatever gang she was hanging with couldn¡¯t organise their way out of a wet paper bag, trading sex for favours, or just being told to shut up and look menacing¡­all things she could rationalise, because at the end of the day, no one freaked when they saw her hair or eyes, and no one was disappointed when she got caught in a moment of bi paralysis cause she¡¯d seen someone so pretty her brain had done a hard reset.


    But there were still elements that didn¡¯t get to surface. Still pieces of herself not locked into place.


    She hadn¡¯t been herself yet, and she¡¯d known that.


    Crews would bring her in cause she was good at hitting people, or because fucking a guard to distract them wasn¡¯t something she¡¯d baulk at.


    No-one wanted her to think. No one cared that she could organise like a motherfucker.


    And then one job had gone wrong. Agency warehouse in the Marches. One they¡¯d hit too many times, been too cheeky with.


    Someone had called the alarm and it had been every fae for themselves.


    And it had been her neck that Taylor¡¯s hands had found. And she¡¯d fought back, giving him scars that he still had, visible as he worked out in front of her, even though it would have been so simple to get rid of them.


    And he¡¯d hauled her back to their Agency, throwing her to the same floor she was staring at, and announced that she was his new recruit. Both of them had been sweaty, bloody and barely seconds from actively trying to murder each other, and he¡¯d said ¡°recruit¡± like it had been no big deal.


    She¡¯d laughed, spat in his face, and tried to tear his throat out.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    He¡¯d knocked back every attempt until she was panting, out of breath on the bloody floor.


    He¡¯d said ¡°recruit¡± again, like it was nothing, and she¡¯d switched tactics, offering to blow him, figuring that he was acting out some stupid fantasy.


    As she¡¯d gone to grab for his crotch, he¡¯d backhanded her, leaving a bruise that had stayed until Parker-1 had seen her.


    He¡¯d dragged her to a room, thrown her in, locked the door and left her alone.


    It hadn¡¯t been the worst cell she¡¯d been in, and in the morning, the door had been open.


    The elevators had been obvious, and there were ways to raise alarms in Agencies that didn¡¯t take any blue at all, but instead of doing either, curiosity lured her back to the gym, its floor now free of blood and all traces of their fight.


    And only on seeing him alone had the silence of the corridors on her walk sparked anything in her brain.


    On an entire Agency floor, an active floor, one where - for a hub Agency like Queen Street, there should have been, at minimum three dozen recruits, it seemed that they were alone.


    And as fascinating as that had been, it was a sad story she had no interest in.


    But, for her crimes, even just the ones they had evidence of, Ryan had put it simply that the choices were recruitment or imprisonment.


    So, reluctant as an ex-Solstice recruit, she¡¯d agreed.


    And at some point, that reluctance had died. Not all at once, and not really that she¡¯d noticed, but piece by piece, she¡¯d become more of herself, hid less of herself, and started to build a real identity.


    It was all she¡¯d ever wanted, and in return, she¡¯d give all she had.


    She looked down at her workbook again, flipped over a couple of pages, then required a tablet to view some associated data.


    If this had been an ordinary Agency with ordinary agents, her voice would probably be secondary to what she was doing, rather than taking the lead in all but name.


    There were established protocols for recruits undergoing a full augmentation, so there were guidelines about what roles Combat was scheduled to play in the experimentation and implementation phases.


    But with each project, the Combat unit of the relevant Agency had to agree or deny to take part in each step, offer suggestions or substitutions for Tech to ultimately decide on, and most importantly - actually schedule when each activity was to take place.


    And, as this was the first full augment process she¡¯d had the chance to observe up close, there was a lot of information she needed to take in, lots of lines to read between, and lots of chances to gain favours and resources if certain conditions were met.


    The bulk of it was largely grouped under what had come to be called ¡°Desire Path Training¡± - named for the phenomenon of people wearing paths into grass, rather than follow the footpath - more efficient paths, destinations that weren¡¯t accounted for when the concrete had been poured, and a hundred other reasons people would step off a given path and make their own.


    And that¡¯s what they were going to do with Recruit Mimosa¡¯s body.


    You could, in theory, do a full augmentation and then throw the newly-minted agent into the world without an adjustment period, but for months - or more - they would be under-optimized, and mistakes in the Field could kill.


    Especially for someone like Mimosa, who still had the fresh newbie smell all over her, any amount of under-optimisation was going to be a further detriment to her performance.


    Augments didn¡¯t tend to be called ¡°Newborns¡± like full, freshly-generated agents did, but the term was just as applicable - in essence, their body was learning to do everything from scratch.


    A full augment could walk and talk from the moment they got released from the tank, but it took time for the blue pathways to understand how far each action deviated from baseline programming, and adjusted.


    And, on the less pretty side of things, an agent¡¯s body needed to be subjected to pain stimulus to ensure that the reaction pathways were correct, and work out any bugs in the system.


    The material had supplied along with the project plan showed various wonderfully bizarre reaction that had been achieved during pathway tuning.


    There was one spectacular picture of an agent in the middle of a gym, every point on his body thin and extended so that he more resembled a sea urchin than a person.


    And that error, apparently, had been because there¡¯d been some conflict in how his skin processed a specific combination of ¡°cold, wet and sharp¡±.


    The agent himself - his consciousness manifest in what looked like a blue ghost, the same thing they¡¯d do for Mimosa, so she didn¡¯t have to experience all the weird shit they were going to do to her body - looked on at the urchin glitch in the back of the photo, his expression of shock and amusement clear, even while slightly out of focus.


    She immediately wanted to show the picture to Screen, who loved anecdotes about weird manifestations of code, but the security code on the photo indicated it wasn''t for general recruit distribution.


    ¡®Magnolia.¡¯


    She snapped her gaze towards him. ¡®Sir?¡¯


    She expected some immediate indication he needed her for a spar, or that he felt she needed training in a specific area, or-


    He was hesitating.


    Communication with Taylor may as well have been its own language, but it was one she was fluent in. Silence was normal, expecting her to fill in gaps was normal, but there was no prompt for her to work from, no previously dropped conversation that needed to be restarted.


    Nothing but the sucking gravity of Taylor wanting to say something, but unable to do so.


    People rarely appreciated how long the smallest units of time could be. A second was just a second unless you were a second too late, something happened a second earlier than you expected, or words took a second longer than usual.


    Five seconds passed as she looked at him, and in that silence was everything she still didn¡¯t know about him, everything he couldn¡¯t say, and everything the world had taken from him.


    Grigori was worried about him. She was worried about him.


    She could brush off this moment, could deflect and divert onto a safer topic. She could step forward, punch him in the face, and his day would surely improve. Any of those were things he might have wanted, but weren¡¯t the things he needed.


    Tech could hope, Field could work for the best outcomes, Medical sewed up what came back, but Combat had to look ugliness in the face with every action.


    This is where they were safest. This was his sanctuary, his fortress, his place where difficult conversations were had.


    ¡®You know what I know,¡¯ she said. ¡®I haven¡¯t let Grigori say anything more. He¡¯s worried.¡¯


    Emotions and emotionality were difficult around Taylor. He wasn¡¯t some robot who wanted to purge feelings in a fifty-mile radius, nor did he decry emotions aimed in his direction. Everything just depended on context. And a good deal of restraint.


    Grigori, especially, was allowed to have as many feelings around Taylor as he wanted, so relaying how his best friend felt was safe to do. The right thing to do, if she was reading this non-conversation-conversation correctly.


    A few more seconds of silence from her commander, then a single step forward. ¡®He tried?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not his intel to share, sir. When you need me to know, I¡¯ll know.¡¯


    A fresh uniform covered Taylor¡¯s body. ¡®You need to know.¡¯

 09 – The First Draft

    It wasn¡¯t that Taylor didn¡¯t talk, but his words seem to take a longer path than most other people she knew. And whatever he was about to tell her, it was going to be difficult.


    And it was her job to make the difficult things easier.


    Magnolia set her workbook aside, stood, then took three careful steps down the bleachers, bringing her face to face with her commander.


    A face she threw a punch at.


    He automatically grabbed the fist, yanked on her arm, making her twist and follow the movement so that it wasn¡¯t wrenched from her shoulder.


    ¡®Ryan had a recruit.¡¯


    He released the fist, and she spun, boots leaving a mark on the honey-coloured wood of the gym floor, and adjusted her posture to prepare for his counterattack.


    She easily dodged his first punch, braced and took the second, allowing her to get close enough to elbow him in the gut. This earned a grunt of approval, and he took a step back, inviting her to attack him.


    Kick. Punch. Block. Easy moves. An easy routine. This was as easy as breathing for both of them.


    And, pulled from some enormous depth, more words came.


    ¡®Good recruit.¡¯ A compliment for someone outside of their division was shocking enough to let him get hold of the back of her dress and tear out a section. ¡®Died.¡¯ He dropped it, the black cloth fluttering to the floor. ¡®Became an agent.¡¯


    One of his thick arms clotheslined her to the floor, her head hitting the floor with enough force to leave her seeing proverbial stars.


    He stepped into her field of vision, stared at her for a moment, then offered his hand - he¡¯d won this round, and nothing needed to be said. She gripped his hand and jumped to her feet.


    ¡®Whitman. She. Glitched.¡¯


    Whitman. Not a name she recognised. Not one she¡¯d ever seen on a historical organisation chart - though she¡¯d only made a cursory examination of those. So far as the changes she¡¯d observed for their Agency, there was the obvious change from Director Reynolds to Ryan; and the change in the Tech Department from Samuels to Jones after Samuels had been captured and killed.


    It was possible - probable - that whatever had happened, whatever miserable part of their Agency¡¯s history he was about to tell her had led to records being scrubbed - or at least made higher clearance than what was afforded to her as an aide.


    The second thing he¡¯d said though¡­that didn¡¯t make immediate sense, and her brain was already scouring her limited tech knowledge for an explanation.


    A glitch. Glitches, like ¡°require¡± and ¡°shift¡± had a different meaning once you stepped through Agency doors - it wasn¡¯t just a random error, didn¡¯t just mean some bit of code was doing something other than intended, they meant nightmares.


    Agents didn¡¯t dream, she knew they used to, but at some point it had been taken away. They could sleep - and most did every night, but it was empty rest, no weird visions of your brain puking up what you had been thinking about.


    And while they didn¡¯t usually come during sleep, glitches were the kind of nightmares you would only wish on select enemies.


    As she understood it, an agent would simply be going about their day and suddenly be in a nightmare. It was always a smooth transition, with nothing to indicate that their mind had slipped out of reality and into the worst things they could imagine.


    In the real world, their body would be on the ground, fallen where they stood when the glitch occurred.


    In their mind, every sensory input the same as real life, things would slide from normal to bad to worse. A simple workout in the gym could become a fight for your life as the Solstice attacked, the building blew up, or creatures from deep and weird parts of Faerie came to eat you.


    And you could feel every bite as they ate you alive.


    Most of the time, an agent would simply wake up screaming, easily understanding what they¡¯d experienced wasn¡¯t real, and be back to normal soon enough.


    Sometimes, there were real-world consequences - nothing so banal as ¡°you die in the dream, you die in the real world¡±, but a glitch showing a loved one betraying you could lead to taking swift action before you had a chance to reconcile fantasy and reality.


    Something of that calibre had happened to Jones at some point. All she knew was that Jones had glitched, then walked into a blackout zone and tried to blow his brains out.


    Block. Punch. Kick.


    Move. Countermove.


    ¡®Glitched, but¡­Acted in the real world.¡¯


    This sent a heavy weight to the pit of her stomach. An agent fighting against a nightmare, fighting for their life, would be a force to be reckoned with.


    She punched, and he sidestepped, raising a hand to stop her from continuing her attack. He adjusted her arm a little, grunted in approval, then stepped back to his original position. She reared back her arm and punched, taking the incremental change in angle into account, and landed a satisfyingly heavy blow straight into his solar plexus.


    ¡®Weapons training. Fae blades. Cut a recruit who got close. He assumed accident. No report.¡¯


    It was easy enough to imagine. There were unwritten - as well as very clearly written - rules about approaching people who were handling weapons. Precautions were taken, but you couldn¡¯t account for every possibility, especially when fae weapons were involved.


    And if some careless recruit had gotten close enough to be within her stabbing range, it was easy enough to imagine them going ¡°shit, my bad¡± and heading to the Parkers to get a light flesh wound dealt with.


    ¡®Another recruit injured. Ryan attended. She attacked him. Grievous injury.¡¯


    Counter. Counter. Attack. Duck. Attack.


    ¡®One recruit dead. Lockdown. Another recruit. More injured. Combat responded. One agent dead. Threat terminated.¡¯


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°One agent dead,¡± three simple words, said without emotion. Three words to explain how his world had changed forever. How he¡¯d died, for fuck¡¯s sake.


    You weren¡¯t supposed to die within safe walls, you weren¡¯t supposed to bleed out at the hands of someone you thought was an ally.


    Agents weren¡¯t supposed to die.


    They did, of course they did, but it was still somehow a shock every time one of them didn¡¯t get back up.


    Except¡­ that one dead agent was staring at her, brown eyes appraising her reaction.


    Someone else might worry what their face was giving away, she knew herself too well, knew when she was under control, versus when she was letting weakness show. And - outwardly at least - she was what he needed right now. Sturdy. Steady. Not reacting.


    She didn¡¯t know if he talked about this with Grigori, if he talked to anyone about it - she suspected he didn¡¯t.


    It was arrogant to think that she knew him better than agents who had known him decades longer than she¡¯d been alive, but with each little moment she shared with him, it was an arrogance she felt more and more secure in.


    They knew the man he¡¯d been. The dead agent. She was the one who spent most of her hours in his orbit. Knew him moment to moment and day to day. Grigori cared, and cared deeply, but with an entire country to run, he could only spare so much time.


    Ryan, Jones¡­didn¡¯t spend any longer than necessary in the same room as him.


    She needed to give him a reaction. Needed to acknowledge what had been said. Needed to show him that his secret had landed somewhere safe. That she¡¯d been worth trusting.


    There¡¯d been a loss. One agent had died, and the man they¡¯d resurrected wasn¡¯t the same as the one who had died. People were still mourning that loss, while¡­seeming to blame Taylor that he wasn¡¯t what they had expected.


    She ducked under a punch, then swept his legs out from under him, and pressed a heavy combat boot onto his chest. ¡®That was the beginning, wasn¡¯t it, sir? Tell me what else I need to know.¡¯


    She only caught a fleeting glimpse of his expression before he shifted out from under her boot, his body reintegrating behind hers, thick arms pulling her into a chokehold, keeping her pinned against him with no effort.


    That one glimpse though had been enough to tell her she¡¯d had the right reaction, asked the right question, pushed the conversation ahead in the way he¡¯d hoped for.


    If it had been anything other than perfect, she wouldn¡¯t be feeling his heart beat against her back. He would have left, without an excuse, without a word, and something between them would have been broken forever.


    ¡®Ryan deemed it an unacceptable loss.¡¯


    She broke out of his hold.


    Move. Countermove. Their own form of dancing.


    ¡®Whitman. Beyond restoration. The other¡­Ryan ordered the Scholar.¡¯


    Another deliberate choice of words. ¡°One dead agent¡±. ¡°The other¡±. Not ¡°him¡±, not ¡°me¡±, words that completely severed the connection between who he¡¯d been and who he was now.


    Amongst the misery of the story though, she allowed herself one tiny internal smile. Another deliberate choice - ¡°Scholar¡±, his sometimes nickname for Jones. Somewhere between a term of endearment and a disparagement. A dubious honour that only Jones seemed to have earned.


    It was, in its own strange way, cute. If such a word could be thought within ten kilometres of Taylor.


    ¡®Minimal data recovery.¡¯


    It was surprising when agents died - even though most recruits knew that their immortality was conditional, most recruits had no idea how fast agents ¡°rotted¡±, and that was by design, the less the Solstice knew, the less they could exploit those that they captured.


    There was a reason that agents were referred to as constructs of ash and blue.


    The blue was obvious, the ash, less so.


    In a blackout zone, any bit of an agent separated from the body would turn to ash in just a couple of hours, the nanites fulfilling one of the few tasks they could follow through on when separated from the System.


    This fact, at the least, was so well known among the Solstice that they used it as the test of whether or not someone was an agent or just a recruit. Blood sourced from a cut - the tradition was a long cut from temple to chin - splashed across a white sheet. If the blood turned black and flaked to ash, then no amount of bullshitting for sympathy could win.


    Not that being a recruit was any better when you were in the hands of the Solstice - most hated human recruits more, seeing agents as innately evil, born monsters with no choice to be otherwise¡­but humans who chose to ally with them, they deserved less than no mercy.


    What wasn¡¯t as well advertised was that the mind of a dead agent went faster than their body.


    Oldest memories, base programming, core bits of their OS, they went first - on the fairly decent logic that if an enemy was somehow able to halt the cascade rot or make a copy of a dead agent¡¯s data that enough bedrock programming would be gone by the time a tech could be summoned.


    That, in turn, would make drawing out any useful data more trouble than it was worth.


    Weave. Dodge. Three steps back. Two steps forward.


    An agent wasn¡¯t some off the shelf computer. As much as the Solstice thought they were robots, interchangeable as any piece of technology, each of them was a unique and technologically beautiful creation.


    It was the kind of thing Screen could go on about for hours.


    And so long as Screen offered soft boobage to lay upon, she could listen to her techie bestie talk about anything.


    If you were able to do a partial data recovery from a dead agent in some secret Solstice lair, it wouldn¡¯t be as easy as plugging in a clean copy of the OS to plug the gaps.


    That would provide some functionality, probably grant access to some very simple data, but with how agents were layer and layers of complexity, unique constellations of matrices interacting in ever so slightly different ways for each and every suit, it wouldn¡¯t give them what they needed. Wouldn¡¯t reactivate an agent¡¯s personality, wouldn¡¯t give access to memories, wouldn¡¯t give the secrets to bringing down the Agency.


    All of these facts. All of these bits of information gleaned over years of taking in bits and pieces of what Jones had said, lectures she¡¯d attended as part of her ongoing Aide training, and sparkly-eyed admiration from a half-naked lesbian. All of it merged into the bleakest and saddest origin story for the man in front of her.


    Three steps forward. Two back. A pivot to avoid a hand grabbing one of her braids.


    A man, a man loved by colleagues and friends, had died. And Ryan, injured, maybe near death himself, had thought with his heart and not his head. He¡¯d ordered Jones to play Doctor Frankenstein and scrape¡­something off the floor and bring it to life.


    And as every second passed, every second spent reacting to tragedy, every moment given to triage was more and more of that dead man passing into nothingness, going beyond where Jones¡¯ tech could reach.


    There was never a chance that the agent who opened their eyes would be the same as the man who had closed them. Maybe with a mirror wish, maybe if someone had spun the stars and heavens to undo such a loss.


    In the cold, sterile walls of an Agency, even with all of Jones¡¯ admittedly fabulous technical prowess, even if Jones had coded his fingers down to the bone, it had been doomed from the outset.


    They¡¯d made a new man, one with traces - probably single-digit traces - of who he¡¯d been before, and blamed him for not being their dead brother, friend and colleague.


    It was heartbreaking, and if she showed anything on her face, he¡¯d never tell her anything more.


    ¡®Combat agent operational nine days later. Data recovery augmented with external files.¡¯ He turned from her, his body language telling her their their spar was over.


    She wanted to hold him. Wanted to take his face in her hands and acknowledge the unfairness of the world. Wanted to rage against Ryan in his stead.


    In some world, maybe he would want that. In some world, he wouldn¡¯t have divulged trauma like a Vulcan reading off the driest of boring statistics.


    He was strong. He could bear the world on his shoulders. And she was sure, if she touched him, he would shatter.


    He¡¯d ended the story and turned his back. The next move was hers. And the wrong move, the wrong word-


    Some kind god smiled, and an alarm on her phone sounded.


    ¡®If you¡¯ll excuse me, sir,¡¯ she said, quickly stepping towards her phone and workbook. He didn¡¯t need to know what the alarm was for - she existed so he didn¡¯t have to know what alarms were for. She dismissed the notification - a scheduled meeting with O¡¯Connor that could easily be pushed back a couple of hours - and gathered her things, her body on autopilot.


    ¡®Magnolia.¡¯ Her name as a soft rumble.


    ¡®Sir?¡¯ she said, facing him, her expression not showing anything other than perfect, business-focussed aide.


    ¡®Dismissed.¡¯


    He didn¡¯t always formally dismiss her, they were so far beyond that, but sometimes, it was his way of saying ¡°goodbye¡± or ¡°thank you¡±, acknowledgement in a safe form.


    She gave him a smile, one that was carefully calculated and crafted to portray ¡°normality¡±. To show him that nothing had changed, that she was still his Magnolia, ready for the next order, the next mission.


    Whatever they had behind them, forward motion was the only thing that mattered.

 10 - Kindness, Cruelty

    ¡®Think you could add seventeen more pages to this?¡¯


    Stef looked across to Jones, one hand dedicated to working the constellation of monitors that look up the centre of his desk - usually there were eight, but the number seemed to flex with each task.


    His left arm lay to the left, where Merlin was doodling on the white fabric of Jones¡¯ lab coat with bright markers.


    ¡®That still wouldn¡¯t make a printed version as tall as you.¡¯


    ¡®No, but it would make it-¡¯


    ¡®1337,¡¯ Jones said automatically, ¡®aren¡¯t you a bit young for l33t-sp34k?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s the internet, time is malleable. It¡¯s still the best way of doing passwords. Like, I know people probably expect that I always do thirty-two character passwords that are simultaneously Shakespeare references and entirely composed of grawlix, but¡­like a compound word with some o¡¯s swapped out is so much easier.¡¯


    ¡®So long as it¡¯s not one-two-three-four-five, you¡¯re doing a lot better than most people.¡¯


    ¡®True.¡¯


    Merlin left the half-done picture on Jones¡¯ sleeve and jumped up onto the observation bed to join her. She adjusted her crossed legs and dragged some of the files out of the way, making sure not to interfere with the electrodes that ran up both of her arms.


    Pretty much from the moment she¡¯d come back to life, the weirdness of Merlin being around had¡­stopped being weird. It was just an accepted part of the modus operandi that every day for Jonesy was ¡°bring your kid to work day¡±.


    And there was something weirdly calming about Merlin being around.


    However old he chronologically was, he acted like was under ten - albeit an occasionally genius under ten. And it was just endearing - he was old enough that he didn¡¯t set off any of her trauma about not having kids, but not so old that she had to put on the proper social mask just to interact with him.


    But it was more than that.


    It was extremely hard to rely on your gut instincts when you were paranoid. Hard to trust what you felt was true inside when¡­There had been times she¡¯d refused to get on a bus, because she had known, every micron of her had known, if she stepped foot on that particular bus, she would die.


    Hard to trust yourself when there¡¯d been moments when she couldn¡¯t bear to leave the house because something bad was going to happen.


    An entire life of second-guessing and weighing the odds, trying to take actions that had the least bad consequences.


    Something about Merlin felt different from being around any other person.


    That statement by itself was normal - spending time with Ryan felt different to hanging out with Jonesy than doing homework with Curt.


    But it was something more.


    She closed her eyes and drummed her fingers, some of them caught on the cardboard folders and some on the starched sheet of the bed.


    As hard as it was, she tried to push thoughts out of her head, tried to scrape away logic, and just leave feelings, instincts, whatever her subconscious was trying to tell her.


    Her heart didn¡¯t beat anymore. At first, it had been almost impossible to bear, something to be countered with those little vibrating pillows you gave to sad kittens who missed their mums. But, like a kitten, she¡¯d tried to wean herself off the crutch.


    Jonesy had said it would be possible, when she got agentified, that he could program in a false heartbeat, but it was something she¡¯d knocked back. It wasn¡¯t something that would work if she stumbled into a blackout zone or in Faerie, so relying on something that could disappear at the worst moments would make a bad situation even worse.


    It really was hard to stop thinking.


    Having no heartbeat was weird, but it was becoming part of her new normal.


    She stopped drumming her fingers, and dug the nails of her left hand into the palm of her right. A little pain, a little concentration.


    She imagined emptiness, thought of darkness, and remembered the sheer nothingness of Death¡¯s realm.


    And in the emptiness of all of space and time, she felt her heart.


    It wasn¡¯t beating, but in some way, it was making itself known, drawing unthunk thoughts towards it, pinging some part of her brain that was usually too busy to notice.


    She let herself sit with the weird sensation for a moment, tried to figure out if it was paranoia, a psychosomatic symptom, or if it was real.


    And as every portion of each second went by, it seemed less and less like something she was inventing whole cloth.


    She opened her eyes, and Merlin was staring at her.


    Often, his eyes were hidden behind goggles - often cheap-looking little steampunk cosplay goggles. Whether these were just fashion - and considering Magnolia¡¯s pretty dresses, that wasn¡¯t entirely out of the question - or if they served some purpose-


    ¡®It¡¯s really noisy in my eyes sometimes,¡¯ Merlin said, all the happy-little-boy energy gone from his voice.


    The fact that she hadn¡¯t spoken dawned as she saw little flecks of silver shine in his brown eyes.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    And every little bit of her knew that silver was mirror.


    She let out a little, high-pitched, e-heh of a giggle, and felt blood pounding in her ears. ¡®Oh, I¡¯m in danger, aren¡¯t I?¡¯


    Jones laid a hand on her shoulder, and she couldn¡¯t help the scream that came. ¡®No, sweetheart, you¡¯re not, I promise.¡¯


    She slipped out from under his hand and slid off the far side of the bed - leaving herself pinned in a corner, where she¡¯d have to pass one or both of them to get- Her feet felt pinned to the floor, and she knew panic well enough to know this was something external.


    She could scream. She could require a hole in the wall behind her and try to get the attention of someone who just happened to be walking through an otherwise unoccupied floor. She could dive for her phone - even if her feet were stuck, it was in range, amongst the pile of files she was reading through.


    She could try and require something that would send up a dozen flags, some WMD or something that needed an authorising agent, which would bring Ryan running to her rescue. Bring him right to where the danger was and-


    ¡®I¡¯ve never hurt him,¡¯ Merlin said, still in the same place on the bed, looking more miserable with each passing second.


    ¡®Get the fuck out of my head,¡¯ she growled, teeth clench, her voice sounding almost inhuman.


    ¡®He doesn¡¯t mean any harm,¡¯ Jones said. ¡®Blocking himself off takes a lot of energy.¡¯


    She looked from Jones to Merlin, down to feet that were no longer listening, then up to Jones again. Hot tears burned just behind her eyes. ¡®Are you gonna hurt me, Jonesy?¡¯ She looked at Merlin. ¡®He¡¯s like me, isn¡¯t he, but- But- But no-one knows? And-¡¯ Her voice cracked. ¡®And now I know.¡¯ Tears slid down her face. ¡®I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to work it out. Don¡¯t take it out- Don¡¯t hurt Ryan, please. If you gotta- If you¡¯re gonna disappear me, then-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m going to approach you, and I am not going to hurt you.¡¯


    She stared at the floor. Her life had already flashed before her eyes - and taken weeks to do so. Two deaths down, and one more guaranteed, agents didn¡¯t live forever, but it would have been nice to actually get to be an agent before-


    Jones came into her field of vision, brightly coloured sneakers poking out from plain black slacks.


    Part of her expected him to just press his hand into her chest, breaking through skin and muscle like it was paper and tear her heart from her chest. A couple of wishes would solve any problem, give any cover story the validity it needed.


    Jones reached out, took both of her hands, and as she felt something bump against the back of her leg, gently tugged downwards, encouraging her to sit. The freshly required chair was soft, and presumably matched the one that Jones was sitting in, in the cramped space beside the bed.


    ¡®I have only prayed a few times in my life,¡¯ Jones said, holding onto her shaking hands, ¡®it¡¯s¡­just hope verbalised. The gods may have created us, but they don¡¯t care about us on an individual level, aren¡¯t listening to the things we wish for, or wish wouldn¡¯t happen. Things will happen, however they¡¯re going to happen, and there¡¯s only so much you can do.¡¯


    She pulled her hands free of his grip and angrily wiped tears away with the heels of her hands. ¡®Please, if you¡¯re gonna- The fact that you¡¯re being nice is making it worse.¡¯ She folded her hands in her lap.


    Running, even if her feet would obey her, was pointless. She couldn¡¯t shift yet, so the most it would do would be to get her into an empty hall, pounding on an elevator call button while Jonesy approached like the dorkiest of terminators.


    ¡®I prayed this wouldn¡¯t happen,¡¯ Jones said, then handed her a handkerchief. ¡®I prayed, Stef, but I always knew¡­This was an inevitability, but I wish it hadn¡¯t happened so quickly. Smart girl. Clever girl. I¡¯m going to have to keep you two apart, or you¡¯re going to keep working it out. You¡¯ll probably still work it out again. This is going to happen again. And I am so sorry.¡¯


    She let each of Jones¡¯ words sit for a moment, and as she twisted the handkerchief around her fingers, cutting off the circulation to a few of them, and let herself live in the tiny amount of hope that came with mentions of ¡°again¡±.


    If there¡¯s gonna be another time, then ergo vis a vi, I¡¯m not gonna die.


    ¡®He¡¯s not like you,¡¯ Jones said, untwisting the handkerchief to stop the little amount of self-harm that was going on. ¡®All the tests we¡¯ve done¡­you would have to touch your mirror to make a wish, we haven¡¯t found anything yet that activates it naturally. Merlin¡­he can¡¯t stop doing magic. It¡¯s a wonderful thing to be a parent, but it¡¯s so much harder to enforce a bedtime when your kid can walk through walls.¡¯


    ¡®I only do that sometimes, mama.¡¯


    ¡®If they knew what he could do, what he might be able to do one day, he¡¯d be locked up so deep in Central he¡¯d never see sunlight again. You have to know I can¡¯t allow that. Ryan, frankly, risked execution breaking the rules needed to bring you back. I couldn¡¯t do less for my son. I¡¯d burn the world if I had to, it¡¯s what a parent does.¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy-¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Shh. Shh. It¡¯s okay.¡¯ He reached out a hand and cupped her face. ¡®I¡¯ve never more cruel than I need to be. You¡¯re not going to remember any of this, it¡¯s not going to hurt, and in a minute, we¡¯ll be talking like nothing happened.¡¯


    Merlin slid off the bed and sat on Jones¡¯ knee. ¡®I¡¯m good at this.¡¯ He puffed up his cheeks and blew a cold stream of air at her face.


    Something glittered to her left and she turned her eyes to see an iridescent little Glinda bubble, a moving image of¡­looking down at her stuck feet from her perspective.


    ¡®A memory?¡¯


    Cold wind encircled her head and more bubbles - more memories - started to circle her head. Most were of the last few minutes, but some were older, moments where her subconscious had probably started to put things together.


    She looked back to Jones, and felt herself take in a sharp breath as Merlin reached a finger towards the bubble and-


    POP


    ¡®That¡¯s the thing about genius,¡¯ Jones said, ¡®people tend to ascribe certain tropes to it, even to real people.¡¯


    Stef stared down at her hands, then to the folders, then shook her head. ¡®Sorry, sorry,¡¯ she said, ¡®I think I completely tuned out.¡¯


    Jones smiled. ¡®I won¡¯t take that personally, we¡¯ve been at this for a while. Take a break, go play some video games or something.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re an authority figure, should you really be telling me to waste my time?¡¯


    Jones winked. ¡®You¡¯ve got enough days coming when I won¡¯t be able to let you off early, take the win, Agent-to-be.¡¯


    She smiled and began to gather her folders and miscellaneous agentification documentation. ¡®I hate chess.¡¯


    ¡®Pardon?¡¯


    ¡®What you were saying while I was zoned out. And sorry again. You watch pretty much any movie and the go-to shortcut of ¡°smart character¡±,¡¯ she said, awkwardly holding her bundle so she could do air quotes. ¡®Is someone playing chess, or just looking at a chessboard and the other player and going ¡°check in eight moves¡± or whatever. I understand the game, but I don¡¯t have the patience for it. I mean, I didn¡¯t do extra circulars but if I was the person I was supposed to be, then chess club should have been one of the things I did.¡¯


    ¡®¡°The person you were supposed to be¡±?¡¯ Jones echoed. ¡®Stef, no one gets to be who they were supposed to be, who they thought they were going to be, who their parents wanted them to be, the world¡¯s too chaotic for that.¡¯ He indicated to himself. ¡®If you were to look at me on paper, I¡¯m extremely boring, I¡¯m a Tech agent in an unremarkable Agency doing fairly unremarkable work. But¡­Merlin fell into my life and now I have a child. I never thought I¡¯d be a parent, a lot of agents aren¡¯t, so it¡¯s not socially expected of someone like me. Your dad didn¡¯t expect the Director title so soon, if at all; Director Reynolds, may he sleep in peace, I would think didn¡¯t ever expect to be part of a sacrifice that saved the world.¡¯


    Jones stood and gave her a gentle headpat.


    ¡®Not being who you expected to be, Stef, is called ¡°life¡±. Now fuck off, and enjoy it¡¯

 11 - Music Box

    It wasn¡¯t a test. ¡°Go play video games¡± meant ¡°go play video games¡±. But at the same time¡­


    Stef closed the door that connected her office to the lab. In the beginning, there¡¯d just been the two doors - one to the lab and one to her quarters, but in the last few days, another door had been added, one to a sim room.


    Curt had been immediately jealous that she had her own holodeck, and had gone through the basics of how to load a program and mess with its attributes to make it easier or harder to complete.


    Even if it seemed like a bit of a luxury, the logic was sound - until she reached some milestone in the long project plan that mapped out the next few weeks of her life, she was meant to stay largely quarantined.


    Visiting Jane¡¯s estate was a special privilege, and not one to be abused. Going anywhere else was very much a case-by-case basis.


    Having a sim room allowed for certain tests and protocols to be run without technically leaving her quarantined area.


    It also provided an opportunity for¡­she kept thinking of it as ¡°extra credit activities¡±. Things she could do to be prepared for the days ahead, little bits of training or whatever she could run through to be¡­not the ambulatory pile of shit and failure that she tended to be.


    She pulled the sim room¡¯s control tablet from its cradle and tapped on the search bar.


    {Ballet}


    Even before she¡¯d finished typing the word, options for ballet studios and practice rooms began to appear in the search results. She tapped on the first one, and watched the little preview video - a simple flythrough of a small but functional room.


    She hit the ¡°load¡± button, then scrolled through the options - light, temperature, and external weather.


    The light and temperature options she left at their default settings, but chose ¡°sunset¡± for the external weather-slash-aesethetic option, as that would surely look gorgeous coming through the windows, shining red and gold onto the polished wood floor.


    The program finished loading, and she stepped through the door, closing it behind her.


    Immediately, panic set in.


    There was a padded bench to her left, and she moved to sit on it, smirking as a puff of air escaped the cushioning as she plopped onto it. She kicked her sneakers off, and looked at the white socks that would shortly be replaced with delicate slippers.


    Part ten. Subsection R. Autopilot.


    Half-expecting Madame Costeau to manifest in front of her, and required herself into a practice outfit - leotard, tights, slippers.


    I hate this. I hate this.


    She stood from the bench, sat on a soft blue crash mat and began to stretch out her muscles. Even separated by a decade, the routine came easily, even if the actions didn¡¯t. Easy to remember what to do, harder to do it when your natural state was to curl like a gremlin in a computer chair.


    Part ten. Subsection R. Autopilot.


    It was a kindness, really. There were enough unqualified people who became agents that subsection R was a feature of a lot of agentification projects.


    It was every cheat, all at once. It was aim assist and ¡°I know kung-fu¡± without having to learn a thing.


    As the project document explained, when she got into a fight, several parameters would measure how she was doing on her own, and if she fell beneath a certain threshold - which was all but guaranteed to happy every single freaking time, autopilot would take over.


    It was something that Milla had flagged as one of the weirder things to get used to. She had described it as something like tripping or falling, a loss of control, a weird brain itchiness, and that the only way out was through. The more you did it, the more you got used to it.


    And the best way to get used to it was to purposely initiate it, and the more familiar the motions, the easier it was to give over control.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    There were a bunch of suggested simple programs, with the top suggestion amounting to ¡°get on a treadmill and auto-run for five miles¡±.


    But Milla had said that even that was one step removed, that autopilot tended to change your movements closer to standard, rather than using your own movements - it would use a textbook punch, not your own. It would use an efficient run cycle, not your own.


    When time allowed - which wasn¡¯t always - a lot of agents-to-be recorded their own sequences to later be played back through the autopilot, things that were in every way their own movements, not just things pulled from an emote library.


    The longer the program, the better. The more varied the movements, the better.


    One, and only one, idea had formed in her mind as Milla had been going through examples, and that had led her to a ballet studio, though one blessedly free of the angriest French woman who had ever existed.


    Some rich families insisted their kids do a hundred sports and activities, making them into tiny Rennassiance men; her family had allowed for specialisation.


    Ballet, and Buttercup - both prompted by her mother. Buttercup, as wonderful as her horse was, was useless here.


    She finished stretching, and stood, breath already tight in her chest.


    This was logical. This would help her become a good little agent.


    This was so far into the world of Stephanie that she wanted to rip her skull apart with her bare hands.


    A couple of requirements added background music and an instructor track.


    After a couple of minutes, her muscles began to ache.


    She lifted her arm, and chided herself for the sloppy movement. It wasn¡¯t perfect. It wasn¡¯t graceful. The angle was wrong.


    A thought cancelled the instructor track, and another turned up the volume of the music, hopefully loud enough to drown out at least some of her thoughts.


    She lifted her arm again. The angle was wrong again. Lift. Down. Lift. Down. Lift. Down. After another ten tries, she felt the spectre of Madame Costeau give an approving purse of her lips.


    If she¡¯d been a real girl, a proper girl, it would be a lot harder than it already was. In the absence of really going through puberty, at least her centre of balance hadn¡¯t really changed. Compared to a lot of other things in her life, at least this had been her choice. Sort of.


    The big thing, the big, stupid, life-defining, life-destroying fact that she couldn¡¯t have kids had shaped everything else. That¡¯s what made a girl. Girl equals babies, end of line, end of statement.


    And if she couldn¡¯t have kids, couldn¡¯t be what a girl was supposed to do, then there was no point in taking the drugs that would give her boobs, and make her seem like a girl to the rest of the world.


    And it didn¡¯t matter that there were a tonne of people who were happy without kids. Didn¡¯t matter how many times she tried not to think of herself as lesser. Didn¡¯t matter how many times she¡¯d tried to make peace, because every time she closed her eyes and looked deep inside, the only answer that ever came back was ¡°broken¡±.


    Attaining peace, or at least some form of armistice with herself, with her body, with her broken, useless self was a process. One that was going to take forever. Or even a bit longer than that.


    She couldn¡¯t be a mother, and moreover, shouldn¡¯t be one. That was one wound that had been dressed, even if it still only took the giggle from a passing stroller to make it bleed again. She could barely look after herself, was only taking the first step at becoming a grown-up, at being a person.


    There was no room in her life for a baby. No perfect storybook closing after a stork left a bundle on her doorstep.


    Maybe, in fifty years, a hundred years, she could copy Ryan and adopt some wayward waif she found on an Agency assignment.


    Even with the baby basket set aside, it didn¡¯t stop the word ¡°broken¡± from appearing every time she looked in the mirror. Every time she looked at people who were supposed to be attractive and felt nothing. Every little time she felt she was just slightly less than everyone around her.


    Subsection R was a kindness.


    Part seventeen, subsection B wasn¡¯t.


    There was a noise behind her. Something that wasn¡¯t music.


    Subsection B made her want to run. Made her want to-


    ¡®-the fuck are you doing?¡¯


    She spun, inexpertly, in a way that would have had Madame Costeau brandishing her riding crop, and saw Magnolia standing near the padded bench. ¡®Finally. Hello Mimosa. I did chime the doorbell, but you were apparently- I have seen you trip over your own feet. Tell me you aren¡¯t a fucking ballerina.¡¯


    Stef quickly required a loose jumper to cover her leotard, and the scars it exposed. ¡®Uh, used to be, kinda? Pretty much always corps de ballet, ba-background dancer, another body to fill out the scene.¡¯


    Magnolia joined her near the bar, and made a horrible attempt at fourth position. ¡®We did like, one unit of dance in drama when I was at school, mostly we fucked around and gave our teacher a headache.¡¯


    ¡®Your feet are totally wrong,¡¯ Stef said.


    ¡®Figured,¡¯ Magnolia said, smiled, then relaxed her posture. ¡®I gather Jones has freed you up for the day? O¡¯Connor is doing aide shit for Ryan, but there¡¯s some stuff we could get done, if you¡¯re not too busy doing this.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m going to build an autopilot routine,¡¯ she said to explain. ¡®I never did sports or martial arts, so this seemed like the best option.¡¯


    ¡®I can appreciate that. And it¡¯s a good idea. Give me half an hour, then you can back to this.¡¯


    She nodded, and a requirement had her back in uniform. ¡®Pretty much all of my muscles are ready to quit anyway, so yeah I can do that.¡¯

 12 – No Perfect Answer

    There were moments in life when things changed. Checkpoints that you couldn¡¯t go back on. Words, that once said, couldn¡¯t be taken back.


    Magnolia walked down the left-most hall of the primary Tech floor, boots sounding on the white linoleum tiles. Jones was in her office, at least according to the WTFA app, which could be counted on at least ninety percent of the time.


    The other ten percent was when agents essentially used a personal VPN to hide their location from recruits, good for those ¡°don¡¯t fucking bother me¡± moments.


    Normally, she¡¯d approach Jones with an intent to bother, no matter how the Tech was feeling.


    For the first couple of years at this Agency, she¡¯d had a relatively cordial relationship with Jones - despite what stupid, outdated ¡°jocks vs nerds¡± dynamic some people wanted to foist onto the departments, most soldiers appreciated what their scholars did.


    Combat couldn¡¯t operate alone, and Tech weaved information into actionable intel. They needed each other.


    Field could suck her entire ass though. Every Agency everywhere always seemed to give unearned reverence to Field, somehow, despite what actual data existed, it was always seen as the golden child department.


    After Merlin had come along though, her dynamic with Jones had changed pretty much overnight.


    She¡¯d been on the assignment that had raided the house of Merlin¡¯s parents, had been the one to hear crying coming from under a cardboard box, and been the one to carry a filth-caked child from that house of horrors.


    Jones wasn¡¯t the only one who¡¯d do nearly anything to protect Merlin. And she was proving that every day.


    Merlin could¡­do things. The full extent of it was something she didn¡¯t want to know, all she did know was that he was a lot more powerful than the Agency knew, and one of his many, many powers was somehow keeping his secrets, despite the Agency being so capable with surveillance that Orwell would have shat himself to death from fear and anger.


    He could read minds. He could walk through walls. He could manipulate emotions. None of that was sanctioned. None of that was on the record. And if it came out that she¡¯d known from the first week the boy had been within Agency walls, the very least that would happen would that she¡¯d lose her rank and title and be kicked out without a compensation package.


    And still, despite that risk, she sometimes felt like Jones would willingly arrange an accident so that there was one less person who could blab to Central.


    So many people treated Jones like she was a perfect, uwu bean who¡¯d never done a thing wrong in her life.


    So many people had never heard the phrase ¡°beware the quiet ones¡±.


    A couple of Tech recruits approached, deep in conversation about something. One stopped, smiled, yanked a yellow flier from a folder and handed it to her, then both recruits continued on. Magnolia looked down at the flier - it was just a simple, clip-art heavy announcement of the next movie night.


    She carefully folded it and put it into the lower left pocket of her BDU pants. Her outfit right now was simple - blue combat pants and a black tank top. If what she hoped for was going to come to pass - if what she feared was going to come to pass - then going in, feeling cute AF wasn¡¯t the right headspace to be in.


    A lot of people didn¡¯t understand her fashion choices. It rarely mattered, so long as they listened her to her orders and respected her position. Compliance was more useful than understanding.


    Being able to be cute, being able to dress as she pleased, this was just another way that she was finally being allowed to be every facet of herself.


    Her dad had always been so paranoid about someone finding out about her fae heritage that he¡¯d always made her dress in multiple layers, no matter the event or temperature. An extra singlet or t-shirt under her school uniform, a jacket when they went shopping, even multiple layers when she was playing with the hose and inflatable pool in whatever tiny yard they¡¯d had.


    It had been protective, and really the only way they could keep her safe - whereas now her feathers tended to grow at relatively predictable rates, when she¡¯d been a child, sometimes they¡¯d just shoot straight out, something that had led to her having to excuse herself from class multiple times, running to the bathroom to stick a bandaid over the little bloody slit from which the feather had emerged.


    Of course, this had led to rumours at every school she¡¯d attended that she needed to piss a lot, so nicknames and fights had always followed.


    So being able to wear black and white, or to show off her feathers - sometimes tied into her hair one by one, sometimes grouped like a small fasinator, was ongoing proof that she was allowed to be herself.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The door to Jones¡¯ office was open, she knocked anyway.


    ¡®I can already tell you want someone,¡¯ Jones said, a half-empty Starbucks cup in her hand. ¡®Is it going to take long? I have a raid in twenty minutes.¡¯ On the main monitor behind Jones, some game was running, and a dozen characters were running in circles, emoting and dancing.


    ¡®Depends how quickly you can do your job,¡¯ she said, and closed the door behind her.


    Professional. Neutral. That¡¯s how it had to start, even if it wasn¡¯t going to end that way.


    Magnolia walked across the office, and leaned on the long bench that sat in the middle of the room, rested her weight on her elbows, and stared at Jones. ¡®I need a search done, of all the files to which my access has been changed, altered, upgraded, or granted in the past week.¡¯


    ¡®Including or excluding files which themselves have changed, because that could be thousands.¡¯


    ¡®Exclude for now. Just new, upgraded or altered access.¡¯


    ¡®If you tell me what you¡¯re looking for¡­¡¯ Jones said as she turned, and started to enter the search parameters on her lower-left monitor.


    ¡®If it¡¯s there, you¡¯ll know what I¡¯m looking for.¡¯


    ¡®All right, but-¡¯ Jones stopped talking as the search results started to appear. The Tech¡¯s entire posture changed, withering from happy gamer mode to something haunted and broken in the course of a couple of seconds.


    Hope and fear had a head-on collision. ¡®I take it that it¡¯s there then.¡¯


    Jones lifted a headset and aimed the mic towards her face. ¡®Someone call in Alfie to heal, I¡¯ve got to drop.¡¯ Jones let the headset clatter to the desk as she dropped it and the game immediately disappeared from the middle monitor, replaced with the search results.


    ¡®What do you know already?¡¯ Jones asked without turning, head half-bowed, still staring at the monitor.


    ¡®An outline. Not detail. You resurrected him. Or you tried to. You-¡¯


    The half-drunk frappe sailed past her head. ¡®Do you think there¡¯s anything you could possibly say to me that I haven¡¯t thought a hundred thousand times? Do you think your hate would outweigh my regret?¡¯


    ¡®You still did it. You must have known-¡¯


    ¡®People think with their hearts, Magnolia. As good a front as you put up, as many people who think you¡¯re some heartless bitch, you¡¯re not free from the emotionality that leads to¡­ It took longer for the barista to make my drink than for- I wasn¡¯t around when Director Reynolds was taken, I don¡¯t know how things changed after that. I do know that this day, when Taylor died, when Ryan killed Carol, when- That was the day this Agency fell apart. It¡¯s hard to put into words how much was lost. I know what I was ordered to do. I know, in hindsight, that I should have refused. But I would have done anything to reverse those couple of minutes. Even- I was coding with blood on my hands because I couldn¡¯t think straight enough to clean them. I think we just all- We hoped, even though the numbers were against us. Thought maybe enough of him would survive that it would be okay. Thought if we boosted with external copies of memories that, even if they were from the wrong perspective, it could fill the gaps a little.¡¯


    ¡®You could have stopped. It¡¯s like cheating, it¡¯s not one mistake. It¡¯s doubling down and down and down when you know it¡¯s wrong.¡¯


    ¡®Hope isn¡¯t sensible. Sometimes, things do beat the odds.¡¯ Jones pulled her glasses from her face and wiped them with a corner of her lab coat. After a moment of silence, Jones stood and laid a tablet on the bench, a copy of the search results displayed. ¡®Archive sim¡¯s at the top. I hope- We¡¯re not perfect, none of us are perfect. It was a mistake, and we all have to live with it.¡¯


    No. He had to live with it, the rest of them got to make some peace with it and move on. None of them were being forever judged against a dead man.


    And she hated how much she understood. Hated how, much as she liked to act sensibly, act with a clear purpose that came from listening to what was the most sensible course of action, that on a bad enough day, she could make the same choice that she was chewing Jones out for.


    For every strength it gave, love punched a hole in common sense.


    As much as she understood, the blame was still placed at the feet of the blameless.


    ¡®It¡¯s not his fault he¡¯s not who he used to be.¡¯


    ¡®Hate isn¡¯t sensible either,¡¯ Jones said, shame heavy in her voice. ¡®I wish there was something I could say. To you, to him, to myself, that would fix this, that would ratchet up the contrast so that good and bad are much more obvious. I can¡¯t do that. I can¡¯t stop seeing a stranger wearing the face of my friend, of someone I loved. I wish I could say that if I had my time over again I wouldn¡¯t do it. We did what we did from a place of love.¡¯


    ¡®Love and shit are worth the shit. Love¡¯s nothing without action.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re not friends, Magnolia. Even so, I hope that one day, when you make a mistake as monumentous as this, that you can find the peace that has so far escaped me.¡¯


    ¡®He is a good agent, and none of you see that.¡¯


    ¡®A good agent is one thing, a good man is another. Your Taylor, he¡¯s sent you to the Parkers with broken bones and stab wounds, like you¡¯re nothing more than a training dummy.¡¯


    ¡®We train, so we can keep you all alive. He¡¯s not abusing me, he¡¯s not getting off on it.¡¯


    ¡®He didn¡¯t used to train his recruits that way. He had-¡¯


    ¡®Some dead combat agent had different training methods. Your new combat agent trains his recruits this way. Your combat agent¡¯s aide appreciates being made into a better and better recruit.¡¯


    ¡®I miss him. I don¡¯t want to apologise for that.¡¯


    ¡®People miss Samuels, I would imagine, they don¡¯t begrudge you for existing.¡¯


    Jones, predictably had no response to this.


    She stared down at the tablet, at the search results, at the sims that would let her see what had happened, how some stranger had died, and pushed it back towards Jones. ¡®I don¡¯t need this,¡¯ she said, the words becoming true as she said them. ¡®I don¡¯t need to mourn for a stranger.¡¯

 13 – Distance

    Taylor opened his eyes.


    His HUD fully initialised, coming up to speed from the minimal mode that was online during a sleep cycle. Four AM, as expected, as predicted, as programmed.


    He lifted the light blanket back from his body, stood from the military-style cot, felt the ambient coolness on his skin, and ran the morning macro.


    His uniform appeared, its predicted weight assuring him that every item was in its place.


    The cot was dismissed, replaced with his desk and its attendant chairs. No paperwork had been left unfinished the day before, so no outstanding work marred its surface.


    The lights brightened to normal, and the door to his private gym opened.


    He moved into the gym, and started his standard Tuesday routine while the rest of the morning macro ran in his HUD.


    The first thing that appeared was Magnolia¡¯s location and condition. No injuries sustained overnight. Current location, level nine, room seventy-six, the assigned dormitory room of Recruit Screen. Within expected parameters. Normal. Nothing to be actioned.


    The other agents appeared next. The Scholar was walking the halls of her primary floor. Ryan was in his office. The Parkers, Applebaum and Natalie were in their rooms. Grigori was within his Agency. Conditions normal. Nothing to be actioned.


    The Parkers¡¯ overnight log showed only grey, low-level entries. Routine recruit ailments. Nothing to be actioned.


    Next were messages whose alerts had been suppressed during his sleep cycle. Notifications of various outages and maintenance were easily deleted. Magnolia also received copies of those. She would flag if anything was going to interfere with their routines or schedule.


    No personal messages. Nothing that needed his attention.


    Everything was within expected parameters.


    He finished the first section of his training routine, stood straight, refreshed his uniform, then moved to the other end of the gym.


    He pressed on one of the wooden panels that formed the wall of his gym, and it slid aside, revealing the well-kept storeroom of exercise and training equipment. He checked the schedule, his minimal notes on what he was to run through with Magnolia sitting beneath the date, and began to set up the activities she would have to run through.


    This could have been done with requirement macros. Would have been easier.


    This felt better. Felt more real.


    He set up bright blue and red plastic markers, denoting the start and end positions. Laid down ropes. Carried a target, its weight easily borne, to the middle of the course. Each piece with a purpose. Each piece part of the shorthand he shared with his recruit.


    Consistency was important. Necessary. Always the same colours for beginning and end markers. Always the same type of throwing knife for the target. Change was¡­inefficient. Less than optimal. Unwanted.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Fifteen minutes before she was scheduled to arrive, Magnolia entered the gym. This wasn¡¯t inconsistent, this was optimal. It allowed for additional work to be done without the schedule being ignored.


    ¡®Sir,¡¯ she said and walked up the steps of the bleachers to sit on the third row, as she usually did. This was far enough back to avoid any activity he might undertake that would interfere with the first row. Gave a better vantage than the second row. Still close enough that she could be by his side in a second.


    The large binder that she called her ¡°workbook¡± appeared in her lap, but she ignored it, instead going through her phone, likely dismissing the same messages that he¡¯d felt free to ignore.


    ¡®Nothing needs urgent attention,¡¯ she reported. ¡®Anything from your end, sir?¡¯


    He shook his head.


    Everything she was doing, all of her words, all of her actions, were normal.


    There had been the possibility that discussion of past events would have led to things being less optimal. Led to change. There had been no need to discuss it. No need to share the details of how he was incomplete. How Jones had failed at his job.


    How he failed to measure up to- Himself. The dead man.


    Magnolia hadn¡¯t known him before. Had no point of comparison.


    Everyone wanted a reversion. Wanted a complete agent.


    Magnolia set her workbook aside and strode down the bleachers, a fluffy petticoat bulking out her black skirt. A normal look.


    She fell in beside him, and wordlessly, they moved into a stretching routine. Warm-ups for the rest of the day. Not something he needed. Something he was amenable to participating in.


    ¡®I¡¯m about done with Combat¡¯s pre-process paperwork for Mimosa. I need to clear a couple of specifics with her, but everything is on track.¡¯


    He grunted his acknowledgement.


    Mimosa had to be another mistake. Each time Ryan had attempted a resurrection, the process had been far from smooth.


    Whitman had experienced a glitch state so rare that Techs studied each and every case to attempt to root out the bug. He was a pale copy of his former self. Mimosa, between the mirror and the augmentation process, something was likely to go wrong.


    And with something more dangerous than a nuclear weapon housed in her chest, Mimosa could easily be a threat to everything it was their Duty to protect.


    He looked at Magnolia, observed as she stretched her calves, the muscle tone evident, even beneath stockings.


    Mimosa could be a threat, but unlikely through the force of her own will, at least from Magnolia¡¯s assessment. A recruit that belonged amongst the Scholar¡¯s ranks, not one that would prove an asset to Ryan.


    Precautions needed to be taken.


    Beyond that, beyond failsafes, was the purpose of Combat.


    He¡¯d let Magnolia take point with the impending augmentation. There was little he could add that Magnolia couldn¡¯t cover, and it was¡­easier to step back. To act through her as a proxy. To not be in a room with people who looked for someone else behind his face.


    It was best to do his Duty and to stay separated as much as possible.


    So far, he¡¯d only had one stipulation. And it would serve the interest of everyone that Combat protected. To allow aide access to the kill switches that would be implemented in Mimosa post augmentation.


    Most augments had at least one kill switch. A verbal or somatic combination that could kill the augment if such an action was necessary. Generally, such access was only given to agents. Still, there was precedent for aides to be able to trigger the execution code. Therefore, there was no issue in requesting aide access, especially given the scope of Mimosa¡¯s potential threat.


    It would also mean that O¡¯Connor might gain the permissions necessary to kill a colleague. With his ex-Solstice status, that was something for someone else to decide. An ex-Solstice of O¡¯Connor¡¯s calibre would know multiple ways of killing an agent, so the relative threat to Mimosa didn¡¯t increase by an unacceptable margin.


    Beside him, Magnolia finished the last of her stretches. ¡®Begin, sir?¡¯


    He grunted his agreement and began to explain the course he¡¯d laid out.

 14 – A Few More Steps

    Agent code was beautiful, glorious and the most complex thing she¡¯d ever seen.


    Stef stared at the single segment she¡¯d pulled from the code at random, which hung in the air in front of her, thanks to her HUD glasses. Electric blue numbers and letters, line after line of a language she was going to spend decades understanding, described just part of what went into blinking her left eye.


    Without much effort, she highlighted a section of code, copied it and pasted it into the notes window she¡¯d pinned to the actual window in her office.


    As she¡¯d spent more and more time with the practice HUD, two modes of usage had emerged. One was ¡°workspace¡± mode, which, although it had depth, really treated her field of vision like a computer monitor. Things stayed in relative positions no matter where she was looking and was how she spent close to seventy per cent of her time using her HUD.


    The other was akin to an AR mode, where you could virtually place things into real spaces. Her notes window stayed pinned to her office window and would only be visible when she was in her office unless she remotely changed its position or snapped it back into workspace mode.


    General usage of the HUD formed a natural mid-point. Tooltips and menus would appear attached to people, places and things, and more image-heavy or text-heavy apps running in your workspace.


    Sometimes, though, it was fun to toggle off workspace and just look at code floating in the air. To draw shapes that hung where she created them, or to wiggle her fingers and watch particle effects stream around them.


    Somehow, she¡¯s found herself in a life where she was using tech created by magic to simulate magic. And it felt more magical than literally conjuring a cookie.


    She required a cookie and scrolled further through the wink code.


    Her code had been finalised. The three-point-seven version of the operating system. Selected recycled bits from a bunch of previous agents. Everything needed to do an ordinary augment from human to agent.


    Bug fixing and updates and tweaks - not to mention the scary-long list of things she had to do with Combat would come after, but the important thing, her starting point, had been decided.


    The problem was there was one very obvious wrinkle, one shiny difference between her and a regular human getting augmented.


    But, thanks to Ditto¡¯s collection of mutants, and various bits of Agency experimentation over the years, there was something approaching a procedure for augmentations involving mirror.


    She slipped off her HUD glasses and laid them on the table beside the hard drive that contained her base code.


    If things went right, she¡¯d be an agent by the end of the week, and all it would take was one wish. One very, very specific wish, but one that had worked in the past.


    All she had to do was touch her mirror and wish to become the code on the hard drive. This specificity, coupled with the mirror¡¯s ability to interpret intent, usually resulted in a successful mirror-augmented-agent.


    Afterwards, Jonesy would make additional accommodations for her mirror, conditions that would protect the thing that was literally holding her soul.


    There was very little that could go extremely bad and wrong. If she didn¡¯t make the wish right, they could try again, and with how much mirror she had, there was probably a sufficient margin to allow for a couple of wishes.


    Wishes were to be saved for the very, very last option. This had to be a one-time exception because nothing else could happen without it.


    Without risking one wish, there could be no forward progress, and her life would remain the few walls that she was contained to, just the same as some of Ditto¡¯s mutants.


    The phrase ¡°there¡¯s no risk if there¡¯s no worth¡± bubbled to the top of her brain, and she let herself stew in it for a moment.


    For twenty-something years-


    Twenty-three, Spyder, you¡¯re twenty-three.


    For twenty-three years, over two full decades, she¡¯d been a shit-covered barnacle stuck to the hull of a super yacht. Been a thing that people had distanced from at the first opportunity, held at arm¡¯s length, and tried to look away from.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    But¡­that wasn¡¯t true anymore.


    Now, people wanted her around. Now, people willingly spent time with her. Ryan loved her with the kind of big dad energy usually reserved for cartoon characters. Jonesy kept dropping not-so-subtle hints that he might steal her from Field eventually. Curt gave her space to fuck up without each mistake marking the end of their nascent friendship. Even Magnolia, someone she¡¯d barely spent any time around, didn¡¯t seem to view her as a waste of space.


    For the first time, she wasn¡¯t alone. For the first time, she wasn¡¯t unwanted.


    It still took a conscious effort to think about everything she had. Still hadn¡¯t become normalised yet. Still wasn¡¯t the first thing that came to mind when she thought about her circumstances.


    It would take more than a couple of weeks to wash away feeling like an unwanted guest. To stop feeling like the place she belonged was the guest quarters in the far wing, rather than one of the rooms where ¡°proper¡± family stayed.


    But that time would happen. Hopefully.


    And it still felt like someone could yank the rug from under her feet at any moment, and she¡¯d be alone again.


    There was a knock at the door that connected her office and the lab. The knock was easy to recognise. ¡®Come in! And stop knocking; you¡¯re always allowed in!¡¯


    Ryan stepped through, a couple of slim folders tucked under his arm. ¡®I will continue to do what is polite, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    ¡®Sigh,¡¯ she said, then cleared a space at the table for him. ¡®We¡¯re doing,¡¯ she lifted a page to make sure of the thing she¡¯d already checked at least twenty times. ¡®Part three, right?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®Yes, ideally, we¡¯ll come to an agreement today. I¡¯ve done my own research, seen what is normal for people roughly in the same position as yourself, but I¡¯d like to see what you¡¯ve come up with first.¡¯


    Of the parts of the project that weren¡¯t directly involved in transmuting her stupid flesh body into nanites and magic, part three was the one that was going to impact her the most day-to-day¡­as it concerned what her day-to-day was going to look like.


    It was going to be a strange position that she was in, but not a unique one. Rank without seniority made her position on the hierarchy chart come with a bunch of asterisks. And footnotes.


    In practice, Ryan had said it would put her in a somewhat similar position to an aide - able to order the other recruits with ease, but anyone in a higher position than that would be tricky. Theoretically, she could order aides around, but if it was seen that any of those orders had been in error, then messiness might occur.


    It would be easier, Ryan had said, to treat aides like peers and listen to those who had been in the job longer. Easier not to rock the boat, upset the apple cart, or disturb any other metaphor.


    What she had apparently failed to indicate through wide-eyed anxiety alone was just how unlikely it was that she would give orders to anyone about anything.


    Hopefully, they¡¯d be able to massage part three into a shape that meant that she was in charge of as few decisions as possible, and from what she¡¯d seen, that was going to be possible.


    ¡®I think- I don¡¯t think it¡¯s going to be any great surprise that I¡¯d like to aim for something close to scenario four.¡¯


    Section three listed ten examples of duties taken on by full augments. Scenario four amounted to primarily continuing the duties of a recruit but being present - if not always consulted - for higher-level decisions.


    It would mean, if she was extrapolating right, continuing to work with Curt as though she hadn¡¯t been an idiot and gotten herself killed in her first week, but then also attending meetings with the other agents and aides; and sometimes representing Field at events of low-importance.


    ¡®I felt that was the most sensible idea,¡¯ Ryan agreed. ¡®As to actual schedules, I¡¯ve got a few suggestions.¡¯ He opened one of his folders and laid out a few sheets of paper. ¡®For the first few months, I¡¯d like to keep things relatively simple, act¡­almost as though-¡¯ He cut himself short and gave a sad smile. ¡®As though many things didn¡¯t happen. After that, I thought we could begin to incorporate some short courses at the Academy, cross-training with Tech, or maybe working towards a specialisation.¡¯


    Even before the panic could begin to set in, he had laid a hand on hers, and she felt herself centre.


    ¡®I have no intention of putting more on your shoulders than you can handle. I have no intention of bringing misery into your life. I want to see you thrive, to find something you love, that you can throw all of your energy into.¡¯


    She stood, wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. ¡®I¡¯m gonna try, cause you¡¯re here to- I love you. Thank you.¡¯ She plopped back into her chair and looked at the first sample schedule. ¡®How¡¯s all the cover story stuff coming?¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s very little we really need to do, and I can¡¯t imagine many people will question it, this situation is so common as to be unremarkable. And it¡¯s barely a lie. You¡¯re my daughter, I just didn¡¯t raise you.¡¯


    Warm fuzzies washed over her. ¡®I¡¯m also a fan of saying ¡°I was raised by my mother and her husband,¡± even if it¡¯s nicer than anything he deserves.¡¯


    ¡®Nothing will change legally,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®if it needs to, we¡¯ll deal with it then.¡¯


    ¡®Shouldn¡¯t be a problem. I might as well be dead to everyone I share blood with anyway.¡¯ She tapped her foot against the leg of her chair. ¡®Was there, um, like an automatic death notice or anything in the paper?¡¯


    Ryan shook his head. ¡®As your status was¡­unknown, nothing like that was processed.¡¯


    ¡®Good, cause there¡¯s probably still life insurance on me somewhere, and those fucks don¡¯t need any more money.¡¯ Ryan¡¯s face took on the same sad cast it did every time she mentioned how shit her family was. ¡®We¡¯re immortal, right? Give me a few years, and I¡¯ll be able to purge out at least some of my family baggage.¡¯


    A small, neutral smile replaced the ¡°your family is garbage¡± face. ¡®Let¡¯s work through a few of these schedule options. I¡¯d like to submit the first draft along with the part three agreement by the end of the day.¡¯

 15 - Paranoid Procedure

    The tank was a three-foot cube, full of blue.


    ¡®You¡¯ll actually get to use one of the proper tanks later,¡¯ Jones said as he positioned certain pieces of equipment, some closer to the tank, some further away. ¡®Those we generally use for injuries, but you¡¯ll go for a splash when we do all the updates.¡¯


    Stef nodded and fidgeted with the towel that hung around her neck. Even with only one extra person - Parker-1 - in the room, the lab seemed crowded. Parker-1, Jonesy, Ryan, all in their normal uniforms¡­and her in what amounted to a custom wetsuit.


    It felt weird. Everything was weird.


    But it was probably normal to feel not normal when you were about to dump your flesh prison and upload yourself to the internet.


    Even with her heart unmoving, blood was pounding in her ears.


    It¡¯s okay to be excited.


    I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m excited or if I want to shit my pants.


    Jones pushed a small table, like the ones they had in hospitals that jutted out over a bed, to the side of the pool and laid the hard drive on it. The hard drive with her code, the code she was about to become, the code she was going to be, the poison for Kuzco, Kuzco¡¯s poison, Stef¡¯s code.


    Ryan¡¯s hand hung beside her, so she slipped her hand into his.


    This was exciting. This was, second to having a family who loved her, the only thing she¡¯d ever wanted.


    It was still a bit scary. There were things that could go wrong. She was involved in the process, so things could go horribly, disastrously wrong. She could- If she made the wish wrong. If she-


    ¡®Jonesy?¡¯


    ¡®Hmm?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re gonna be like ten more minutes, right?¡¯


    ¡®Closer to five, but if there¡¯s something you need to do, just don¡¯t change your outfit. I¡¯ve already got all your sensors calibrated.¡¯


    ¡®Sure.¡¯


    She tugged Ryan¡¯s hand and dragged him from the lab to her office. Once through, she dropped his hand, closed the connecting door, locked it and wished she knew if magical warding was a real magic thing or just a fictional magic thing.


    ¡®I¡¯m going to fuck this up. I¡¯m going to fuck this up. I¡¯m going to fuck this-¡¯ Her last ¡°up¡± was silenced as Ryan pulled her into a hug and held her head against his chest.


    ¡®All right, I hear you. Talk me through your worries.¡¯


    ¡®That I¡¯m gonna fuck it up.¡¯


    Ryan held her at arm¡¯s length, his hands on her shoulders. ¡®So what¡¯s your solution, Agent?¡¯


    It was hard not to compare Ryan with James. Hard to not expect condemnation and harsh words aimed in her direction. Agent Ryan, dad; James Francis Mimosa, father. Two men that couldn¡¯t be more different, and it was still so hard to expect anything other than-


    Hard to expect to be treated with kindness. Hard to expect to be taken seriously.


    Ryan never expected her to make herself small. Never told her to shut up, never¡­looked at her with such hate and disappointment that she¡¯d wanted to cease existing.


    But if she fucked up, he might. If she-


    He won¡¯t.


    ¡®It¡¯s hard.¡¯


    She flinched on hearing inside words coming from her mouth and sat in her chair around the office¡¯s round table. On the scale of ¡°talking to myself out loud¡± badness, it barely registered, but it was still a mistake. Still, a sign that she was-


    Stop.


    ¡®Today isn¡¯t a surprise,¡¯ Ryan said as he sat opposite her. ¡®And I doubt this is a worry that has appeared from nowhere, so talk me through your thought process.¡¯


    ¡®With or without the dozen catastrophising tangents that come with every single paranoid thought I have?¡¯ she asked, staring at the laminate tabletop. ¡®With or-¡¯ She played with the cuff of the monitoring wetsuit. ¡®If something goes wrong, I¡¯m the only factor that can be blamed.¡¯


    ¡®So how are you going to compensate?¡¯


    She laced her hands together and stared at the zig-zag mesh of her fingers. ¡®I wish you hadn¡¯t been nice to me,¡¯ she said, the heat in her eyes telling her tears were a very real possibility.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®some part of you feels you don¡¯t deserve it, but you don¡¯t wish it.¡¯ He paused for a moment. ¡®I know I haven¡¯t known you for long, but I know you well. I know what your favourite colour is, I know the alarming way you take your coffee, I know that sometimes when you talk, you¡¯re not talking to me, I know you contain doubt and self-hatred, and I know you¡¯re capable of amazing things if you allow people to believe in you. You are so much more than you believe yourself to me. So again, I ask you, Agent Mimosa, what is your plan?¡¯


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    She wiped tears away, stood, and walked to the sideboard. She opened the top drawer, pushed away the carefully-messy pile of comics, and pulled out a folded piece of vellum.


    ¡®As much as I wanted today to be happy,¡¯ she said as she unfolded the page. ¡®Cause I¡¯ve said a hundred times, I always wanted something like this, I knew I- I knew I was gonna be this,¡¯ she said, waving her hand up and down to indicate herself. ¡®You said, everyone said, wishes have got to be end of the world type stuff, gotta be saved for something important.¡¯ She stared at the wall. ¡®So it¡¯s already hard to think about making a wish when I can¡¯t put myself in the important category.¡¯


    She¡¯d never been important. Not to herself. Not to her parents. Not to her family.


    ¡®So I¡¯m already seeing it as wasting a resource on something worthless. Add in, like, we don¡¯t know how my heart¡¯s working, like, if I¡¯m gonna lose anything with a wish, or if the density of the me stuff in it is just gonna change. So if I lose stuff with a wish, and I fuck it up and have to make multiple wishes and- It¡¯s good money after bad. Sunk cost fallacy. Whatever. I want this, I want this, and I¡¯m not worth it. It¡¯s scary and- And if I could be sure if just one wish would work, I could justify it, cause then I¡¯m not using up a valuable resource- It¡¯s so much easier to exist when you don¡¯t have to justify yourself to an outside party.¡¯


    She turned and looked at Ryan, the unfolded vellum clutched to her chest. ¡®I¡¯m trying, I¡¯m trying so hard, but with my baggage, every step is through foot-deep mud. It¡¯s hard to want things when you just feel like a burden.¡¯ She let her head drop and stared at the floor. ¡®I feel like I¡¯m wasting your time telling you all this, but I also feel like if I don¡¯t say it, I¡¯m just gonna collapse in on myself like a dying star.¡¯


    She laid the vellum on the table in front of the first person who had ever wanted to call her family. ¡®You told me mirrors are alive, or alive-ish. That there¡¯s something there, some ability to interpret intent and meaning. So I thought if I wrote my wish down. Had exacting parameters. That I could put a boundary on my expectations and that maybe it could ignore some of the mess in my brain as I¡¯m making the wish.¡¯


    On the page, written in beautiful, required penmanship, were several verbatim sections from the agentification section of the project documentation. Jonesy¡¯s description of how the mirror would interact with the blue and - looking incongruent as fuck - the long, exact address of her agent code file.


    ¡®I just thought about all the old stories of fairy bargains and genie wishes and how, in the bad stories, imprecision leads to malicious interpretation. You said that doesn¡¯t really happen. But I also thought that it would make me feel safer if I- Had a magic contract? Had what I wanted in clear language?¡¯


    It was a good idea. A smart idea. Even without the approving dad look she knew was going to come from Ryan, it had felt like the best idea. But she needed his permission to use it. To be weak. To allow herself the crutch.


    She could muddle through on her own. That was the base state she¡¯s always had to operate from. A lonely status quo with no net to catch her. And it had been¡­sufficient. Enough. She¡¯d survived the exile from her family and the years alone in her apartment.


    And she had survived. The fact that she was still breathing was proof of that. It hadn¡¯t been a life of a good standard, hadn¡¯t been admirable or enviable in any way, and had been - in all likelihood - the first few steps along a death hastened by self-neglect.


    But at the end of the day, she was fed. Even if it was delivery left on her doorstep so she didn¡¯t have to interact with another human. Even if it was whatever was in her snack cube hidden away at the bottom of her wardrobe. Calories in, body satisfied enough to push through another twenty-four hours.


    And she¡¯d done it. Managed. Paid bills and kept her utilities organised and active, even if the rare call to customer service had sent her into a mind-destroying spiral of panic.


    Push and push and push, because there¡¯d never been any other option.


    And she could do the same thing here, bull-in-a-china-shop her way through the wish, stomp down her emotions with a hydraulic press and find some way of making do, even if the results were far from ideal.


    But for the first time, she had a choice.


    She had people she could rely on, she could seek validation for ideas, could look to aim for an outcome that was closer to ideal.


    I hate how messy it is in here.


    Your mind has never been a tidy place.


    I hate- Me. Everything. I want-


    She needed his validation. Needed him to tell her it was a good idea.


    ¡®Is it okay?¡¯ she asked.


    ¡®It contains all the context and highlights that I would have chosen, if I were in your position. You know this is good, Stef.¡¯


    ¡®I need to hear it,¡¯ she said, her voice thick. ¡®I need to know you don¡¯t hate me for- If I was better. if I was-¡¯


    Someone worthy to be your kid wouldn¡¯t need to use this.


    Ryan shook the page, a small smile on his face. ¡®I wouldn¡¯t have gone for the pomp and circumstance of parchment and calligraphy, but I understand why you did. It¡¯s a little more magic than Times New Roman on an A4 page.¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t think it¡¯s weak?¡¯ she asked, not quite able to look at him.


    ¡®You are correct that mirrors are alive, that they read intent, but you are also correct in that the interpretation, the final result can sometimes vary. Ditto¡¯s group. There are few amongst that number where the final outcome was exactly what was expected. You, daughter, are living proof as well. I never expected so much mirror would be retained.¡¯


    ¡°Daughter¡± flushed away some of the anxiety, replacing it with warm fuzzies.


    There was a knock on the connecting door, and Jones popped his head in. ¡®About two more minutes, then I¡¯ll be ready. You can go for a swim when you want.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯ll be there in a moment,¡¯ Ryan said. He rose from his seat as Jones closed the door, and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. ¡®Blow.¡¯ She blew her nose and scrubbed the tear trails from her face. He folded the vellum in half and handed it back to her. ¡®You¡¯ve covered your bases as well as you can, Agent. Are you ready to continue?¡¯


    ¡®How do you have so much faith in me? How do you just- How do you just keep-¡¯


    -loving me? Why haven¡¯t you thrown me away yet? Aren¡¯t you bored, aren¡¯t you tired of- I¡¯m not worth it. I¡¯m not worth your time or energy or-


    He rested a hand on her cheek and tapped her temple with his index finger. ¡®I can¡¯t silence your doubts. I can¡¯t stop you from being unkind to yourself. I can tell you that you¡¯re easy to love. I can tell you that there¡¯s kindness ahead.¡¯


    More tears. More snot into his handkerchief.


    ¡®I want to do this,¡¯ she said. ¡®And I know as soon as I do, I will be too busy spending hours figuring out every little thing I can do that I¡¯ll forget to be sad and stupid and me for a bit. My head¡¯s just really dumb. I¡¯m scared, but I¡¯m excited. And I wish I could just be excited. I wish I could be anyone else but me right now.¡¯


    He took her hand in his and squeezed. ¡®If you were anyone else, you wouldn¡¯t be here. You get to do this, even if it¡¯s frightening, even if you don¡¯t believe in yourself.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    She took one very deliberate step forward. Then another. Then, arm stretched behind, began to pull him back towards the lab. Towards a future where maybe, sometimes, things were okay. To where she didn¡¯t always hate herself. Towards somewhere in the vicinity of ¡°happy¡±, even if not a happy ending.

 16 - Install.exe

    So far, the mirror hadn¡¯t granted her any magic powers - no ability to point at a thing and zap it with a laser or to portal through bathroom mirrors.


    It did heal her, though.


    Papercuts disappeared immediately, and stubbed toes and clumsy shins never bruised.


    It was quick and represented one of the many wrinkles with this process.


    Stef stood as still as she could as Parker-1 unzipped the little square in the chest of her wetsuit - one strategically placed to preserve her modesty, and sprayed her skin with something cold.


    ¡®This will numb you,¡¯ he said. The bottle disappeared from his hand and was replaced with a scalpel. ¡®Try not to throw me across the room again, alright?¡¯


    She managed a small smile, but she could see Ryan position himself behind Parker-1, ready to catch the doctor if there was still some kind of automatic protection system around her body.


    Ryan had shown her the memory - one advantage of being a computer-person was readily-accessible POV footage of anything an agent had witnessed.


    In the first moments after Ryan had brought her body back to the Agency, Parker-1 had rushed to treat her. As soon as he¡¯d gotten close, a giant, shimmery bubble had thrown him back, a forcefield made of iridescent light.


    There was a general consensus that it had been Ryan that had caused it. Some part of how he¡¯d been connected to the mirror, to the wish that had brought her back - proven by how there hadn¡¯t been another bubble-forcefield when Jonesy had examined her.


    Parker-1 cut into her skin, but like at the dentist, there was pressure but no pain.


    He cut a thin oval, just wide enough for her to jam her fingers into her chest, and stepped back, bloody gloves disappearing as he did.


    Now, it was all up to her.


    And nothing was scarier than having anything relying on her, let alone something as big as-


    Breathe. Just breathe.


    She sat, blue sloshing around the shallow tank as she did. Jones pushed the table closer to her right hand, so she could grab the magic-legal scroll she¡¯d put together.


    Her left hand rested at the edge of her hole Parker-1 had cut - already, the blood had stopped flowing, though it hadn¡¯t begun to close.


    She pressed her fingers forward, realising that this was the last moment she would be left-hand dominant.


    Goodbye, my sinister life.


    She could feel the mirror even before she came in contact with it. It was like¡­a corona around a sun, the waves of warmth, even far from a flame, except so much different and so much harder to describe.


    Old. New. Young. Sparkly. Stars before the birth of the universe. Contradictions and colours never imagined.


    Finally, two of her fingers touched the cold surface of the thing she had instead of a heart. And everything was just so¡­big. Her mind seemed to breathe, the edges of ideas ebbing and flowing like tides. Waves that were nothing but the chance for ideas and dreams.


    Potential begging to be explored.


    She lifted the scroll and started to read her carefully-chosen words.


    You were supposed to keep your mind clear and focused when making a wish to cut down on side effects.


    Her mind had never been either. And hopefully, by speaking her wish out loud, the universe could extend a little grace.


    Even the crazy deserved things to go well sometimes.


    Word by word, she made her way through the wish, each bringing her closer to her new life, to the first thing in her life that she¡¯d chosen, to the first place she¡¯d never been able to call home.


    A million years ago, she¡¯d met Ryan by chance.


    She wasn¡¯t supposed to remember him or anything about the day she¡¯d died. He¡¯d skipped wiping her memories because he¡¯d expected some shiny thing to distract her. To file her death and rescue away, something to be forgotten as she grew up.


    And maybe, with a normal child, that would have happened.


    A normal child wouldn¡¯t have sought comfort in those memories. Wouldn¡¯t have held a china doll close, not fully able to understand why it brought such comfort, wouldn¡¯t have stared at navy blue, not knowing why it felt like safety.


    Any loved child wouldn¡¯t have needed to create the ghost of a guardian angel. Wouldn¡¯t have been so desperate for love and connection that they¡¯d recognise that angel¡¯s - agent¡¯s - voice two full decades later.


    A properly-adjusted adult wouldn¡¯t have broken inside at receiving the smallest of compliments. Wouldn¡¯t have been so afraid of kindness. Wouldn¡¯t have flirted with the idea of going back to misery and loneliness because it was better than hope.


    She risked a brief look up at- At her dad, then looked back down and kept reading.


    Maybe it was okay. Maybe even not being okay was okay.


    Ryan was¡­maybe it was rude to call him messed up, but maybe he was. He¡¯d been just as lonely as she¡¯d been, which meant they were perfect for each other. If she¡¯d been more normal, more guarded, maybe he would have mirrored that, and they wouldn¡¯t have gone from strangers to inseparable in world-record time.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    And now she had a home. Had a family. Had friends.


    ¡°Please¡± was the last word on her scroll, and it had seemed¡­right. There had been a wish made for her, but the mirror still felt somehow separate, not really part of her. Something so old and so powerful that it seemed fitting to ask politely for a boon rather than demand it.


    After all, fairy stories always proposed politeness as the best policy.


    She closed her eyes. ¡®Please.¡¯


    There was pressure against her fingers, and she withdrew them from her chest - and there was a weird, tingly feeling as the hole that Parker-1 had cut closed.


    Her fingers glowed for a moment like she¡¯d dipped them in starlight, and an electric blue outline started to run up her arm, making her stand out, like she was just a little too real for a moment. A noticeable special effect in an aging movie.


    To her left was a shiny silver cabinet, its surface too imperfect for a proper reflection. Still, enough to see her head haloed in blue as each strand of hair was encircled with agent blue.


    Her vision¡­popped, that seemed to be the best way to describe it. A TV trying to decide what resolution to display a video, stretching and morphing at the edges, zooming and retracting, becoming sharper and clearer than ever before.


    In the distance, in a way that she immediately knew wasn¡¯t ¡°real¡± but rather far away in her HUD, a small circle appeared, the round grey circle that represented the Agency as a whole. It blinked a few times and finally came closer, settling into the comfortable middle distance.


    To the lower left, there was a notification that installation was starting.


    Jones stepped into her field of vision and turned a tablet towards her. ¡®It¡¯s starting. You¡¯re probably to pass-¡¯


    ¡­


    ¡­?


    Spyder?


    ¡­


    This is¡­familiar¡­


    She floated, aware and unaware, asleep and awake. Everything was comfortable, safe, and peaceful.


    Nothing was wrong.


    In the rainbow world of her not-death, there had always been a background radiation of liminal-ness. That it was something destined to end and that it wasn¡¯t necessarily going to be a happy, fun time while she waited for things to play out.


    Here - whatever here was - was¡­just good.


    She could think if she wanted, but there were no demands. No one was disappointed in her. No crushing negative thoughts, barely held back by a sensible voice. Just¡­peace. The best kind of rainy day, under a duvet, playing an old game.


    Someone, somewhere, somewhen. All concepts she understood in theory.


    Someone probably wanted her attention. She was probably supposed to be somewhere. But for the moment-


    She floated, happy and content.


    There was no tension in her body, no distress in her mind.


    She took in a deep breath and felt as light as air.


    Time, because time was probably still a thing, passed.


    A circle appeared, the Agency logo again, and this time, when it came to the middle distance, things finally started to come into focus. Nothingness became clouds, became clear blue - blue, she was suspended in blue, but not the little tank she¡¯d been in, this was-


    The general Agency logo flipped and turned into the Field logo, and with a light chime, her HUD initialised.


    Everything was exactly as she¡¯d left it, pixel-perfect to how she¡¯d set it in her glasses.


    In the right third of the HUD was a contact module she¡¯d been testing out - a prettier skin than the default - and it showed notifications from both Jonesy and Ryan.


    Something drifted down in front of her, and she focussed on the real world - sinking slowly towards the bottom of the tank was a chocolate chip cookie.


    Must rescue!


    She lunged forward, grabbed the cookie, the kicked towards the surface. Overall, the tank was probably just over two metres tall, big enough for any agent who wanted to have a splash. Unless they were in the habit of hiring Slenderman¡¯s cousins or giants.


    One more kick brought her to the surface and the small platform there - where Ryan sat next to a plate of cookies, jacket off, legs dangling into the tank.


    ¡®You¡¯re getting your uniform wet!¡¯ she said, unable to keep her horrified look off her face.


    ¡®No, I¡¯m not,¡¯ he said calmly.


    She grabbed onto the platform¡¯s edge with one hand and then pointed at his legs. ¡®Are.¡¯


    ¡®How¡¯s your cookie?¡¯


    She looked to the cookie she¡¯d rescued, and despite it sinking through several feet of- It was fine. Not soggy. Not broken. Just fine.


    Experimentally, she grabbed onto the leg of his pants and lifted it a little, bringing submerged fabric into the air - fabric that was instantly dry.


    ¡®Oh, cool,¡¯ she said and reached up to touch her hair, which should have been sopping, but was dry and perfect.


    Without being able to stop herself, she cupped a hand and scooped some blue into her mouth.


    It tasted disappointingly like nothing.


    ¡®A lot of tanks do have water-blue mixes,¡¯ he said, then indicated to the ladder so she could climb out. ¡®But for this, it was felt that a tank of pure blue would be best.¡¯


    She sat on the other side of the plate of cookies and munched on the one that he¡¯d dropped into the water. Wet or not, he offered her a towel, which she gratefully slung around her shoulders.


    ¡®How do you feel?¡¯


    Another bite of cookie. ¡®One day, you¡¯ll get sick of asking that. But- Good.¡¯ She ran a hand in front of her face, and her HUD reacted just like it had with the glasses, if ever so slightly faster and¡­more real. ¡®It was¡­really nice in there,¡¯ she said, staring out at the surface of the blue and the ripples made by her kicking feet.


    Jones sat beside her, also dropping his legs into the blue. ¡®We weren¡¯t sure if you¡¯d- That calm before your software comes online, not all augments get to experience that. I¡¯m glad you did.¡¯


    ¡®Are you all right to move on to the next steps, or do you need some time?¡¯ Ryan asked.


    She leaned across the cookie plate to bump her head against his shoulder. ¡®I¡¯m good. Really. It¡¯s weird to feel good, but I think I¡¯m gonna have to get used to that.¡¯


    He ruffled her hair. ¡®Then I¡¯ll leave you in capable hands. But later, I get to teach you to shift.¡¯ He kissed the top of her head. ¡®Thank you, Jones.¡¯


    ¡®My pleasure, Director.¡¯


    Ryan shifted away, and then Jones made grabby hands towards the cookies. She handed the plate over.


    ¡®Updates now,¡¯ Jones said, selecting one of the smaller cookies. ¡®Most of this, I don¡¯t need your input for, so I¡¯ll get you to run through some recalibration modules to make sure your HUD goggle settings came over just fine.¡¯


    She smiled, thinking of some of the initial calibrations she¡¯d done when using the glasses. ¡®Match-three games?¡¯


    ¡®Oh, definitely,¡¯ Jones said. ¡®Like I¡¯ve said, familiar makes the unfamiliar easier.¡¯

 17 – When Is A Bear Not Just A Bear?

    ''Do you want to see something fucked up?''


    Stef looked up and shied back slightly at the evil look on Jones'' face. ''Buh?''


    ''The Agency isn''t perfect,'' Jones said, scooting his chair over to the bench table where she was working. ''We fuck up things sometimes. You can''t account for every possibility, or¡­sometimes, someone just isn''t careful. Most of the time, things are caught in beta, but sometimes, things are pushed to live that are¡­buggy.'' He laid a tablet on the table and hit the "deploy" button on the next of her patches.


    In her HUD, a notification appeared and let her know that something was being installed.


    ''How high should I be hitting my what-the-fuck-o-meter?''


    ''There''s a reason I did this before we broke for lunch.''


    The implications of- ''I can still- Agents can puke?!''


    ''Short answer, yes. Longer answer, yes-with-a-short-lecture.'' Jones held up his hand; a blank piece of paper appeared in it. She looked closer - not blank, something was on the side facing away from her. ''I''m going to show you a photo of a bear. It''s an ordinary brown bear, just the same as you''d find on wiki or any basic image search, okay?''


    ''Okay?''


    Jones twisted the photo to face her and-


    She gripped the table.


    She tried to look at the picture again, but her head dropped, her vision focussing on her hands.


    She tried to look again, this time gritting her teeth and forcing her head to stay up.


    Her face twitched as, against her will, her head tried to turn again.


    Everything in the room was normal. The same lab that had practically been her second home since coming back to life. Same equipment. Same Jonesy. Same-


    She didn''t want to throw up, but she could understand why he''d waited till after this to have lunch. If a burger was sitting just a little wrong, it would have been all over the floor.


    Concentrate. She had to concentrate. Lab. Normal. Jonesy. Normal. Edges of the photo. Normal.


    The subject of the photo was-


    It looked like a DeepDream nightmare, pieces of the image fractaling in on itself, run through every conceivable filter, stretching and warping, breathing, taking up more and less than it should have. Utterly incomprehensible.


    Finally, she let her head drop.


    ''Okay, it''s gone,'' Jones said.


    Another patch notification appeared in her HUD. ''It was hot-fixed two hours after it initially went out, but it caused a stir. People thought they were under attack. Doctors and techs couldn''t detect anything physical - or even digital, since it was a verified patch - and for those couple of hours, it seemed like someone had found a new way of attacking us.''


    ''Did- Did whoever did this get fired?''


    ''It was genuinely an unintended conflict. And not something seen before. We learned a lot from the incident. The memes ran their course, and now it''s mostly brought up as a joke.''


    ''And the reason for giving me the experience of being on all the drugs was?''


    ''Two-fold. One, it''s an important lesson in looking beyond the obvious. Looking for less obvious common factors.''


    ''Two?''


    Jones'' smile turned mischievous. ''Well, it was fun.''


    ''Fair,'' she said after a moment. She looked at the picture again. This time, the bear was normal. ''I''m assuming there''s no more bugs like that in the patch queue?''


    ''Nothing as fun. There was one where about five per cent of people who received the live patch were unable to separate their index and middle fingers.'' He held up his hand to demonstrate and it looked like a sad, half-hearted Vulcan salute. ''Again, hot-fixed within a couple of hours.'' Another patch notification popped in her HUD. ''How''s the calibration going?''


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    ''Going step by step, but so far, everything is good. It''s just so much more responsive than the glasses.'' She paused. ''I''m guessing that''s by design? Training wheels?''


    Jones nodded. ''Walk before you run and all that, but it is genuinely faster running direct.'' Another patch executed. ''Have you played with your language settings yet?''


    ''I¡­kind of remember that from the project plan?''


    ''On paper, it only takes up a couple of pages unless you get the supplementary docs. All right, how many languages do you, Spyder, speak?''


    She looked down at the table. ''English, obviously. And¡­pretty decent tourist amounts of Spanish and French? We did a lot of holidays when I was a kid. But I''m probably relatively rusty now.''


    ''All right,'' Jones said, though his lip movements didn''t match the words she heard. ''Let''s go through this slowly.''


    As he spoke, live subtitles appeared in her HUD. Above and to the left, where a character''s name would be if it was a video game dialogue, was a box that said "Language Detected - Greek".


    ''I am just going to start reading the recruit handbook so you can play with your settings,'' Jones said, more subtitles appearing.


    Beside the subtitles was a menu of three dots. As she selected each one in turn, the subtitles changed from "best translation" to "original alphabet" to "literal translation". She cycled back to the "best translation" option and then selected an icon in the upper right of her HUD that was blinking for attention.


    The options broke down simply. What to see in subtitles, what to hear - with a bonus option to match mouth movements to what she was hearing. Finally were the choices for the response language, to respond in her default language, or to match the speaker, if the option was available.


    ''Okay, how''s this?'' she asked, saying the words in English, thinking them in English, hearing them in English, but feeling her mouth form them in Greek.


    ''Very well done,'' came Jones'' subtitles and now movement-matched words. ''And we can switch back to English now.'' The subtitles dropped away, and the translate menu icon disappeared. ''Just give some time as to what you want to onboard. That''s not a decision to make now.''


    ''Onboard?''


    ''Basically, what you want available offline. Most agents have two extra languages. Some have a lot more.''


    More patches. Lunch. More patches.


    ''Check that,'' Jones said as a text notification popped into her HUD. She opened Vox and saw an executable command sitting in their chat. He nodded to her, and she hit the button.


    An information window popped up, stating that her software was compliant and up to date.


    ''Looks good,'' she said.


    ''Now that you''re current, you''ll receive patches as we do. Well. Asterisk that. We still have to check and make sure your heart plays nicely with everything we added into your code. If it does, no problem. If it doesn''t, then we might have to opt you out of certain patch updates. But that''s what the next couple of weeks are for. I know it''s been made clear to you, but one more time, this is your starting point. Even off-the-shelf agents can have issues in their newborn days. There''s always worse issues with augments. We''ll be doing well if we can make it a week without your force collapsing in on itself like your nose is a black hole.


    Well, that''s horrifying.


    ''I''ll try to be as cooperative as I can.''


    ''There is,'' Jones had an awkward look on his face, ''one thing I''d like to test. Ryan is going to teach you how to shift, and I''m sure he''s going to pull a little Director''s privilege to get you out in the sun for a bit. There''s something we need to know before there''s even a chance of you getting in a fight.''


    She touched her chest and felt the coldness of her heart through her uniform. ''You gonna shoot me, Jonesy?''


    ''Only with your consent.''


    She stood, required a candy cigarette and found a bare patch of wall. She took a fake puff on the stick, then flicked it away, dismissing it before it hit the floor. ''Go go firing squad.''


    Jones moved to stand a couple of metres in front of her, one arm at his side, a gun in his hand. Jonesy with a gun looked¡­wrong.


    ''This shouldn''t hurt.'' He raised the gun. ''For science.'' He fired.


    Her HUD pixellated for a moment, and she was staring at nothing - past her UI, there was blue, not flat blue, but a space that had some sense of depth, some sense of movement.


    Two buttons sat in the middle of her HUD. One read "Same Location". The other said "Select Location" and had a dropdown arrow.


    She selected "Same Location", and a moment later, the lab and Jones reappeared. On the floor below her and on the bench to her right were little blood splatters - splatters that disappeared, even as she watched.


    Jones moved forward, gun disappearing as he did so. ''You''re not screaming. That''s good. You''re conscious, that''s good. You''re here. That''s double-plus good. Are you okay?''


    She touched a hand to her chest, where she''d felt the briefest of sensations before being forced into the blue space, no pain, no blood. ''Yeah,'' she said, ''no problems at all.''


    ''Achievement unlocked, first successful respawn,'' he said and squeezed her shoulder. ''Good. That''s good.'' He visibly deflated with relief. ''I spent hours programming that - in my head, I call it your Faraday Cage - but theories and sandboxing only go so far. Real life, in this case, is, unfortunately, entirely another thing.''


    ''I mean, I am going to try and avoid getting shot.'' She thought of the project plan and the "Desire Path training" that Combat was planning. ''I mean, other than however times Mags is gonna shoot me this week. But that''s also for science, so it doesn''t count.''


    ''It counts a little.''

 18 – Beaming Up

    ¡®I need to know something before we start.¡¯


    ¡®All right.¡¯


    Stef stared across the table at Ryan and gave up trying to find a sensible way to ask the question. ¡®Okay. So. The System is sensible and fills in logic and knowledge gaps.¡¯ She required a trade copy of Days of Future Past and waved it at him. ¡®I know this exists. I¡¯ve not read it, but I know if I read this copy, it¡¯ll be the content of the comics and not just a collection of random panels I¡¯ve seen online.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m following you.¡¯


    ¡®Same thing for food. You don¡¯t need to know a recipe for-¡¯


    ¡®Stef, I get the feeling you¡¯re avoiding asking a question.¡¯


    ¡®Can I get stuck in a wall?¡¯


    His expression didn¡¯t change.


    Something he¡¯d said to her on her first day was ¡°outside parameters¡± seemed to be the norm for her. But still¡­


    ¡®Am I that predictable?¡¯ she asked, twiddling and entwining her fingers under the table. ¡®I just feel like it¡¯s a reasonable question. I have a baseline understanding that there¡¯s some idiot-proofing in how the System operates. I just want to make sure that extends to not-¡¯ She forced her voice into a whine and put an expression of extreme patheticness on her face. ¡®I don¡¯t want to be part of a wall, daaad.¡¯


    ¡®On its face, it¡¯s not a silly question, but I feel your logic and reasoning have given you the answer.¡¯


    ¡®So no?¡¯


    ¡®If you do an imprecise shift, for example, if you¡¯re standing on the street and shift into the third floor of the building beside you, you¡¯ll be placed in an open, flat area of normal elevation. If possible,¡¯ he added after a moment. ¡®Obviously, if you¡¯re shifting into somewhere that has seen some kind of damage, then the System will try its best to find the most optimal spot given the conditions. You¡¯ll never, for example, be shifted onto a countertop instead of a floor. If you are entering somewhere that¡¯s structurally unsound, you¡¯ll be given a warning, and also an option to shore up the area to make it safer to navigate.¡¯


    She started crossing off mental scenarios that her paranoia had thrown at her. ¡®Can I deliberately Philidephia Experiment myself? Or amputate an arm by targeting a shift so that technically I¡¯ll be clipping through the wall?¡¯


    He arched an eyebrow. ¡®You give me the answer, young lady.¡¯


    ¡®It makes no sense to allow such a thing,¡¯ she said. ¡®If an agent really needs to get through the wall, they can punch their way through it, and if they need an emergency arm-ectomy then¡­That¡¯s probably a scenario so rare that it¡¯s not really accounted for.¡¯


    A new, horrifying question brewed in her mind. ¡®Wait, can you-¡¯


    ¡®Yes, but think carefully, Miss Mimosa, if you really want me to expound on the details.¡¯


    She pointed at her head. ¡®Is it a menu option or- No. Even I don¡¯t want to know this right now.¡¯


    ¡®Are you ready to begin the lesson we¡¯re actually here for?¡¯ He stood, and around the room, six small blue circle mats appeared. ¡®Like a lot of things, this will get easier with time. First, we¡¯ll do a visually targeted shift. Think, ¡°Shift¡±, and the menu should come up.¡¯


    Shift.


    In her HUD, site options appeared - ¡°Manual Target¡± and ¡°Select Location¡±.


    ¡®Manual target?¡¯


    Ryan nodded.


    She selected the option, and a small yellow circle appeared in her HUD, moving wherever she looked, following the surfaces of the furniture in the room. Easy. Instantly understandable.


    ¡®Where?¡¯ she asked, bouncing on her feet a little, ready to give it a go.


    He pointed to the first mat, which she instantly targeted, and hit the ¡°Process¡± option.


    The world fuzzed a little as she teleported a few feet to her left.


    ¡®Yes, yes, yes!¡¯ She bounced up and down, fists pumping in joy.


    A year ago, a month ago - a ¡°from her perspective month¡± ago anyway, she would have caught herself, apologised and hoped she wouldn¡¯t get punished for being loud and annoying.


    The fear came and went in a flash, and the shining pride on Ryan¡¯s face let her know everything was okay.


    ¡®Go mat to mat, one full circle.¡¯


    Five shifts later, she was back where she started.


    ¡®Manual targeting works for any location you can see. For locations you can¡¯t see, using a descriptor in your command often works best.¡¯ He pointed to the door that led to the lab. ¡®¡°Shift: Other side of door¡± or something similar would work. Try it, if you please.¡¯


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Shift: other side of that door.


    The shift processed, placing her just on the other side of the closed door. She opened the door and walked back into the office. ¡®How about the ¡°location¡± option?¡¯


    ¡®Not yet.¡¯ He fuzzed, shifting from standing to sitting back in his chair at the office table. ¡®Thoughts?¡¯


    She scratched her chin. ¡®Okay, chairs are easy,¡¯ she said, parsing the thoughts as she spoke. ¡®It would make no sense to keep you standing, so there¡¯s got to be some built-in context-specific logic. I¡¯m sure you could shift in, standing up straight, if you wanted to, like, change a light bulb or something. But that would be an override or something?¡¯


    ¡®Correct. Now.¡¯ He shifted, and this time, when he stood in front of her, he had his hands clasped over his midsection. ¡®Thoughts?¡¯


    This gave her pause. He hadn¡¯t mentioned a menu. Below the location targeting types, there were additional menus, but-


    He had her thinking about requiring, how it was logical, how it filled in the gaps. How it put together what you imagined, even without you specifying it. ¡°Require: cookie¡± to her was always the same medium-sized, relatively thin, chocolate-chip cookie with crispy edges and a softer middle.


    And she specified none of that when requiring a cookie.


    She looked up at Ryan, smiled, and shifted.


    The target was easy - the third little blue mat, and as she processed the command, she held the image of fifth position in her mind.


    And as she reappeared, her legs were crossed, and her arms were above her head, fingertips a few inches apart.


    She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to hide the broad grin, then dropped it as her face went back towards normal. ¡®Was that it?! Did I do it?¡¯


    Every smile from Ryan continued to fill in the void of parental love that both of her parents had spent her entire childhood digging.


    ¡®Perfect,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®I¡¯m so proud of you.¡¯


    After he ran her through a few more fundamentals - fortifying structurally-unsound areas, targeting and shifting objects, creating location shift cards, and other basics, he handed her a pair of sunglasses.


    The first obvious question was ¡°huh?¡± but she bit down on it and took a moment to process the meaning. ¡®I get to go outside? Janes¡¯?¡¯


    He shook his head and took her hand. A notification appeared in her HUD, alerting her that a shift request was incoming and a set of coordinates with an option to open a map. She decided she could live with the mystery for a few seconds and hit ¡°accept¡±.


    The warm sun of an afternoon beach explained why he¡¯d handed her sunglasses.


    ¡®This is something that young agents are encouraged to do,¡¯ he said as he walked up a long, broad path dotted with vendors. ¡®Chasing the sun, it¡¯s usually called. If you time your shifts right, you can keep hopping across the world, staying in golden hour.¡¯


    ¡®So¡­if I time it right next year, I could technically tick over into my birthday multiple times. And by the transitive property of pouting a little bit, you¡¯d have to get me lots of presents?¡¯ Immediately, she felt bad for asking for things and waited for him to-


    ¡®Twenty-four small presents is something I¡¯m sure I could arrange,¡¯ he said. ¡®For now, would ice cream suffice?¡¯ he pointed to a cart selling a small selection of flavours in waffle cones dipped in various sugary substances.


    ¡®The last time- Isn¡¯t ice cream bad luck for us?¡¯


    He squeezed her shoulder. ¡®Pick a flavour, Agent.¡¯


    ¡®Chocolate. And-¡¯ She pointed at the cone dipped in chocolate and hundreds-and-thousands. ¡®Pls. Thank you.¡¯


    He ordered her cone and, at her urging, got himself a small cup of vanilla.


    They found a bench in the grassed space between the boardwalk and the beach. ¡®As much as- As much as I want to make fun of you for just getting vanilla, it¡¯s a nice flavour. Like, I think a lot of people just think that vanilla is like, no-flavour white ice cream, and it is if you get the cheap shit, but vanilla that actually takes like vanilla is nice. And now vanilla is giving me semantic satiation.¡¯ She bit into the top scoop of chocolate. ¡®You need to tell me to shut up more often.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve had too much silence in my life.¡¯


    ¡®But-¡¯


    ¡®Your presence isn¡¯t a burden, Stef.¡¯


    It¡¯s still taking time to get used to that.


    She leaned close and bonked her head against his shoulder. ¡®Did you do this when you were a baby?¡¯


    ¡®Oh, yes. Reynolds skipped the ice cream in favour of visiting a pub when we were done.¡¯


    ¡®That doesn¡¯t seem like your thing.¡¯


    ¡®In that respect, and many others, I am not my father¡¯s son.¡¯


    A child called out in mild distress. She looked towards the water, where a toddler in a frilly swimsuit and a straw hat too big for her pointed at the waves, where her inflatable ball was bobbing away.


    Her mother took a couple of steps into the water, then shook her head, came back, and scooped up the little girl, comforting her.


    Stef drummed her free hand on her knee. ¡®Can I-?¡¯ she started.


    ¡®Just wait.¡¯


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    ¡®This beach has a reputation of being very safe and lucky in terms of lost objects.¡¯


    HUD. Use your HUD.


    She looked around, lightly scanning all the people on the sand and in the shallows. Human. Human. Human. Fairy. Human. Human. Nymph. An old woman knitting in an ancient deck chair.


    Slowly, in a way you wouldn¡¯t see unless you were looking for it, the waves carrying the ball away started to calm in a way that the surrounding waters weren¡¯t. A small series of swells brought the ball closer to shore, a suspiciously precise leading edge of foam knocking the ball against the mother¡¯s leg.


    Without missing a stitch, the old woman lowered her head, and the waters returned to normal.


    ¡®Every time you show me something like this, I just wonder how I could have missed it all my life.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s a hundred people on this beach. Did any of them notice anything? When you¡¯re on this side of the curtain, so to speak, there¡¯s an effort to keep your actions small and secret. But a lot of it is truly about being in the right place at the right time. Shooting stars happen all the time, but people are rarely looking at the right patch of sky.¡¯


    She bit into her waffle cone. ¡®Okay. But now I just need to see everything. I want to know everything. Never stop showing me stuff.¡¯


    ¡®Then we have a lot more stops to make.¡¯


    He sent her a location link, and after a moment, she built the command and shifted them towards their next destination.

 19 – Parameters

    Taylor opened his eyes.


    His HUD initialised. Four AM. Expected.


    Some agents missed dreaming. He had no opinion. Having an opinion would require- He ran his morning macro as he stood from his cot. A thought out of place was something that could be dealt with. Unexpected but manageable.


    His uniform appeared, its weight expected, as it should have been.


    His desk appeared. Everything as it had been the day before. A note from Magnolia, with the hours she had requested off, in her neat handwriting. The adjustment had been made to their schedule. Was visible in his HUD. The note was unnecessary. The note was¡­appreciated.


    The request was unusual but not unprecedented. The majority of the time, she worked her leisure time around her scheduling, informally taking breaks when her duties allowed.


    Sometimes, there would be events that she would want to attend, often with other recruits, that needed blocked-out time to be the appropriate level of available.


    She always made sure to reiterate her duty when requesting time off, assuring him that if she was needed and it was physically possible to attend, that she would be there.


    So far, summoning her from her free-time activities had been a rare occurrence.


    He began his standard Thursday routine while the rest of his morning macro ran in his HUD.


    Magnolia¡¯s location and condition. No injuries sustained overnight. Current location, her dormitory room. Within expected parameters. Normal. Nothing to be actioned.


    The Scholar was in his office. Ryan was walking the halls of his primary floor. The Parkers were in the infirmary. Applebaum was marked ¡°unknown¡± - expected, as he was on an overnight excursion to Faerie. Natalie was in her room.


    The macro indicated a pause in its operation, and a prompt window appeared. It indicated a new permanent-assigned agent had been listed to the roster and gave him the option to add them to the daily check.


    Mimosa.


    As of the previous afternoon, officially an agent, though inactive until all testing had been completed.


    He suspended the choice, and the macro continued to its next step.


    The Parkers¡¯ overnight log indicated only treatment for a single, non-combat event. The notes that began to scroll by indicated a sexual mishap, though with more detail than was needed for a medical entry.


    Next came suppressed alerts and messages. Magnolia¡¯s job to deal with those.


    No personal messages. Nothing that needed his attention.


    Enough was within expected parameters.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Enough was outside expected parameters.


    It was easy to do his Duty. To do what was expected of him. Routines and consistency kept everyone safe. When things diverged from the norm, then people got hurt.


    An agent possessing roughly one kilogram of mirror was unacceptably far from the norm. A threat. Every Agency had risk factors. Risks had to be evaluated. Most risks had precedent. There was no useful framework to conduct a risk assessment on Mimosa.


    Magnolia felt the same way. She had voiced her concerns. Had stated she would withhold judgement until after the testing period. That was her formal position as aide.


    In the tone she reserved for informal opinions, she had expressed an issue with Mimosa¡¯s placement. That Tech would have made more sense than Field. A place under the Scholar would have also decreased multiple risks.


    She had finished with a laugh, knowing no one would listen to Combat.


    It wasn¡¯t a situation Reynolds would have allowed. Not a situation he would have allowed if he was interim Director.


    His first thought on waking. Now Reynolds. Connected thoughts. People quoted Reynolds as saying, ¡°never ignore omens¡±. It wasn¡¯t something he remembered, but the sources were reliable.


    He selected Mimosa from the personnel roster and shifted to her location.


    The lab was on an unused floor. One that could be quarantined and destroyed with a single command without endangering anyone else. A necessary precaution.


    Most of the lights were off. Standard overnight lighting. Mimosa sat at a desk, her back to him, still wearing night clothes. She lifted her head as he took a step forward but didn¡¯t turn around, instead focussing on peeling a monitoring electrode from her forearm.


    ¡®You said I could do this myself if I woke up early. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m following the manual.¡¯


    Evidently, she¡¯d mistaken him for the Scholar.


    She laid the electrode onto a scanner and made some inputs on a tablet, then spun on her chair to look at him.


    After a second of stillness, she stood, one hand slapping her other arm to cover a patch of scarred skin just below the sleeve of her T-shirt. A strange movement.


    ¡®I thought you were Jonesy- Agent Jones. Sorry. Sorry, sir.¡¯ She looked down, and a uniform replaced the T-shirt and flannel pants. ¡®How- Can I help you? If you¡¯re looking for-¡¯


    ¡®Did you dream?¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯ She raised her head for a moment, then returned her gaze to the floor.


    He wasn¡¯t going to repeat the question.


    Some augments dreamed at first. Technical error. Corrected upon discovery. Usually indicated further errors were to come. If Mimosa dreamed, it had to be factored into the risk assessment. An omen not to be ignored.


    ¡®Oh, um, yeah. I know about- Sorry. Sorry.¡¯ Her back straightened, she met his gaze, and when she spoke, her accent had changed, making him think of Jane. ¡®It was something I was made aware of, Agent. It¡¯s part of why I¡¯m running these reports without waiting for Agent Jones, who I do expect will double-check my work. I do not consciously recall any dreams, nor do I feel any indication that one occurred that I do not remember.¡¯ She motioned at the table and the electrodes on the scanner. ¡®These were set up to monitor for any anomalies during my sleep cycle. So far, nothing unexpected has been flagged.¡¯


    Magnolia had been right. She spoke like one of the Scholar¡¯s recruits. An entire speech to say ¡°no¡±.


    He grunted to indicate he¡¯d heard her answer. That meant Reynolds remained the only dreaming agent in their vicinity. As expected.


    He shifted back to his gym.


    Movement drew his eye. Magnolia. Training uniform, doing morning stretches.


    ¡®Sir.¡¯


    ¡®Magnolia.¡¯


    He fell in beside her, matched her lunge, and calibrated to where she was in the routine so he could follow. Expected. Within parameters. Good.

 20 – Background Details

    ¡®I¡¯m running out of jokes to make about dissociation.¡¯


    Sometimes, people would question how undead mythologies worked - if it was possible to get both a ghost and a zombie from the same person.


    Apparently, the answer was ¡°yes¡±.


    Stef looked down at her ever-so-slightly transparent hands and flexed her fingers, enjoying the little bits of code that peeked through as she did.


    Jones had explained that it was a kindness they did for most augments - and anyone else who had to undergo extensive post-upload testing. Something to make the entire process a lot less traumatising.


    The ¡°desire path training¡± which would ensure that all of her code was responding to inputs in the right ways really amounted to - when you actually read the project plan - Mags and Taylor murdering her body over and over in increasingly specific ways.


    It was essential to ensure that there wasn¡¯t a line of code that meant that ¡°getting stabbed in the hand¡± triggered a cascade failure that would lead to her BSODing in the middle of a fight.


    But it was also understood that actually going through that was probably not the best move, psychologically speaking.


    So the answer had been the use of a dumb terminal system - whereby the consciousness of the baby agent was temporarily ported into this weird code-ghost thing she occupied while the testing could be done to her real body.


    So Mags got to beat up her zombie while she got to cheer on from the bleachers.


    My life is so fucking weird.


    ¡®You sure you got the controls?¡¯ Jones asked.


    She nodded. For the most part, she felt normal - she could feel the wood of the bleachers under her butt, the slight shift in the air from the air conditioning, and her breath. Her HUD had been largely stripped away to account for the low-interaction state she was supposed to maintain.


    So if she was going to sneak any time fucking around on the internet, it would have to be through one of the tablets Jonesy was going to leave behind.


    ¡®Everything will be fine,¡¯ Mags said as she walked up.


    Another day, another cute dress. This one with a white corset of heavily textured material and a short skirt topped with a layer of lace that hid feathers in the pattern.


    Magnolia saw her looking and gave a spin. ¡®You like?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s cute,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®I can send you the requirement details, though you¡¯d probably want to strip out the tactical upgrades.¡¯


    She looked down at her ghosty hands. ¡®I- No thanks. It¡¯s not something I could pull off.¡¯


    Mags leaned in close and grinned. ¡®I wasn¡¯t inviting you to pull it off me, Mimosa.¡¯ She winked. ¡®You¡¯d at least have to buy me a drink first.¡¯


    ¡®Uhhhh- Um.¡¯ She stared at her hands and wished there was some kind of anti-blushing requirement. ¡®I didn¡¯t mean-¡¯


    ¡®Oh, you¡¯re so easy.¡¯ Mags turned to Jones. ¡®We¡¯re fine. I¡¯ve got it from here.¡¯


    ¡®Be gentle,¡¯ Jones warned, then shifted away.


    A door opened on the other side of the gym, and Taylor - along with a blond agent she didn¡¯t recognise - stepped out. Both looked like they¡¯d been fighting to the death - though the mud, blood and debris disappeared as she looked.


    ¡®That¡¯s our sim room,¡¯ Mags said. ¡®That¡¯s Grigori, by the way. I don¡¯t think he would have introduced himself yet.¡¯


    Though Taylor and Grigori didn¡¯t really look anything alike, the thought that appeared in her brain was ¡°mirror universe clones¡±, but rather than good, normal Spock and evil goatee Spock, there was ginger agent and blonde agent.


    When they¡¯d been made, someone had obviously turned all the muscle sliders up to max, throwing all possible points into whatever would best suit a tank build. But beyond that¡­she¡¯d barely interacted with Taylor, but he seemed capable of maybe two facial expressions, of which he was wearing ¡°neutral¡± right now, whereas his good!universe counterpart had an open and smiling face.


    Magnolia stepped back and crooked a finger at the zombie. ¡®Come on, Mimosa,¡¯ she said and led the auto-piloting body towards the middle of the gym.


    The autopilot would be able to handle most of the commands needed for the next couple of days. Primarily it would just be positioning, standing in the right place to die, then respawn.


    If she needed to - or wanted to - she could jump back into her body at any point or pilot it around like a drone whilst remaining separated and in the dumb-terminal ghost.


    The air beside her flexed and folded as someone shifted in - Grigori - whose smile was as broad as when he¡¯d been talking to Taylor. ¡®I haven¡¯t had a chance to introduce myself.¡¯ He laid a hand on his chest. ¡®Grigori, it¡¯s a pleasure to meet you.¡¯ He reached out a hand - one, if he stuck around, he was probably going to use to murder her zombie several dozen times.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    She reached her hand out to shake his, but he turned it up and gave it a quick, gentlemanly kiss, then released her hand.


    ¡®Um. Hi. Stef. Mimosa. Whatever¡¯s easier.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve invited myself to help out my dear friend and his recruit, so you¡¯ll be seeing a lot of me in the next few days. If you-¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re starting,¡¯ Mags called from the centre of the room, a tablet in her hand.


    ¡®Excuse me,¡¯ Grigori said. ¡®We can talk later if you like.¡¯


    In the middle of the gym, the three conferred for a moment while her zombie stood dead-eyed, staring at the wall.


    Taylor stepped up to her body and snapped her neck.


    On the tablet to her right, the affected area flashed in red. She picked it up and looked at the data stream as her crumpled body disappeared and then respawned. First test, and everything looked good.


    Magnolia returned to the bleachers and sat beside her, clearing some of the assorted Tech clutter so she had room to fully relax. A tall bubble tea cup appeared in her hand, and she took a moment to watch the action as Taylor and Grigori took turns snapping the zombie¡¯s neck. ¡®Three¡¯s a crowd,¡¯ Magnolia said. ¡®I mean, not always. Three can be very fun. Four¡¯s when it starts to get complicated.¡¯


    The zombie crumpled again, and she turned to Mags. ¡®If you need a fourth, Curt knows about me. I mean, not everything, but enough to help with this? I don¡¯t think day one specifically tests any of the Faraday cage limits.¡¯


    Mags paused in sipping her drink. ¡®What are you-¡¯ Her face scrunched. ¡®Oh. Oh, sweet summer child, that wasn¡¯t what I meant at all.¡¯ She swirled the cup, making the pearls bob up and down. ¡®You¡¯re right, this is all pretty basic stuff, but lots of issues can still crop up during basic tests.¡¯


    ¡®I saw pictures of a guy who looked like Truck Shepard.¡¯


    ¡®Like- What? I don¡¯t have any of my nerds here to translate, so go easy on me, Mimosa.¡¯


    She flicked through a couple of screens on the tablet to a gallery Jonesy had labelled as ¡°FBH¡± - Fun, But Horrifying. She turned the tablet and held up a picture of an agent whose body had apparently decided that extending every vertex a hundred times past its usual parameter had been a good idea.


    ¡®Oh, sea urchin guy, yeah, let¡¯s hope that doesn¡¯t happen to you.¡¯


    In the middle of the room, the testing had seemed to move on from ¡°snapping necks with bare hands¡± to ¡°breaking necks with assistance¡±. With a swing equal parts grace and terrifying power, Taylor smacked the back of the zombie¡¯s neck with a pipe.


    In the data stream, two red flags popped up. ¡®Can you ask him to do that again?¡¯ she asked, pointing to the errors. ¡®Sometimes- Jonesy said sometimes a repeated stimulus can force a pathway to build. If not, it¡¯s something he can fix later.¡¯


    ¡®Exactly the same?¡¯ Stef nodded. ¡®Sir?¡¯ Taylor turned towards Magnolia, who made a quick gesture with her hand. Taylor adjusted the pipe in his hand and swung it in the same arc when the zombie respawned.


    One of the two flags disappeared.


    ¡®Again?¡¯ Mags asked.


    She shook her head. ¡®No, that was enough.¡¯


    ¡®Next step,¡¯ Magnolia called.


    The next step was apparently Grigori with a baseball bat.


    After a few minutes, Magnolia excused herself to confer with the two agents about the run sheet for the first section of test-murders. A pleasant hum of conversation filled the gym - if she focussed, she could hear what they were saying, but it was just nice to have as background noise.


    It wasn¡¯t something she¡¯d really had before.


    This wasn¡¯t inclusion, but it was far from the very deliberate exclusion that had been such a regular feature of her life. Whenever her parents had dinner guests - not just strangers but other members of the family - she¡¯d be bribed to stay quiet in her room, brought a separate dinner by one of the staff.


    Even the time she¡¯s spent at the family estate, the most interaction she¡¯d really been able to manage was not being asked to leave the room when a group of her cousins had been hanging out. Or times when she¡¯d been able to head into town with them - getting a pity ride if there was a spare seat in someone¡¯s car or in a town car if people didn¡¯t feel like driving.


    It wasn¡¯t like she¡¯d been actually invited to do activities with them. As soon as they¡¯d hit the high street, she¡¯d been left to fend for herself and to find her own way home.


    It had been so lonely.


    Just knowing that people couldn¡¯t even stand to be in the same room with you. Knowing that even if you were doing nothing but reading in another corner of one of the larger living spaces, that they¡¯d rather be anywhere else. That somehow just by being there, she¡¯d somehow made their day worse.


    It was them. It was never you.


    They hated me- No. It wasn¡¯t even hate. It was just- I just didn¡¯t fit.


    If she¡¯d been in her body, she would have been blinking back tears, but the dumb terminal apparently couldn¡¯t cry.


    In the middle of the room, Grigori held her decapitated head in her hands. He tossed it from palm to palm like a basketball, then threw it to Taylor, who caught it, and after some laddish cajoling from Grigori, threw it back.


    Her head was passed a few more times, then it disappeared, respawning properly attached to her body once again.


    ¡®You seem weirdly unbothered by this,¡¯ Magnolia said, coming back to drink more of her boba. ¡®If I¡¯ve said that before, you¡¯ve earned it again.¡¯ She dropped the volume of her voice. ¡®Do I need to have a word with the Parkers? Do you want to talk to someone about all this? There are counsellors and shit attached to this network.¡¯


    ¡®Can I tell you something?¡¯


    Magnolia held out a clone of her boba and shook it. ¡®I think the body you¡¯re in can drink. If not, the floor cleans itself.¡¯


    Stef took the boba and twisted the thick straw to mix the layers. ¡®I- Died when I was a baby. The stuff surrounding that, coming back, is the only source of comfort I¡¯ve ever had in my life. That¡¯s the beginning of how fucked up I am.¡¯ She gestured her cup towards Taylor and Grigori. ¡®This is just science. And it¡¯s being done because someone finally gives a shit about me. Two, if you include Jonesy, but I don¡¯t know if he¡¯s just invested in me cause I¡¯m an interesting project. You¡¯re part of this, and it¡¯s not bothering you. You¡¯ve got my blood on your pretty dress and-¡¯


    ¡®You could wear a pretty dress if you want.¡¯


    ¡®If this was Labyrinth, you¡¯d be Sarah, and I¡¯d be one of those goblins Jareth steps on. I¡¯m happy with that.¡¯


    ¡®We can work on that.¡¯ Magnolia took a long pull on her boba before putting her cup down again. ¡®Oh, I came over to say. You might want to put a splash guard up. We¡¯re moving onto explosions in about ten minutes.¡¯

 21 - Scars

    Curt opened his eyes as his alarm went off.


    No nightmares, at least nothing that had survived the transition into the waking world. A small grace, and one he tried to always spin into a good omen for the day. A good start. A good day. Putting good thoughts out. Intentionally starting with a good mood. Whatever worked.


    He pulled his Genie phone off the charging plate to check overnight messages. One from Carmichel - a series of gifs and personalised reaction images expressing frustration at the contractors doing the overhaul of his holiday home.


    The frustrated images stopped, with a short message indicating he was going to have a beer with a project lead to try and sort out the issues. Then silence overnight. Then a message that had arrived a minute before Curt¡¯s alarm had gone off, of Carmichael, shirtless, sipping juice with another fae man.


    {He¡¯s cute, plin. Enjoy breakfast.}


    Carmichael had been calling him kallabrae for ages. Still, he¡¯d never had a term of sibling affection to use in return. It was weird - when you were in a relationship, you could ask your girlfriend what pet names she preferred. With friends, you tended to go with pre-existing nicknames.


    With his relationship with Carmichael, it was a lot harder. Technically speaking, ¡°Carmichael¡± was already a nickname. You couldn¡¯t just walk up to someone who had assigned themselves your big brother and ask what they wanted to be called.


    That was the kind of behaviour that would morph the verbal noogie of ¡°kallabrae¡± into a physical one.


    So it had been his project to find the right word. He¡¯d deemed it his homework for the informal language lessons that Carmichael gave him. So many options, so many histories and connotations to each word. ¡°Bro¡± was different to ¡°dude¡± was different to ¡°mate¡±. In addition, you had to multiply that complication by about a hundred when you were dealing with fae languages, when you were an outsider looking in, someone painstakingly figuring out all the context on Faerie-wikis.


    Plin was a slightly obscure word, though one that had come back into vogue and was almost a perfect counterpart to kallabrae. Almost. Plin was the form of the word used from younger siblings to older, whereas kallabrae had no age context in the history or spelling.


    Plin, plainly, meant something along the lines of ¡°I admire you, don¡¯t let it go to your head¡±. Playful and teasing, just like kallabrae.


    Carmichael¡¯s typing dots appeared and disappeared a few times, then just sent a green heart.


    Curt checked his Agency phone - nothing of importance. A few Aide tasks he could get to once he got Stef organised and at least nominally on task.


    He showered, dressed, checked his loadout, and then checked the pen Stef had gifted him to ensure she hadn¡¯t sent a coded message in its engraving. Nothing. As it always did, it had reverted to its original, simple Field logo.


    A final check in the mirror to make sure his Recruit Curt - Aide Curt - mask was in place, then he headed off towards the lab.


    One elevator ride and a short walk later, he knocked on the door to the lab - no answer. Not surprising. He tapped his ID against the card reader and let himself in - the lights were still in night mode.


    Almost all the lights. There was one group of lights on over one of the monitoring stations. But only those lights. Like someone had shifted in, stood there - and only there - then shifted away. It wasn¡¯t Stef - she was still asleep in her tank.


    ¡®Weird,¡¯ he muttered but dismissed it. It had probably been Jones, deciding to check in, in-person rather than look at a remote feed.


    He walked towards Stef¡¯s tank and tried to reconcile how strange his life was. He woke up every morning in a building made of magic tech and shared breakfast with a girl who was temporarily spending her nights in a tank of blue goo.


    The tank would be the norm for the new phase of getting her ready to enter the world as an agent. Augments tended to be difficult, so it was protocol to have them spend long periods in the huge tanks of blue. Long, deep scans overnight would ensure that all their code was mapping correctly.


    Still, his friend was unmoving in a tank of liquid, making it hard to turn down ¡°oh shit, Newbie¡¯s drowning¡± thoughts.


    Stef floated roughly in the centre of the tank, buoyed by the relative density of the blue, and looked like a photo of a person mid-fall. Arms outstretched, left leg hanging at an angle, right leg slightly raised.


    He hated how still she looked. How dead she looked.


    He reached up and knocked as close to her head as she could. He smiled at the ¡°baby on board¡± sign someone had stuck on the glass wall of the tank. A sneaking suspicion told him Parker-2, as it didn¡¯t seem like something either Ryan or Jones would do. Though why Two would be visiting when One was her primary was-


    In the tank, Stef turned over, limbs curling in a clear ¡°five minutes more¡± plea, but uncurled when they failed to find the purchase of the bed that her unconscious self was clearly expecting. Her head shook, and she opened her eyes.


    She floated for a moment, then disappeared from the tank, appearing next to him. None of the blue had followed through the shift, and she was as dry, despite having slept in goo.


    At least she was in pyjamas for once. Full-length blue flannel pyjamas that looked at least one size too large. But it was still a step up from sleeping in her uniform, which she seemed to do all too often.


    She made grabby hands at him and the usual Newbie-waking-up-brain-initialising noises.


    {Require: Macro: Newbie morning coffee}


    A large travel mug full of her preferred ridiculously, inhumanely sweet black coffee appeared in his hands, and he handed it over.


    ¡®Coffee makes the Steffie go,¡¯ she mumbled and zombie-walked towards one of the benches.


    She sat down, booted up some piece of weird tech, peeled an electrode from her temple and dropped it onto the flat bed. He sat opposite her and began to go through his emails as she did her impenetrable tech work.


    After a few minutes, she pulled her pyjama top off, the movement making him lift his head. She froze and clutched it to her chest, even though she wore a T-shirt underneath.


    A quick requirement dropped an opaque divider screen on the table, shielding her from his sight.


    This was new - or at least a variation of her shyness he hadn¡¯t seen before. She was¡­really weird about her boundaries in a way that was a little hard to navigate. A blanket rule to absolutely not talk about sex unless it was necessary and was easy to follow. No touching without warning and consent, equally easy to do.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    But then there were things that seemed like they should have flowed from that - like, in her non-tank days, she didn¡¯t seem to have a problem with him sitting on her bed while she woke up.


    He¡¯d seen her in non-uniform clothes, so that wasn¡¯t it - she¡¯d been completely unbothered up until right now. So it had to be something less obvious.


    ¡®Tell me what I need to know, Newbie.¡¯


    The only thing he could hear from the other side of the screen was the slight squeak as she twisted her seat side to side.


    Even after a full, phone-clock minute of silence, he didn¡¯t repeat his question. It was hard, the want to know what he¡¯d done wrong or how he could do better, but if he pushed, she could lock up and-


    There was the soft sound of her shoes on the floor.


    Slowly, the top of her head and finally, her eyes peeked around the divider. ¡®Can I?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s there for your comfort, Newbie.¡¯


    Blue flannel shirt still held to her chest, she sat on the stool beside him and twisted to face him, knuckles white on the top like a safety teddy.


    She looked up at him, met his gaze for a moment, and then looked down at the floor, slowly folding the pyjama top into a neat square. When it was done, she placed it with shaking hands onto an empty space on the bench.


    She crossed her arms and slowly extended a finger to point at a curved scar that extended down from under her sleeve. ¡®When I wear short sleeves, I feel like it¡¯s the only thing people can see.¡¯


    ¡®You didn¡¯t have to show me,¡¯ he said, keeping his focus on her face. ¡®You¡¯re not obligated to show people things that make you uncomfortable.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re going to be stuck as my babysitter, so you¡¯ll probably see my arms at some point.¡¯ She waved vaguely at her body. ¡®The rest are easy to keep hidden.¡¯


    Parker-2 had offered, so many times, to erase his tattoos. Surely doing something similar would be even easier for an agent - they¡¯d just rebuilt her entire body, after all. But those had to have been options presented.


    If there was any kindness in the Agency, which did thankfully seem to be the case where the Director¡¯s new daughter was involved. So if she¡¯d chosen to keep them, there must have been a reason.


    And he definitely hadn¡¯t earned anywhere near enough Friendship XP to ask anything about it.


    ¡®Do you remember how we did your loadout?¡¯


    ¡®Mm-hmm?¡¯


    ¡®You can set similar parameters for civilian clothes too, Newbie. Like, dig around, and you¡¯ll be able to set, like, minimum sleeve lengths or whatever. Really super easy to do. I can look up the exact-¡¯


    Her eyes were blank - the look of an agent doing something in their HUD.


    ¡®Found it!¡¯ Her shirt shimmered and settled, the sleeves now reaching down to her elbows. ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, of course.¡¯


    She looked from somewhere just past him, to her knees, to the folded shirt, and let out a short breath. She fixed her eyes on the spot just past him that was ¡°Newbie doing the less-taxing version of eye contact¡± and slowly slid her sleeve up, exposing the full, wobbly-C shape of the scar.


    She counted to three under her breath, then dropped her sleeve. ¡®It¡¯s- Probably the one I mind people seeing the least. I always tried to convince myself it looked like a crescent moon. I named most of my scars. I don¡¯t even know what kind of trauma processing that is, but this one¡¯s Usagi for-¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t need to be a weeb to know Sailor Moon,¡¯ he said gently. ¡®Now, breakfast?¡¯


    The door to the lab opened, and he looked up to see Magnolia, in a state of awake that usually meant she¡¯d been pulled out of bed at three AM to deal with some emergency. As she walked closer, the gentle bulk of freshly applied bandages under her camisole added weight to the theory.


    ¡®Morning,¡¯ Stef said and moved back to her side of the table to continue pulling electrodes off her skin.


    ¡®Mimosa,¡¯ Mags said with a smile. ¡®O¡¯Connor.¡¯


    ¡®We were just going to have breakfast,¡¯ he said. ¡®If-¡¯


    ¡®Could we swap schedule blocks?¡¯ she asked. ¡®We only need her for three hours, and Taylor and I are already up. It¡¯d be a favour.¡¯


    He looked across the table. ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t even finish my coffee yet.¡¯ She paused. ¡®But I can drink in my dumb terminal. If I can have like-¡¯ She tapped something on a tablet. ¡®Two minutes to set this up, then yeah, we can do murderin¡¯ time.¡¯


    ¡®I have the weirdest life,¡¯ he muttered. ¡®Deal.¡¯ He opened his calendar and swapped a couple of things around. ¡®Can you text me when you¡¯re about twenty minutes from done?¡¯


    Mags nodded, so he said his goodbyes and headed out of the lab.


    On autopilot, he punched the elevator button to head back to Field, but as the doors slid closed, he stared at the illuminated number.


    ¡®Huh.¡¯


    He hit the cancel button, selected the main medical floor, and felt the elevator head upwards.


    It was strange how this hadn¡¯t even been a conscious decision. No series of active thoughts that had formed a plan, just something that had bubbled fully formed out of some deeper part of his brain.


    The doors opened, and he walked down the very short hall to the wide infirmary doors, which slid open at his approach.


    Off to his left, Parker-1 was treating Hewitt, stretching and flexing his arm, investigating its range of movement.


    ¡®Where¡¯s your worse half?¡¯ he asked as Parker-1 turned to look at him.


    ¡®Behind you,¡¯ Parker-2 said, so close that fight-flight-and-¡°shit pants and die¡± all tried to activate at the same time.


    ¡®Asshole,¡¯ he said as he turned to face the doctor.


    ¡®Good morning to you too, Shithead. You¡¯re not bleeding, so I assume you have some beautifully fucked up sexually transmitted fun.¡¯


    ¡®So help me god, Doc,¡¯ he said as he followed Parker-2 towards the infirmary¡¯s office. ¡®If you start talking about dick mushrooms again-¡¯


    Parker-2 sat behind his desk, ticked a few things on a chart before dismissing it, and then pulled a beer from what Curt was sure was designed to be a blood fridge. ¡®Well, if you¡¯re not here to spice up a morning omelette, how can I help you?¡¯


    Curt closed the door to the infirmary - there was little chance they¡¯d be overheard, but there was no point in even taking a small chance. ¡®It¡¯s about Stef,¡¯ he said as he sat in the doc¡¯s visitor chair.


    He could almost see Two stop himself from making another crude remark before settling into what passed for professionalism on the ¡°scary twin¡¯s¡± face. ¡®I¡¯m not her primary, and she¡¯s mostly under Jonesy¡¯s purview, so what can I do?¡¯


    Two was one of the very few people - and only agent - he didn¡¯t have to be Shiny Perfect Recruit Curt around, so he let his mask drop. Next, he tried to figure out the best way to say what he needed to without sounding like a blunt asshole.


    ¡®I know the Agency knows a lot more about me than I¡¯m probably aware. I don¡¯t know how much of my family history is in there. I had a sister. She was mostly non-verbal, amongst other things.¡¯


    ¡®Go on,¡¯ Two said.


    ¡®So I¡¯ve got experience, some experience, dealing with that kind of thing. The problem is, I know every person is different, and as much as I know I was as good as I could be, I was a kid, and human memory is fallible at best.¡¯ He threaded his fingers together. ¡®You¡¯ve got to have some kind of psych profile on Stef. I am not asking you to tell me anything that¡¯s on that.¡¯


    ¡®I would have lost all respect for you if you had.¡¯


    He met Two¡¯s eyes. ¡®I¡¯m going to be her partner going forward. That¡¯s already established. So, it¡¯s practical. I also want to be a good friend. And I can only do so much on instinct.¡¯


    ¡®So what are you asking for, Recruit?¡¯


    He shrugged. ¡®Textbooks? Papers? Some sort of something I can use to have a basic grounding so when she has a bad moment I don¡¯t make things worse?¡¯


    This got an approving nod from Two, and for a moment, he felt a sliver of the same puppy-dog happiness Stef seemed to feel whenever she spoke to Ryan.


    Two leaned forward, and a 101 textbook appeared on the table in front of Curt. ¡®That¡¯s the first thing given to any recruit doing anything psychology related at the Academy. Start there. I¡¯ll take some time out of my day and put something together for you.¡¯


    ¡®With a focus on the practical, please.¡¯


    Two nodded. ¡®I¡¯ll keep that to the fore.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks, Doc.¡¯

 22 - Ideal/Not Ideal

    It was important to know the areas under his protection.


    The general outlay of an Agency floor didn¡¯t change without notice, but the smaller changes that recruits made could be just as vital to know in case of an emergency.


    Taylor paused briefly in front of a noticeboard. Anything official was handled by Magnolia. Anything unofficial was also usually handled by Magnolia. Anything social that affected working relationships were factors she had to consider when making schedules. Designating teams. Allowing downtime.


    Almost nothing made it back to him, and it didn¡¯t need to. His Duty was to protect his recruits, not to be their friend.


    In an area of the noticeboard sectioned off with bright silver and rainbow borders, there was a selection of photos - the top layer primarily consisting of the engagement party that Magnolia had attended.


    Recruit Hewitt and his partner had made things official. Not something likely to impact schedules. Caipe was a civilian and did not need to be considered. According to Magnolia, additional events would not be booked for some time.


    The sound of elevator doors opening made him pause.


    Three times in five minutes. Unusual for this time of night.


    He turned from the noticeboard and walked towards the elevator.


    No recruits crossed his path on the way there. Unusual, given the noise from the doors.


    He tensed each of his limbs in turn as he approached the closed elevator doors, ensuring that all of his weapons and tools were in place.


    The elevator door slid open again.


    All he could see was the point of one small shoe.


    Likely not a threat. Likely-


    He stepped to the side to gain a better view of the small section of the lift and confirmed his suspicion. Merlin.


    Pressed into the corner of the lift, wearing pyjamas and a lab coat borrowed from the Scholar, was the one ward that Queen Street had.


    ¡®Was I too loud?¡¯


    The child¡¯s eyes glowed, the light moving from iris to sclera to back again. Another unexplained moment of magic from the child of a demon. Strange. Not a threat.


    ¡®Return to your mother.¡¯


    ¡®She¡¯ll make me sleep.¡¯


    Children weren¡¯t his purview, and this wasn¡¯t one of his recruits, but Merlin was a member of his Agency.


    ¡®She has your health in mind.¡¯


    Merlin scuffed his feet on the floor of the elevator. ¡®You¡¯re not asleep.¡¯ Again, light swirled in the boy¡¯s eyes. This time, it bled out onto his skin, forming circular patterns on his cheeks before fading.


    ¡®I do not take my directives from her.¡¯


    Merlin resumed scruffing his feet.


    He sent Jones a shift link to his current location. The Scholar returned a set of icons indicating confusion.


    Four seconds later, Jones appeared. She immediately put a hand on Merlin¡¯s shoulder and placed herself between him and the child. She met his gaze for a second, then turned to her son and lightly reprimanded Merlin for wandering at a late hour.


    Taylor turned, satisfied that the situation was being handled by the proper authority.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ Jones called.


    {I¡¯m sorry,} she followed in text. {He knows not to bother you.}


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    He sent a message read notification and resumed his patrol of the floor.


    He disliked silence. A quiet floor was a dead floor. Like the sequestered section of the Agency that held Reynolds. Like the silence of-


    There were noises from the breakout lounge as he approached. A group of recruits - none of which had active duty in the morning - were playing games, drinking, and generally socialising. Good for team building. Not something he needed to observe directly.


    He walked past the open doors but stopped as Recruit Marco called out. The recruit, out of uniform, wearing a shirt with a gorilla stitched into the breast, ran towards him, two beers in his hand.


    The recruit pushed the bottles towards him. ¡®Melissa just finished this formulation. Fuck, she knows what she¡¯s doing with an IPA.¡¯ The words were ever so slightly slurred with intoxication. Marco pressed the beers against his chest and waited for him to accept them. ¡®Drink in good health and shit.¡¯


    Pallas grabbed Marco from behind. ¡®Sorry, Agent Taylor, he¡¯s a social drunk. You¡¯re welcome to the beer if you want it.¡¯


    His first instinct clashed with an order from Grigori, so he took both bottles. ¡®Appreciated.¡¯


    Marco made a slurred cheer of triumph as he was spun by Pallas and directed towards a lounge.


    He continued on past the breakout room, one hand holding the bottles until he reached the next noticeboard.


    First instinct, rebuff the offer from his recruit. Override, an order from Grigori to not refuse direct gifts when the consequences were minor. It would improve morale, his friend had assured him. He didn¡¯t have to be friends with his recruits, Grigori had explained, but complete separation was far from ideal, as it had an impact on team performance.


    He shifted the bottles to a shared storage location that Grigori had set up. One that Grigori was primarily in charge of supplying, that, among other things, held the alcohol that he often insisted they drink during his visits.


    So far, this visit had not contained any alcohol.


    Noticeboard checked, he walked past the dorm rooms, the meeting rooms and the common gyms. A few scattered recruits crossed his path, but none did more than acknowledge him with a ¡°sir¡±. Ideal. Expected.


    Everything was silent again.


    He hated it.


    Sleep was next on his schedule. This was the ideal time to initiate his night-time routine.


    He circled the floor again, then performed checks of the lobby, the roof and the garage. Everything was as expected.


    Everything was ideal.


    He was not ideal.


    He shifted to his gym, to the door of the sim room, and scrolled through the recent programs. The program had no custom title, just an alphanumeric string that indicated the date and time that the recording depicted.


    The options screen appeared as the program began to load. He tapped the second pre-set option, as was usual.


    No need to run it from the beginning. He¡¯d seen the details so many times they were as clear as if he remembered them.


    The control panel lit up, the program at one hundred per cent.


    He stepped into the sim room, into the recreated hallway, and the door to his gym disappeared, the wall becoming another undifferentiated patch of wall.


    The blood on the floor provided directions he never needed.


    At the final corner, there was a smear in the blood, like Whitman had slipped. He saw it every time. He hated it every time.


    And then, three bodies. Two dead agents. One dying Director.


    A HUD prompt suggested a commonly-taken action.


    Ryan and Whitman disappeared.


    One dead agent remained.


    He approached the dead agent. First action, remove the blade from the dead agent¡¯s hand to fully allow the body to slump to the floor. Not to be pinned like a museum exhibit. Second action, kneel in the blood of the dead agent. Third action-


    If he resumed the program, he could watch as the dead agent was worked on by Tech, see the result of a faulty Director¡¯s decision.


    He reached out to touch the face of the dead agent. It was always surprising, the touch of the finest hint at stubble, something he hated. Something the dead agent must have chosen to allow.


    The question was there.


    Fifteen hundred partial and full executions of this program. Variations of the same question had led to no reconciliation.


    He placed his other hand on the dead agent¡¯s cheek, gently tilted the bloodied face up, and looked for answers in a dead man¡¯s eyes.


    What to call the dead man. What to call himself. How to reconcile what pronoun to use. How to separate ¡°he¡± and ¡°I¡±.


    And he wasn¡¯t sure the answer was his to decide.


    Ryan treated him like he had changed. The Scholar acted like he had changed. Everyone who had known the dead man looked for the dead man when they saw him.


    He was-


    He wasn¡¯t-


    Grigori spoke of old times but focussed on the present.


    Magnolia had never known the dead man.


    People preferred the dead man.


    He laid the dead man down, tore a strip from the dead man¡¯s bloody jacket and laid it across unblinking eyes.


    The question was still there.

 23 - The Care and Feeding of Dragons

    There was a chime on the door.


    Stef sighed and sat up, simulated nebula gasses swirling around her head.


    Go away.


    Another chime.


    She looked down at her phone and dialled down the space sim - restricting the particle effects mostly to the room¡¯s walls, roof and floor. Conversation couldn¡¯t really happen with galaxies passing in front of your face.


    Her HUD let her know it was Mags on the other side of the door - surprising, but probably better than one of the other options.


    Mags, at least, probably just wanted to let her know what weird violence would happen to her body next. Especially since that morning¡¯s session had been cancelled due to ¡°Solstice motherfucker circumstances¡±.


    ¡®Come in.¡¯


    The door to the sim room opened, and Mags, her outfit only a little bit bloodstained, stepped in, and the door slid closed behind her.


    ¡®Not what I was hoping, but not surprised, unless you¡¯re into mildly weird shit, Mimosa.¡¯


    Stef moved to sit crosslegged and gestured to a tablet. ¡®Doing some of the long-form answer stuff in section nineteen. Voice-to-text is more entertaining when you¡¯re drifting through the Horsehead Nebula.¡¯


    ¡®I know you¡¯re skipping around a bit. It¡¯s inevitable, but-¡¯


    If her heart still beat, it would have seized up. As it was, her Spyder-sense anticipated the next sentence and sent out the appropriate overdoses of anxiety and dread.


    ¡®-part seventeen,¡¯ Mags continued. ¡®You¡¯re about a week behind on Jones¡¯ management schedule. I kind of hoped to come in here and find you wrapped in some cosmic horror pile of limbs. Instead, you¡¯re stargazing.¡¯


    ¡®This isn¡¯t your purview, Aide,¡¯ she said, her voice immediately going stiff and formal, RP loading itself into her vocal cords, ready to deploy.


    ¡®I help shit get done around here, Agent,¡¯ Mags snapped back, ¡®so unless you want to have this conversation with Jones or, for fuck¡¯s sake, your dad, you¡¯re going to deal with me. Part seventeen, what¡¯s the hold-up?¡¯


    Part seventeen, subsection B, was another set of body parameters measuring feedback, responses, and handling requests for recalibration.


    Unfortunately, it was very specific body parameters and feedback.


    Body parameters and feedback she wasn¡¯t able to handle.


    Immediately, she got to her feet. ¡®Part seventeen is unnecessary human frailty. I¡¯ve tried to close out the associated activities with null answers, but it wouldn¡¯t accept that. This, in my opinion, is-¡¯


    Mags held a ¡°stop talking¡± hand so close to Stef¡¯s face that any further movements of her lips would have had her kissing the probably-sweaty-and-bloody hand.


    ¡®You¡¯re absolutely aware that everything you¡¯re saying is bullshit. Even if you had some weird dream to get recruited by those husks that some agents think are the platonic ideal of anyone made of blue, you¡¯re human, and they wouldn¡¯t even deign to look in your direction. My life is too short for bullshit. Seventeen. What¡¯s the hold-up?¡¯


    She looked past Mags. ¡®Can¡¯t- Um- Can¡¯t?¡¯


    ¡®I know being dead and then locked in here probably hasn¡¯t done wonders for your dating life, but that¡¯s what sims are for.¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said, the word weak, a barely audible wish for Mags to stop her line of questioning.


    Part seventeen, to her horror, was the part agentification process that was concerned with-


    That involved-


    That-


    ¡®Everyone has fucked a sim. It¡¯s just sex, Mimosa.¡¯


    Sex.


    In a Venn diagram, her life was one circle, and a circle labelled ¡°sex¡± was somewhere hidden on the other side of the world, down a well, under a brick. Something never to be interacted with. Something that she only had to think about when other people brought it up.


    ¡®Whatever you¡¯re into, you can call it up. Vanilla, or kinky as fuck.¡¯


    ¡®Can¡¯t.¡¯


    Something about Magnolia¡¯s body language changed - whatever frustration she¡¯d entered the room with seemed to wither away. ¡®Talk to me, Mimosa. Whatever¡¯s going on, it¡¯s probably going to be better to talk to me than to have Jones doing a concerned mum face during the whole conversation.¡¯


    Stef stared at the wall. ¡®I-¡¯ She watched a comet for a moment. ¡®I can¡¯t- Answer- Can¡¯t do any of it.¡¯


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    She backed away from Magnolia, giving her a little bit of space from whatever Mags¡¯ reaction was going to be.


    ¡®Broken,¡¯ she said, finally spitting out the word. Finally admitting her shame out loud, finally- Finally admitting her deficiency.


    She stepped back to the wall and leaned against it, physically bracing for-


    For Mags to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ Mags said, ¡®talk to me.¡¯


    She stared down at the floor. ¡®I never-¡¯ She looked for words. ¡®I mean, I guess that¡¯s it, ¡°I never¡±. Whatever the question is, that¡¯s the answer. I¡¯ve never been with anyone. Never- Wanted to. Even- Even tried the-¡¯ She felt her cheeks burning. ¡®Solo variant. And that didn¡¯t work.¡¯ She slid to the side, and Mags¡¯ hand fell away. ¡®So I have no idea how to answer any of the part seventeen shit without letting everyone who has access to this know- Know-¡¯ She started to choke, hot tears on her cheeks. ¡®It¡¯ll be right there in text and charts how bloody broken I am. That I¡¯m not a complete person. That-¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m going to hug you now,¡¯ Mags said before holding her in something that was part hug, part hold that would restrain a criminal. ¡®Breathe. Okay? I don¡¯t know if you technically need to anymore, but do it anyway, okay?¡¯


    For a long moment, she held her breath, then gave up, and sobbed into Magnolia¡¯s shoulder, tears falling onto blood gingham.


    ¡®I¡¯m already enough of a disappointment, and-¡¯


    Magnolia¡¯s hand moved to cover her mouth and stifle any further words.


    ¡®Stop talking, Mimosa.¡¯


    She slumped and gave into the actually-really-comforting hug. In the same way that the structure of her vest seemed to help keep her soul in her body and make it easier to stumble through moments of dissociation, this hug was doing the same thing.


    ¡®Have you never talked to anyone about this before?¡¯


    Stef shook her head.


    Mags swore softly, held her for another moment, then pushed Stef out to arm¡¯s length, her hands on her shoulders. ¡®You¡¯re a fucked up little nerd, Mimosa, but not because of this.¡¯


    ¡®But-¡¯ she said.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t say you could talk yet,¡¯ Magnolia said gently. ¡®Not having fucked anyone isn¡¯t something to be ashamed of. That¡¯s point one. The more important stuff, though - so there¡¯s no one you¡¯ve found attractive?¡¯


    Again, she looked down at the floor. ¡®I¡¯m not unaware of beauty standards, and I generally know when someone is attractive. I¡¯m an adult, mostly, probably. Like you. You¡¯re pretty. Like. Gorgeous.¡¯


    Mags gave a little laugh. ¡®Oh?¡¯


    Her cheeks burned again. ¡®I¡¯m not telling you anything you don¡¯t know and don¡¯t- You¡¯re pretty. Jonesy looks like he walked out of an anime. Things like that. It¡¯s all- I can know that. And it doesn¡¯t mean anything. I¡¯ve never seen anyone who-¡¯ She blinked back tears. ¡®I¡¯ve never- No pants feelings. I don¡¯t know what it feels like, but I know I¡¯ve never felt it.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re terminally online, Mimosa. Have you never even accidentally stumbled over the word ¡°asexual¡±?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, of course, but that¡¯s other people.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re part of people, idiot.¡¯


    She shook her head. ¡®No. I-¡¯ She fought for words. ¡®That¡¯s a legit thing, and I¡¯m just-¡¯


    ¡®If you say broken one more time, I¡¯m going to get Jones to feed your body to a shark just to see what happens. The goddamn number fucking one thing people who are ace feel is that they¡¯re broken and that the label is for other people. Well, that and a desire to own several small dragons.¡¯ This time, Mags looked away. ¡®Same way as the first thing bi people think is that they¡¯re just fake greedy sluts.¡¯


    ¡®But ace people can- It doesn¡¯t stop them from actually- And when I tried-¡¯ If any more blood went to her face, she was going to pass out. ¡®I didn¡¯t feel anything.¡¯


    ¡®Tell me, Mimosa, what did you do?¡¯


    Stef looked down at her hands, formed a fist, then jammed her index finger in and out for a moment, and then dropped her hands, ready to die of embarrassment. ¡®In- In and out. Like. Pokey. Like. Sex.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, you sweet idiot child,¡¯ Mags said, pulling her in for another hug. ¡®Oh, you- Oh. Honey. Oh, sweetheart. You¡¯re just terrible at masturbating. Doing that- Fingers, toy or a dick, isn¡¯t enough to make most people come. You probably didn¡¯t even touch your clit, did you? Do you even know what your clit is?¡¯


    ¡®But I tried a couple of times?¡¯


    ¡®Same method?¡¯


    She nodded.


    ¡®And the definition of insanity is?¡¯


    ¡®My headshot next to the term in the dictionary?¡¯


    ¡®You little idiot,¡¯ Mags said. ¡®This is easily fixed. You just had to say something.¡¯ A couch appeared, and Mags pulled her down to sit on its really-really plush surface. ¡®First.¡¯ Mags pushed a folder at her, one with a black-grey-white-purple heart on the front. ¡®Start reading some of that stuff. This is your life, so I don¡¯t get to define your sexuality, but you are being a textbook baby-ace right now.¡¯


    A plate of cookies appeared, half iced with the black-to-purple ace gradient, the others with a blue-purple-pink flag. ¡®Something just clicked for me the first time I called myself ¡°bi¡±,¡¯ Mags said, taking the pink section off one of her cookies. ¡®It was like¡­touching base when playing tag, or eye of the storm or something, everything else was spinning, and I¡­finally made sense to myself.¡¯


    Stef stared at the index, which included chapters like ¡°The Care and Feeding of Dragons¡±, ¡°Cake is Better than Sex¡±, and ¡°How to Tastefully Display Twenty-Five Pieces of Ace Flair¡±.


    But I¡¯m-


    She flipped to the introduction, which had a chibi-agent illustration floating by way of an ace balloon, and felt her breath hitching as every word resonated as loudly as a bridge about to rip itself apart.


    I¡¯m allowed not to be broken?


    ¡®I¡¯m allowed to be¡­¡¯


    Every word made sense.


    On the next page were short stories from recruits and other Agency personnel. People who had found love. People who had added ¡°aro¡± to their descriptor. People who liked sex, people who didn¡¯t, and people who struck compromises with their partners.


    People, dozens of people, who had felt as broken as she had.


    She looked up at Mags and didn¡¯t even bother to hide that she was crying. ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    Mags offered one of the ace-heart cookies. ¡®Anyone fucks with you, you come to me. Bi-ace solidarity is a thing, and it is alive and well in these walls.¡¯


    Still sniffling, she ate the cookie.


    ¡®Now. Second.¡¯ Mags held up her phone and waved it. ¡®Jonesy is prepping an alternate part seventeen. You won¡¯t have to do anything. Just be warned, if or when you get with someone, there¡¯s always that one-in-a-million chance that something will go wrong, so make that part of the informed consent.¡¯ Mags put her phone down. ¡®You okay, Mimosa?¡¯


    ¡®Not right now, but,¡¯ she looked down at the folder, at the new community she had, and managed a smile, ¡®I think I will be.¡¯

 24 - A Balanced Party

    There was a knock at the door.


    ¡®You know you don¡¯t have to knock,¡¯ Stef called as she tidied the circular table.


    The door opened, and Ryan walked in, two plastic takeaway bags in his hand.


    ¡®It¡¯s weird,¡¯ she said as she set the last of the folders and tablets on the sideboard. ¡®It¡¯s dinnertime, and I want to say ¡°I¡¯m starving¡±, but I¡¯m not because I¡¯m, y¡¯know, a robot now-¡¯ She smiled, as he didn¡¯t even react to the ¡°robot¡± comment anymore. ¡®But it still feels right to say. Am I ever gonna be hungry again?¡¯


    He set one of the bags near the folders on the sideboard and then placed the cardboard containers on the table. ¡®Of course,¡¯ he said, ¡®spend any significant amount of time outside of System territory, and you¡¯ll need to eat.¡¯


    ¡®Is this a red or white or purple or what kind of meal?¡¯ she asked as she opened the sideboard¡¯s right door and looked at the small collection of piccolo wine bottles that Jane had gifted her.


    ¡®White should be fine.¡¯


    She pulled a bottle of white out for him, laid it on his side of the table, and then poured herself a champagne glass of Coke.


    It wasn¡¯t a special occasion, so it didn¡¯t warrant drinking. But there was nothing wrong with him having a drink. One day, she might be able to be normal around alcohol, but that was probably a long way off.


    But seeing her dad have one small glass of wine with dinner would help start to scratch away the wall of bad thoughts she had whenever she caught the scent.


    One agent, having one responsible glass, was so much different to her teenage self, self-medicating to get through school.


    He finished opening the boxes. The main star of the meal was like a fae version of okonomiyaki - a savoury pancake with veggies and other ingredients. But the stars of the show were the side dishes - specially designed, bred and refined¡­you had to call them flowers because they were just that pretty. Still, botanically, that was probably so far from the right word.


    Some were savoury, and some were sweet. Some had been fried or covered in sauce.


    And each one was different - some looked enough like ordinary flowers, all their petal edible. Others had petals as thick as succulent leaves. Some shone and reflected the light in a way that made them almost seem metallic.


    Ryan explained each, then let her have the first pick.


    Immediately, she grabbed one that looked like an edible succulent. She popped off one of the petals, and a fresh, crisp smell met her nose.


    It tasted like cucumber with a hint of pepper.


    ¡®I hope you won¡¯t take this the wrong way,¡¯ Ryan said as he cut himself a slice of his pancake. ¡®But you¡¯ve seemed to be in a strangely good mood today.¡¯


    She popped off another cucumber petal. ¡®Don¡¯t recalibrate your baseline. I¡¯m still your chronically-depressed mistake of a recruit.¡¯


    The ¡°frustrated dad look¡± counter increased by one.


    She stared down at her plate and pulled a second flower from the middle of the table - this one, a collection of delicate purple leaves and a white sauce. ¡®Mags, um, helped me figure out something today and- And it¡¯s- Fixed is the wrong word. I. Um.¡¯


    She looked to the sideboard, where the folder that was basically ¡°How to Ace 101¡± sat, buried amongst various bits of paperwork.


    ¡®I¡¯m not entitled to all of your thoughts, Stef,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®If it¡¯s not something you¡¯re comfortable sharing, then you don¡¯t have to.¡¯


    You¡¯ve held my soul. I¡¯d die for you. I don¡¯t have barriers. I just-


    She closed her eyes and tried to get her thoughts into order. ¡®Words aren¡¯t- Never easy for me. You know that. And this is all new stuff. And- Oh, fuck it.¡¯ She slipped out of her chair, grabbed the folder, pressed it to his chest, and then ran back to her seat.


    Ryan opened the folder, looked at it just long enough to take in the title, and then looked back at her. ¡®Is this you coming out to me, sweetheart?¡¯


    She shrugged so deeply that her shoulders brushed her ears, then nodded.


    ¡®Is it something you¡¯d like to talk about?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve just kind of been living all day with the fact that, at least in this way, I¡¯m not broken. I always thought I was. Like maybe-¡¯ She scratched at her scars. ¡®Like, I know- I know- I know- But- Maybe it was punishment. You know. Like. You can¡¯t have kids, so you don¡¯t deserve to be a full person. Or-¡¯


    Even not looking directly at him, she could see the concern and pity on his face.


    ¡®That- That controls- Controlled. So much of my self-worth. I told you. After we saw Jane¡¯s grandkid that day and- Sex and babies have always been linked- And-¡¯ She grabbed her glass and started to drag her fingers through the condensation. ¡®I know they¡¯re linked. You know what I¡¯m saying. Like, I don¡¯t get one, so I don¡¯t get the other. I don¡¯t deserve either. And- And it was probably a good thing that I didn¡¯t ever- Cause who would want me if I couldn¡¯t give them a family. So I figured karma or whatever self-selected me out.¡¯


    He kept quiet and let her ramble have its space.


    ¡®I never- Not once. Everyone around me. Had crushes. Dates. Partners. People getting snuck past security to stay overnight at school. And it was all¡­¡¯ She pulled another petal from the cucumber flower. ¡®It was like we were all at the theatre. And everyone was buying tickets to movies. And wherever I looked, all the movie posters were just, like, plain white with just the title in Times New Roman. Nothing that¡­nothing to entice me. Nothing that made me want the experience. Except- I wanted to want it. I wanted not to be a fucking freak,¡¯ her voice cracked, and she felt tears. ¡®I know how messed up I am. How- But- It hurt so much that I couldn¡¯t just be a seventeen-year-old girl. That I couldn¡¯t be normal in just this one way.¡¯ She looked down at her plate. ¡®It hurt a lot more than being crazy.¡¯


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡®May I intrude on your space?¡¯


    She nodded.


    She heard his chair slide back from the table. A handkerchief was pressed to her face, and she blew her nose, then cleaned her snotty-teary face.


    And then came the thing she¡¯d never get sick of, a solid, everything-will-be-ok dad hug.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry you ever felt less. I¡¯m sorry there was no one there to tell you that it¡¯s normal. That you could have found people like yourself.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve got the Vox group link for when I¡¯m not top secret anymore,¡¯ she said and wiped her nose again. ¡®It¡¯s weird.¡¯ She sat up and tried to look him in the face. ¡®It¡¯s happy and sad. It¡¯s like, grieving for what could have been, and so grateful to know that I¡¯m just the little bitest, littlest bit, okay.¡¯


    He pressed a hand to her cheek. ¡®I¡¯m glad you¡¯ve found a piece of yourself.¡¯


    Dinner resumed, and she cut a slice of her pancake, then added dots of all three dipping sauces around her plate to try it with. The inside was rich purple, and the smell of spices - new and unfamiliar was a welcoming blend.


    Ryan was staring at his food, and not in the ¡°oops-just-reading-email-in-my-HUD¡± way.


    ¡®You, um, look like you¡¯ve got think-thoughts in there,¡¯ she said, wondering if it was even her place to intrude.


    ¡®I¡¯m feeling grateful that you¡¯re in my life. And amazed how many commonalities we seem to share.¡¯ He took a small sip of his wine. ¡®As much as we look human, as much as some of us strive to be as human as we can, we aren¡¯t. We are very much defined by them, and we run parallel in many ways, but there is always a degree of separation. Love and such is one way we¡¯ve differed.¡¯


    She refilled her glass, brought her legs up onto her chair, and settled in to listen.


    ¡®Every era, every country, and government has views on what is acceptable in terms of love. What¡¯s expected of someone, what a person wants, what the law will allow. That¡¯s what we run parallel to, but we come into the world not bound by those restrictions. Every agent has their preferences, but it¡¯s never-¡¯ There was the briefest of pauses. ¡®Never truly an issue.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m waiting for the giant ¡°but¡± to fall out of the sky.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s quite an image, Miss Mimosa.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, shut up, narc. But don¡¯t. Keep going.¡¯


    ¡®I think I¡¯ve expressed that as much as I care for and respect Reynolds, we were¡­somewhat of a mismatch as parent and child?¡¯ He sighed. ¡®I- You need some more context if you¡¯ll allow me?¡¯


    ¡®Always.¡¯


    ¡®There are two types of agents. One is created using various pieces from recycled agents, with no particular bias on who those pieces come from. The other-¡¯


    ¡®Template?¡¯ she asked, recalling what Milla had said. ¡®That¡¯s what you are, right?¡¯


    He nodded. ¡®My former was a man named Rhys. It was Reynolds¡¯ Duty to recycle him at the end of the Dusker program. He felt- He wanted some part of Rhys to live on, so he templated his Field agent after the man whose life he¡¯d taken. I¡­think he hoped I would simply be Rhys? That enough of him would shine through and supplant the newborn agent¡¯s personality.¡¯


    ¡®But you¡¯re going to tell me that he figured it out quickly enough, right?¡¯ she asked, hope dying as she saw his expression. ¡®That¡¯s not fair.¡¯


    ¡®He eventually saw enough of me that I was no longer just existing in Rhys¡¯ shadow. This has a point, though. In my early years, when he treated me more like a friend than a son. He would bring me to the parties he attended, always arrange for someone attractive to be on my arm, and encourage me to participate in-¡¯ Pause. ¡®Frivolity.¡¯


    She buried her face in her hands. ¡®Why is the phrase ¡°Roman orgies¡± in my head?¡¯ she asked, her words muffled.


    ¡®¡°Bacchanal¡± is not an entirely inaccurate description of many of those events.¡¯


    She opened her hands and let her forehead hit the table. ¡®Yeah, I- I think ¡°mismatch¡± was a good word to use. I know we still- That¡¯s- I haven¡¯t even ever seen you out of your uniform. Bacchanal doesn¡¯t seem like your vibe at all.¡¯


    ¡®Humans aren¡¯t the only ones to capitulate to please their parents. I was very much given the impression that I should enjoy things like that. And I won¡¯t say that I didn¡¯t find individual moments or activities enjoyable. Still, when they were over, they weren¡¯t experiences I craved or sought out on my own.¡¯ He lifted his wine. ¡®There were some very good cheese boards,¡¯ he said with a wry smile.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    ¡®When things shifted between us, he became more interested in seeing me in a long-term relationship. In finding a spouse of some kind. And I carried that expectation. I¡¯ve had a few long-term relationships, none of which I initiated. I¡¯ll clarify that I was not an unwilling participant, and I did love each person I was with. Just, truthfully, probably not as they wanted or deserved.¡¯ His smile was sad. ¡®Carol- And I do truly need to tell you of Carol one day soon, has been gone for a long time. And¡­I don¡¯t imagine myself taking another partner. I no longer feel that expectation or obligation to play at something I don¡¯t truly feel. You¡¯re not broken, Stef, and neither am I.¡¯


    ¡®No heart feelings and no pants feelings?¡¯


    ¡®None without effort. I love, I¡¯m just not sure I¡¯ve been ¡°in love¡±, which, if I am to listen to every other person who has been in my life, is entirely another thing.¡¯


    She quickly brought up the little reference guide that the Ace 101 folder had linked and scrolled through it. Lots of new terms to learn. Lots of flags to get familiar with. Terms and nicknames and community jokes.


    ¡®There¡¯s a cool name for you,¡¯ she said, finally finding what she¡¯d been looking for. ¡®Archer. Cause aro-ace arrow ace and- That doesn¡¯t work in voice.¡¯


    [Aro-ace ¡°arrow ace¡±,] she sent.


    ¡®Which definitely means you have to play a ranger in D&D when Jonesy manages to pull me into a game.¡¯ She paused, thinking through options. ¡®Or maybe a fighter with the right build. Inquitivistive rogue would work well. They¡¯ve got short bows and-¡¯


    ¡®Jones has been trying since the seventies to get me into a game. I¡¯ve managed to avoid it so far.¡¯


    She stilled herself from going on a tangent about missing the good, the bad and the weird of the previous editions and instead smiled. ¡®We¡¯re sposed to break patterns, right?¡¯


    ¡®And if I¡¯m Robin Hood, what are you?¡¯


    ¡®Not an archer,¡¯ she said slowly. ¡®I- I¡¯ve only been in love once. And I was twelve, so I know it doesn¡¯t properly count, but- I- And I¡¯m not gonna go on a thing about how no one would ever want me, cause you¡¯ll just spend an hour telling me I¡¯m not terrible. I think I could be in love. I think I want to be one day. When I¡¯m finally a bit older. A bit more okay. I¡¯ve never- It¡¯s not like I sit around and daydream and do wedding mood boards and stuff. Cause it¡¯s never seemed possible. But I have to re-evaluate what I think is possible now. And I never- Whatever amorphous blob I occasionally think about doing MMO sessions until three AM with doesn¡¯t really have a gender. I don¡¯t think my heart¡¯s gender-locked. So, according to all the little flaggy things, that¡¯s bi or pan, and if I pick pan, I can call myself a pancake. And I¡¯m always gonna go with baked goods. So apparently, I¡¯m delicious.¡¯


    ¡®Please do not attempt self-cannibalism.¡¯


    ¡®On your deathbed, you are going to be glad you adopted me cause no other set of circumstances could have ever led to those words coming out of your mouth.¡¯


    ¡®I am certain that you will have caused me to say far stranger things by the time I die.¡¯

 25 - Appearances

    ¡®Jonesy?¡¯


    ¡®Hmm?¡¯


    Stef looked down at where her arm was strapped to the chair that wouldn¡¯t have looked out of place in a sci-fi torture scene. ¡®Are you a Bond villain?¡¯


    Jones looked at her, took a moment to pull his goggles up on his forehead and put down the wrench that glowed blue at the end. ¡®Whatever do you mean?¡¯ he asked, an absolute shit-eating grin on his face.


    She looked at the machine that had appeared in the lab and had taken over almost all of the free space. Easily six feet tall, something that looked weirdly¡­mechanical compared to the usual, space-age, Star-Trekky minimalist design of Agency tech. Bulky, grey, lots of blinky lights that couldn¡¯t possibly indicate anything useful.


    The weirdly intimidating cousin of Donatello¡¯s coffee-making machine from the old, old Turtles cartoon. But instead of dispensing something useful like coffee, this - as he had briefly demonstrated - shot out lasers.


    ¡®I¡¯m still-¡¯ She winced as he adjusted something, and the machine clunked, and she was sure, growled. ¡®Not sure¡­How is this different from what Mags, Taylor, and Grigori are doing?¡¯


    ¡®Has he hit on you yet, or has he left you alone? I should have warned you. I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    She blinked. ¡®Taylor barely vocalises when I¡¯m in the room and-¡¯


    ¡®He used to be more fun,¡¯ Jones said as he put the wrench down and popped the goggles off. ¡®I¡¯m sorry you never got to meet the old him.¡¯ He waved a hand. ¡®I can already see your question. Long story short, let¡¯s just say we had to do a system restore, and the save point was next to useless. But believe me, he did use to speak in full sentences. And no, I meant Grigori. He¡¯s an incorrigible flirt.¡¯


    The tall blond had kissed her hand like some Edwardian gentleman but had otherwise been entirely professional. Even with her limited experience - no experience - she was sure there¡¯d been no flirting in her direction.


    ¡®Jonesy, I shower like every other week. No person in their right mind is going to flirt with me.¡¯


    ¡®For a rancid little goblin creature, you are cute, Spyder.¡¯


    She blushed. ¡®Now, mad science? You already got to murder me once. Was that not enough?¡¯


    Jones flicked a switch, and the giant machine began to hum. ¡®The flamidimiser is not for murdering, sweetie.¡¯


    ¡®The. What.¡¯


    He picked up a brick-thick manual from the table behind him and tossed it to her. On the cover was ¡°Flamidimiser¡± in giant block letters, like it was an evil Ikea instruction guide.


    ¡®Flaa-mid-ee-miser,¡¯ she said, sounding the word out. ¡®Okay, if not murder, what?¡¯


    Jones rubbed his hands together, then lifted a pointed finger. ¡®What the Combat team is doing is important, but it¡¯s also literally and figuratively the brute force technique. It¡¯s throwing as many stimuli and situations at your body as possible, with little regard for how you put yourself back together when it¡¯s done. You¡¯ve seen that you only get alerts when there¡¯s an issue with your body prime respawning after a test, the rest of the time, it just repops, and they continue on.¡¯


    ¡®So, shotgun versus scalpel?¡¯


    ¡®Yes and no? This is actually making sure that all your respawns and your recoveries are working as intended and that all their tests aren¡¯t brute-forcing bad pathways in your regenerative code.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®Don¡¯t worry, you won¡¯t need the remote body for this. None of this will hurt.¡¯


    A red line appeared on her wrist. ¡®That¡¯s the guide. You ready, 007?¡¯


    ¡®For Queen and country,¡¯ she shouted, perfect RP dropping into place.


    An electric blue laser shot out, one solid line, then blinked off a moment later¡­her hand was simply not attached anymore.


    Jones stepped up, grabbed the hand and tossed it into a bin beside the chair. ¡®Now, I¡¯ve engaged slow mode,¡¯ he said, grabbing the tablet, ¡®and it¡¯s running a deep scan as we go.¡¯


    The end of her wrist, which mercifully wasn¡¯t bleeding, started to glow blue. The blue light brightened at several points, which began to draw a wireframe version of her hand.


    Immediately, she snapped an image in her HUD and saved it to share later.


    As soon as the wireframe was complete, her skin appeared.


    Huh, I wonder-


    She lifted the hand that wasn¡¯t currently strapped to the chair and poked into the hand that had been a Tron extra just a moment before. Her still-respawning hand collapsed and deformed at the pressure like a balloon.


    ¡®Oh, oh, eww, that is weird!¡¯ she said, wiggling uncomfortably on the chair, the sensation feeling somewhere between hitting your funny bone and a deep, unreachable itch.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡®If you would please,¡¯ Jones said, lifting her hand away. ¡®You¡¯re impeding science.¡¯


    She watched as the hand popped back into shape. ¡®Why did it do that?¡¯ she asked, her voice strained.


    ¡®We¡¯re the men in black,¡¯ he said. ¡®At least half of everything we do is to minimise our impact on civilians. Therefore, looks can override function. If a civilian watched you grow back bone then muscle then skin, or watched blue build itself like a T-1000, they¡¯re going to freak. It¡¯s much easier for someone to rationalise that they were wrong about seeing an injury if, in the blink of an eye, you appear to be whole again. Anything they happened to see in that second or two can be pushed away as hysteria.¡¯ He poked the back of her hand, and this time, it reacted like a hand should. ¡®Meanwhile, repairs happen under the surface.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®Now, I need to do all my tests on this arm before Mags comes and steals you away for some Faraday testing.¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy?¡¯


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    She looked at the Flamidimiser. ¡®Does it need to look like that?¡¯


    He smiled. ¡®It absolutely does not, but it brings me a lot of joy.¡¯


    It was weird how easily you could get used to things. She was barely flinching at the gunshots now. They were still trading off with each shot - Grigori for the evens, Taylor for the odds. Mags calling the literal shots after each respawn.


    ¡®Zero-point-seven.¡¯


    This first set of testing of the Faraday cage wasn¡¯t, to her chagrin, something she¡¯d thought of until she¡¯d read through this section of the project documentation. In hindsight, it was one of those obvious and apparent things, and she was glad someone had thought of it.


    The cage was the smart way to avoid damage to her heart and all the possible bad things that could come with that.


    If a regular agent got shot with a regular bullet, even straight through the heart, it was something they could shrug off. Normal protocol had them pop out and respawn just to run a full integrity check. Still, if they were fast enough, it was something they could opt out of and just stand there, in their bloody uniform, whilst their chest wound recovered.


    That wasn¡¯t an option for her. So as soon as the cage detected incoming traumatic damage that could hit her heart, it would immediately pop her out, avoiding the chance that a bullet or knife would smash into her heart.


    All good, all sensible, and had worked in every test the trio had done so far.


    Today¡¯s tests were seeing how well it worked when shifting came into play.


    Because the cage was good in theory, it just had to provide the same level of protection, even as her body was being teleported away. Therefore it had to be calibrated to technically be the last thing to disappear.


    So Taylor and Grigori were taking turns shooting her body in the chest, each test moving the shift cycle forward by a tenth of a second.


    They passed one full second of the shift cycle, and everything was still good.


    One-one, one-two, one-three.


    ¡®One-point-seven,¡¯ Magnolia called.


    Taylor fired and-


    The universe split, and- It should have been painful. It should have felt like dying. It should have-


    Thoughts were impossible to gather. She had too many fingers. Feet on the wrong feet on the wrong toes on the third left leg from Tuesday and night and-


    She was back in her body, and it was like trying to see straight in a moment of sleep paralysis. It was like just being adjacent to being able to see, she knew there was brightness, but the images refused to resolve.


    She could hear footsteps.


    ¡®Back, please,¡¯ she begged, not knowing exactly why. If this was her heart - and it could only be her heart - then maybe it would lash out like the bubble that had thrown the doctor across the room.


    And she didn¡¯t want to hurt anyone.


    Meaningless bright light split into multiple shadowed images, each of a different rainbow hue.


    Oh¡­this is familiar¡­


    The world flexed, and in the edges of the rainbow slices, she could almost see possibilities, futures, pasts, pieces of the lives of other Stefs.


    Images began to collapse on each other and coalesce, making more and more sense as things became true colour again.


    And with one heartbeat, one pulse that seemed to sync her with the universe, everything was still.


    ¡®Stef?¡¯


    Ryan. Clear - but measured - worry heavy in his voice.


    ¡®Present,¡¯ she said, and she tried to sit up, hoping that her fingers had the right amount of hands - or however that was supposed to-


    The heavy fabric of his coat brushed her leg as he knelt beside her and helped her sit up and straight.


    ¡®Hi,¡¯ she said as he squeezed her shoulders. ¡®I¡¯m here. I¡¯m okay. I¡¯m- Brain¡¯s a little wiggly, but that¡¯s normal for me and-¡¯ She scooted forward so that his shoulder hold could become a hug. ¡®I¡¯m okay, dad,¡¯ she said, hopefully quiet enough so that the Combat team didn¡¯t hear.


    He held her for a long moment, and she became certain one of thing. For as long as she might live - with heart-wish-magic and immortal-nanite-juice-immortalities dragging her through the decades and centuries - she was never going to get tired of hugs from someone who loved her.


    Ryan stood, and before he could offer a hand down, she shifted to hers. It was only something little, but maybe enough to let him know she really was okay.


    She looked towards the other people in the room. Where Grigori and Mags had been standing, free-standing, thick, transparent walls had appeared - some kind of bullet-proof or blast-proof shielding to protect them.


    But only two. Either Taylor had dismissed his, or- Or he¡¯d been the one to throw them up and had put his friend and his recruit first.


    And on the ground were several small flecks of mirror, most so thin, they were visible only by the light they reflected.


    ¡®Jonesy¡¯s gonna-¡¯ She waved a hand at the floor. ¡®Wanna look at that. At the dispersal pattern or- Shatter pattern or- Whatever you call it.¡¯


    ¡®He will get to this,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®But you need to be examined first. He looked to the others. ¡®I¡¯m sorry, this will need to be quarantined for a few hours.¡¯


    ¡®Not a problem,¡¯ Grigori said, his smile broad, as he swung an arm over Taylor¡¯s shoulders. ¡®I can keep these two out of trouble.¡¯

 26 - Proactive

    ¡®One-point-seven,¡¯ Magnolia said.


    Taylor adjusted his aim. Exact. The Scholar would accept no less. The suspended shift cycle began, and he fired. The shot hit Mimosa¡¯s chest and-


    Fear tasted like blood.


    ¡®What-¡¯ Magnolia¡¯s voice.


    He reacted before he understood.


    Require: Macro: Shields


    Reflexively, his arms were across his body. Right arm protecting his lower half, left arm across his chest and face.


    He swept left and right. Magnolia was fine. Grigori was fine. Both protected by shields designed to withstand most physical, and some magical, forms of attack. Not guaranteed safety. All he could provide with a requirement and no notice.


    Important to protect-


    He looked at Magnolia. He looked at Grigori.


    Protection. It was all he did. All he was for.


    ¡®-the fuck?!¡¯ Magnolia finished shouting.


    On the ground before them, Mimosa writhed. Each movement left after images in a different colour, each slightly different. Her arm spasmed, each afterimage extending different numbers of fingers. Different possibilities. Different realities.


    He looked to Magnolia. ¡®Get the Scholar.¡¯ He turned to Grigori. ¡®Ryan.¡¯ He took a step closer to Mimosa. The Scholar had contingencies. If she was a threat, then-


    ¡®Back, please.¡¯ Mimosa¡¯s voice, distorted.


    He stepped back. Something crunched.


    First action, protection. Second action, immediate threat assessment. Details were an action that could wait. Had waited. Now the details were impossible to ignore.


    Counter to what logic demanded, wound debris had shot forward. Blood droplets and- Mirror.


    The size of the shards were illogical. As was their placement. Generally contained. None had come close to the shields.


    Ryan appeared and comforted his child as the rainbow afterimages stopped.


    No one else was making a move towards the pieces of mirror on the floor.


    Wishes.


    Possibilities.


    Mimosa had been dead. A piece of mirror had rectified that. She had no memory loss. Wasn¡¯t lesser than she had been. Wasn¡¯t-


    Wishes could correct mistakes.


    In front of him, Mimosa was assuring Ryan that she was fine. The Scholar would have to perform a memory check to be sure.


    Mirror wasn¡¯t a science in a way that the Scholar and her people could fully quantify. Still. Indications were that the Mimosa carried more than was necessary to keep her ambulatory and functional. It was suspected that she would shed mirror over time to a more reasonable amount.


    An amount that represented less of a threat.


    The piece under his boot totalled approximately the size of a five-cent piece. Insignificant. There were larger pieces on the floor she wasn¡¯t rushing to collect. That Ryan-


    Ryan, who had twisted the dead man into something no one wanted.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    The dead man who was owed a chance.


    A requirement added a thin layer to the sole of his boots to collect and hold the mirror he¡¯d stepped on.


    Not something to act on immediately. If the Scholar¡¯s tests showed Mimosa to be functional. To not be lesser for the loss of the mirror pieces, then a correction could be made.


    He wouldn¡¯t repeat Ryan¡¯s crime. Wouldn¡¯t be the reason someone was less than themselves.


    Grigori¡¯s arm wrapped around him, and he could barely hear his friend¡¯s words.


    Even encased in rubber, the pull of potential in the mirror drew his mind. The dead man could live again.


    A mistake could be corrected.


    Everyone would get what they wanted.


    Grigori and Magnolia were talking. He couldn¡¯t pay attention. Could only feel the mirror in his boot.


    He¡¯d never touched mirror. That wasn¡¯t unusual. Most agents never came into contact with it.


    It was said that you could feel its waiting state. A pull on your mind, wanting to be used, wanting for a wish to be made.


    For all the days he¡¯d been dealing with Mimosa, for as close as his fist had been to her heart, separated by an insignificant amount of bone and muscle, he¡¯d never felt that draw.


    He had wondered if it had been something about him, something else he was missing, that he was unable to feel the mirror¡¯s magic.


    Separated from its host and hidden in his boot, he could feel it. Just as strong as described.


    Grigori slapped his chest in his usual, friendly way. ¡®I¡¯m going to take you two to lunch.¡¯


    He frowned. Unnecessary. Even if they couldn¡¯t continue with Mimosa¡¯s tests, there were-


    ¡®I¡¯m taking. You. To. Lunch.¡¯ Grigori said, stepping so close their noses almost touched. ¡®Accept it as an override.¡¯


    He let out a neutral growl but stopped as he saw Magnolia¡¯s smile. Evidently, something Grigori had said had excited her about the idea of spending time off-duty.


    A concession could be made.


    Grigori squeezed Magnolia¡¯s hand and shifted her away. ¡®Now you,¡¯ Grigori said and smiled. ¡®We are meeting in the lobby in ten minutes. Our dear drozd needs a few minutes to ensure she can step away long enough to eat and enjoy the show.¡¯


    Blackbird. Inaccurate. A term of endearment she didn¡¯t mind.


    ¡®And myself?¡¯ he asked.


    Moments like this had almost a set call-and-response. Actions and words he was to do in order to get Grigori¡¯s approval, to get his friend to smile without reservation.


    A requirement link appeared in his HUD - even without expanding the detail, he knew it would be an outfit for the outing. Another concession, but one he was long used to.


    He liked his uniform, was comfortable in his uniform, but he understood it wasn¡¯t appropriate for all locations. It was tactical - socially tactical - to take Grigori¡¯s suggestions.


    ¡®Ten minutes,¡¯ he said, turned from his friend, and headed for his office.


    Even with the door to his office closed, he could hear the Scholar in the next room setting up equipment, capturing the detail of what had gone wrong. An invasion he wasn¡¯t used to.


    His fault. Magnolia had asked about using their gym or creating something purpose-built for the project. He had insisted on his gym. If something went wrong, he knew it better than anywhere else in the building. Knew what contingencies were behind what walls. Knew how to protect people there.


    It had opened the space to more people. That took adjustment.


    Mimosa, surprisingly, had the least impact. The majority of the time, the Mimosa he was dealing with was remote-controlled, with no more emotion than a doll, and the real Mimosa, in a terminal construct, minimised her presence as much as possible.


    It had not been expected. The Scholar¡¯s recruits were amongst the loudest and most outspoken in the Agency, and - Field designation or not - he found it most comfortable to classify her as a Tech.


    It made the most sense and changed nothing. Whatever discipline, the tests would have been the same.


    He sat at his desk, untied both of his boots and placed them in the bottom drawer of his desk. It would do little to hide his theft, but- Jones would be unlikely to scan outside the area where the mirror particles were visible.


    It would be assumed that no one in the room would have been so selfish as to- To go against Duty and steal contraband.


    Making wishes was not something that could often be excused. Ryan had been able to lean on rank and length of service.


    It wouldn¡¯t matter in his case. If tests showed that Mimosa was fine and not missing memory and he made a wish, then- Then the person who made the wish would have effectively executed themselves, and the person who replaced them would be guiltless.


    There would be no one to be punished. The dead man would be safe.


    He had to wait.


    Tests had to be done first.


    He processed the requirement link, adjusted the shirt Grigori had chosen for him and went to meet his friends.

 27 - Private Thoughts

    Magnolia stared into the bathroom mirror and wrinkled her nose. She''d gotten about an hour more of sleep than average but felt worse for it. More rest was good, but it had been some less-than-optimal arrangement of REM cycles.


    Nothing she couldn''t handle.


    She tapped her phone, swiped into the apps and opened the little custom app Screen had built, where her bestie-with-benefits built her a new playlist each week.


    Some kind of alt-rock with a female vocalist started, moody and uplifting in that perfect early-2000s kind of way.


    She discarded her shorts and cami and then began a body check. There''d been a few wounds not worth going to the Parkers over - each had healed nicely and could be moved down to one more day of single-layer patches as a precaution. Feathers - nothing that needed clipping.


    Face. Fine. She''d remembered to take off her makeup before sleeping. Hair. Messy, but fixed with a requirement.


    Situation normal. An adequate start to the morning.


    She required herself into just a simple sleeveless top and combat pants and sheathed her knife. After another moment of reflection, she nodded to the mirror, picked up her phone and returned to the main room of the studio apartment she called home.


    Her workbook lay open on her bed, and a half-drunk pre-workout smoothie was on her bedside table.


    She''d worked to rebalance the schedule for the rest of the week. Now that their work with Mimosa was taking a break for Jones to fix some code so that the- Every time she thought of Mimosa, she still thought of her as a "recruit". Agent or not, holding enough mirror to end the world or not, the girl just¡­projected "tech recruit that needs protection" energy.


    Various things in the project timeline could be brought forward, especially if she could wrangle O''Conor''s help. With O''Connor''s new role as Aide and Ryan''s obvious want for everything Mimosa-related to go well, getting a few hours of O''Connor''s time wasn''t likely to be an issue.


    She sent a quick message over Vox but knew he wouldn''t see it for at least a couple of hours. The Agency at four AM was home to only a few night owls, which suited her just fine. It always made her feel like she was somehow seeing the behind-the-scenes version of the Agency. People were just more authentic versions of themselves with fewer eyes on them.


    Out of habit, she opened the WTFA app just to check on everyone.


    Taylor was in his gym. Already awake and active, either doing his own warmups or preparing whatever drills he wanted to run with her that morning.


    Ryan was in his office, probably asleep on his couch. It was something Jones had told her once, something she found strange to this day, that a man alive for over a century had no outside residence, not even a bedroom attached to his office.


    It made his life seem so¡­empty. That the most he could hope for at the end of the day was to catch a few hours of sleep in the office where he spent most of his day anyway. A self-imposed minimalisation of his world.


    Even Taylor had a bed. Even if it was a rough, no-frills, function over form army cot, he had a bed. He made some routine of his night.


    She allowed herself a moment to think of him, naked but for a blanket, then tucked the thought away.


    Jones was in her office, probably still awake. Jones didn''t often sleep; instead, running all the processes that ran during a sleep cycle slowed background operations throughout the day. It wasn''t as efficient, and sometimes, she did need to actually take time and fully defragment her brain or whatever. Still, it kept Jones going for twenty-four hours most days of any given month.


    Applebaum was-


    Taylor''s location changed.


    Magnolia blinked as she reread the new location - the project lab, Mimosa''s current location.


    This was unusual. Taylor tried to avoid all locations he saw as belonging to "the Scholar", and to her knowledge, he''d never had the inclination to talk to Mimosa outside of a few gruff instructions aimed at the remote-piloted body to position it for their tests.


    This was a long way outside of expected behaviour.


    She tapped her thumbs together for a moment, weighing options in her mind. She had aide access to all of the building''s security systems. More than aide access in some cases, as she''d helped design and redesign several of their "end of the world" or "massive Solstice invasion" contingencies which involved turning their Agency into a self-contained fortress that could outlive almost anything other than Sol himself.


    So pulling up the live feed from the project lab would just be one requirement and a few clicks.


    She made the requirement. She held back on the few clicks.


    It would be an invasion of privacy. He wasn''t there to talk to Mimosa, agent or not; she slept later than most of the day shift recruits. It had pretty much become one of O''Connor''s official jobs as aide to pull Mimosa into consciousness each morning. Not an ideal situation, one that could likely be improved with time and maybe a bit of code tweaking from Jones.


    It was an invasion of privacy to look.


    It was her job to look after her commander. To know what he was thinking so she could act appropriately. And, even for how good she was at predicting him, at knowing what he''d do in any given circumstance, the fact that she had no idea why he was visiting a tech lab in the wee, dark hours of the morning didn''t sit comfortably with her.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    For as much as Grigori had been worried at the outset of the project, there hadn''t been a lot of changes she''d noticed. Taylor had been¡­a little more distracted than usual, but that happened sometimes.


    She knew how he''d act, how to back him up in a fight, and what he needed from her. Still, she''d long since accepted that she didn''t know his innermost thoughts, that as much as they''d die for each other, there was still a wall that he hid so much of himself behind.


    If she was something more to him, then maybe she''d know more, but as his recruit, as his adjunct, she had to work with what she had.


    It was her job to look after him.


    She tapped on the freshly-required tablet and brought up the project lab''s security feed. Six angles gave pretty much full coverage of the space - all in HD, all with indicators that showed they were falsely projecting full brightness and colour, as most of the lab''s lights were out.


    Under a halo of what had to be one of the only turned-on lights, Taylor stood near a bench, looking down at a selection of Jones'' reports and equipment.


    Given what had happened the day before, they had to be reports about the after-effects of Mimosa''s heart getting damaged, and the weird, wonderfully-gay-looking-rainbow-freakout that her body had gone through.


    On a separate tablet, she brought up copies of the reports.


    She skimmed down each one to find Jones'' handy translation notes, which skipped all the techy details and numbers to say that Mimosa was, according to every metric they could measure, just as fine as she''d been before her heart had gotten splintered all over the floor of Taylor''s gym.


    Crucially, it listed a note that there didn''t seem to be any cognitive - or memory - impairments, and everything about Taylor''s actions clicked.


    Immediately, she dismissed both tablets and felt like she''d intruded on something private. Something that, although she was privy to the information, still didn''t feel like something she entirely had the right to engage with.


    Memories. Of course, he''d be looking to see if her memory had been impacted.


    The thing that made him not the old Taylor was the near-total memory loss. He literally couldn''t be the man he used to be, not with so much of his life stolen from him.


    Mimosa''s memories were connected to her heart. Therefore, there had been a chance that what had ended up on the floor would have taken bits and pieces of her childhood or teen years from her.


    Grigori had been worried that Mimosa would bring up memories, that she''d trigger comparisons for Taylor and his own situation.


    Everything had run smoothly, right up until one test had gone awry.


    Now, in the dead of morning, he was checking to see if someone else was facing a life, missing chunks of themselves.


    It was quiet, considerate and¡­kind. The kind of gesture that a lot of recruits would have thought beyond him.


    They just didn''t speak his language. Didn''t see that the way he cared was ninety per cent physical. Throwing his body in front of dangers to take a knife or a bullet. Putting his life on the line far more readily than most Combat agents.


    And¡­protecting people before he protected himself.


    That was the other thing that had happened the day before. Something she''d filed away to think about but had been distracted by Grigori''s late lunch.


    In fairness, water nymphs pulling Cirque du Soleil acts were quite distracting. The food had been good, but the entertainment had been mesmerising.


    And, on top of that, the cute off-duty waitress she''d run into a Rose Room with had been sweet and just the right amount of dirty.


    Enough distractions to make her forget that Taylor had thrown up shields to protect her and Grigori first, leaving himself exposed to whatever magical onslaught might have come from the mirror.


    They''d been lucky that the most it had done was make Mimosa uncomfortable for a few moments. Well, and possibly pulled her brain through several parallel realities.


    It had been luck, or maybe some force of will on the not-a-tech-recruit''s part for the mirror not to throw out blobs of offensive mirror magic. Magic that could have permanently altered the world, created blackout spots, or kill whoever had been unlucky enough to be in the way.


    And Taylor had been willing to bear the brunt of that. He''d risked death, and things stranger than death, to protect the people around him.


    It was noble. It was heartwarming. It was, if you looked at it from just a slight angle, a death wish.


    It was easy to rationalise away. Requirements could only be processed so quickly. Near instantaneous was still an amount of time that could be measured. If the mirror had thrown out a blackout zone, then it was possible that not all the requirements in a macro would be fulfilled - even if they were programmed to appear in parallel rather than series.


    If there had been a blackout, it was possible only one shield might have had the time to generate in that split second, and he''d increased the chances of either her or Grigori being saved rather than all three of them going down.


    But there hadn''t been a blackout, so there would have been time for a third shield.


    Two made sense under normal circumstances - almost everything they did was just the two of them - but the fact that the second shield had gone to Grigori had meant that, if it was a macro, and it surely was, then he''d purposely deprioritised himself. Handing out parachutes, even when there wasn''t enough to save himself.


    Combat recruits tended to be more cavalier with their lives than other departments. They knew the stats and that there was a good chance they''d die within the first ten years of their service. Combat agents were the same, even if their expected lifespan was much longer than the recruits under them. However, they were still replaced at a much higher rate than any other speciality.


    But sometimes, Taylor seemed like he was courting death.


    Her knife, her most treasured possession, was proof of that.


    It was a weapon capable of killing an agent, and he''d given it to her when she''d still had murder, and not love, in her eyes.


    If he was a normal man, or anything approaching a normal man, there might be fewer barriers protecting his inner thoughts. Fewer walls that she couldn''t scale, but on this side of the masquerade, nothing was simple.


    Maybe, in another decade, she''d feel brave enough to venture over one of the moats that surrounded his heart. If she lived that long.


    On her phone, the WTFA app updated again, showing that he''d shifted back to his gym.


    She opened the clock and set a timer for fifteen minutes. Enough so that it didn''t look like she''d been waiting for him to get back to his gym. Enough so that, hopefully, he wouldn''t know she''d been spying on him.


    She sighed, picked up her smoothie, and started deleting emails, filling the time until she could leave and be with the man she loved.

 28 - Playtime

    Whoever had said you couldn¡¯t play with toys as an adult had been an arsehole.


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ Milla said, placing the Solstice figure on the city-map-playmat. ¡®What about here?¡¯


    Stef tossed the little agent doll back and forth between her hands, then placed it halfway between where they¡¯d designated the blackout zone and the little round cracker that represented the closest set of fairy stairs in this scenario.


    There was a ping in her HUD - Ryan, requesting video. ¡®Gimme a minute,¡¯ she said. She clicked the video accept button, smiled, and tried not to look at her own little picture-in-picture webcam face. [Hey.]


    [They¡¯re estimating that this will take at least another two hours,] he said. Behind him, slightly blurred, were the other Directors that had been called to the statewide meeting.


    [On top of the extra four you predicted, or instead of?]


    His smile was wan. [If you get hungry, get dinner without me.]


    [How many games of solitaire have you played?]


    His smile reached his eyes. [I do have to pay attention to the content of his meeting, Miss Mimosa.]


    [How many, narc?]


    [Just seventeen. Though I have managed to send a lot of paperwork to Curt and countersign things he¡¯s already finished.]


    [Well, that¡¯s him happy for the day.]


    Ryan looked to the side. [I have to go, message me if you need me.]


    [Byeeee.]


    She broke the connection and looked over at Milla, who had busied herself with her phone. ¡®Sorry,¡¯ she said. ¡®Ryan¡¯s been stuck in a conference hall for like eight hours so far. I think he¡¯d welcome a minor apocalypse.¡¯


    ¡®No one¡¯s taught you the trick yet, have they?¡¯


    Stef shrugged.


    Milla sent a small video file to their chat, displacing their competing requirement links for their preferred Eton Mess recipes. She watched what was clearly the last minute of conversation, her face slipping through the expressions she¡¯d had, though thankfully, not the words.


    ¡®I thought everyone just stared into the void,¡¯ she said, cheeks burning a little. ¡®But then again, I try to mostly text, because-¡¯


    ¡®Because why video what when text does just fine?¡¯ Milla said, finishing her thought in an exasperated voice. ¡®Our dads are very old men. Post singularity tech, but very old men. I swear Williams nearly bursts a vein every time I make him say ¡°emoji¡±.¡¯


    ¡®How do I fix it?¡¯


    Milla sent over a screenshot - and not for the first time, she wondered if a screenshot taken with HUD should be called a ¡°headshot¡± - of how to change the emotion display settings.


    ¡®It¡¯s a quirk of the augment software,¡¯ Milla explained. ¡®For agents, it¡¯s auto-blank-face. For us, it¡¯s in this weird half-half mode. Just make sure primary facial expressions are set to the active window, and secondary is turned off.¡¯


    She followed the instructions and the screenshots and then nodded. ¡®Okay, future embarrassment avoided.¡¯


    Milla took a drink of her tobi soda. ¡®Do you have any slash commands yet?¡¯ She grinned at Stef¡¯s blank reaction. ¡®Your tech didn¡¯t give you any emotes?¡¯


    Stef leaned closer, knocked aside the Solstice and Agent Bob figures and planted her hands on the carpet. ¡®No. And you will explain exactly where, when and how I get these, or I¡¯m gonna crack open your skull and eat the knowledge out of your head.¡¯


    ¡®When you say weird shit like that, it makes me glad to be your friend.¡¯


    Friend?


    Stef pulled back, arms crossing so she could ever-so-slightly hug herself. ¡®Friend?¡¯


    ¡®I never had to go through this, but I know a lot of people who have. I get the feeling you¡¯re very much in the ¡°no friends, worthless dirt gremlin¡± stage of your life?¡¯


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Correct, I am a worthless dirt gremlin.


    Keep listening.


    ¡®I- Look, we haven¡¯t hung out a lot, but- Your nickname is Spyder, right?¡¯ Stef nodded. ¡®There are people in your web, Spyder. There are connections being made. It¡¯s okay to be a dirt gremlin cause some people like dirt gremlins. You speed-ran getting a dad. His aide is writing a dictionary so he can understand you better. You¡¯re your tech¡¯s favourite project right now. Maybe most people are still on the outer edges of the web, barely noticeable, but they¡¯re there.¡¯


    I¡¯m just so used to being lonely.


    You can say that to her.


    I¡¯m scared.


    It¡¯s okay to be scared.


    ¡®I¡¯m so much more of a drag than an asset,¡¯ she said and picked up the Agent Bob doll to fidget with. ¡®Being around me is a net negative, and-¡¯


    She shut up as a jellybean hit her cheek.


    Milla smiled and tossed another at her. ¡®I¡¯m just gonna start doing this every time you talk down about yourself.¡¯


    ¡®Flick beans?¡¯


    Milla clamped a hand over her mouth, seemed to go through six or seven expressions, and then calmed. ¡®I don¡¯t think your aide is the only one who needs a dictionary.¡¯


    Stef picked up the jellybean and tossed it back. ¡®Naughty?¡¯


    Milla had, thankfully, picked up on her complete discomfort regarding anything about two bodies squishing together and took a moment to think. ¡®Solo player mode, cis girl edition?¡¯ she said slowly. ¡®Enough said?¡¯


    She felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment again and nodded.


    ¡®Some people are more circumspect with who they call a friend. I don¡¯t,¡¯ Milla said. ¡®Obviously, there¡¯s people I¡¯m better friends with, but there are also people I hold dear, and our main form of interaction is swapping memes over Vox.¡¯ She threw another jellybean, and this time, Stef angled her head to catch it in her mouth. ¡®So yes, we¡¯re friends, if that¡¯s cool with you.¡¯


    Two friends. This meant she officially had two friends.


    She wasn¡¯t quite sure what to do with her face, so she looked down and nodded. ¡®Um. Emotes?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re just code, so it makes sense, right? Design an action, then have a trigger for it. Therefore, vis a vi, IRL emotes.¡¯ A file labelled ¡°/serious¡± appeared in their chat window. ¡®This has saved my life more times than anything else in the world.¡¯


    Stef ran the file, which installed as quickly as a browser extension. ¡®Okay, now what?¡¯


    ¡®So, like require and shift, this is the string starter. Command. Command: slash-serious.¡¯


    Command: /serious


    Immediately, she felt her face snap into a polite, neutral expression. Milla held up a large mirror, which echoed what she felt.


    ¡®Now,¡¯ Milla said, ¡®whatever happens, your face will stay in business mode until you cancel the command.¡¯ She pointed at the discarded cake fork to Stef¡¯s right. ¡®Stab yourself. Check it out.¡¯


    Stef picked up the fork and stared at it and the little bits of red velvet residue.


    My life is so fucking weird now.


    Pain as an agent didn¡¯t really exist. You experienced maybe a quarter of a second of actual sensation, enough to let her know damage had occurred. Then, it had become numb-at-the-dentist pressure rather than true pain. Every time she¡¯d felt something, she¡¯d winced, but even that had been more of a Pavlovian reaction than anything, the expectation of pain rather than what she really felt.


    She stabbed the fork into her thigh.


    She didn¡¯t wince.


    She looked at herself in the mirror and saw the same look of professional, dull interest that had been there before she¡¯d pressed an inch of tines into her skinny thigh.


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ she said, and her voice came out neutral and professional. ¡®This is going to be very useful.¡¯


    She felt the fork move in her hand as her thigh tried to repair itself and allowed it to push itself free of her flesh. New skin tingled, and then the tiny holes in her pants fixed themselves. Everything was as good as new.


    Milla dropped a link in chat. ¡®There¡¯s a whole store on the intranet. Careful you don¡¯t download too many too quickly, and they will warn you if there¡¯s a conflicting command name, so you might need to rename or recode if that¡¯s the case.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, I can handle that.¡¯


    There was a knock at the door, and Curt walked in, a pile of papers in his hands.


    So far, he didn¡¯t seem to have the very organised system that Magnolia had - one giant folder that seemed to expand and contract as needed, like rooms in a TARDIS. But, even as bad as she was at understanding people and guessing what various facial expressions meant, he seemed to be getting more and more comfortable with carrying around piles of paperwork.


    He paused after he put his paperwork on the round table, a crease forming between his eyebrows. ¡®What¡¯s wrong?¡¯


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    He made a vague hand motion at her head. ¡®Your face is doing something, Newbie. What¡¯s wrong?¡¯


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ she said, her voice still coming out plain and neutral.


    She looked around her HUD and saw a small window with an X option to cancel an ongoing command, and she felt her face come back under her control again. ¡®I just learned a trick, so people won¡¯t know I¡¯m spacing out.¡¯


    Curt looked at Milla. ¡®Thank you for the best blessing and worst curse you¡¯ve brought into my life, Agent.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll find a way to handle it,¡¯ Milla said. She lifted the Solstice doll and set it back on the map. ¡®Go again,¡¯ she said, pointing to Stef¡¯s Agent Bob doll.


    Curt shook his head. ¡®Nah, they¡¯d never position like that on purpose.¡¯


    Milla tossed the Solstice figure up to him. ¡®Fine, but if you wanna come play dolls with us, you have to take your shoes off.¡¯


    ¡®I accept the conditions,¡¯ he said and joined them on the floor.

 29 – The Point of Delineation

    Taylor shifted slightly, the dried blood on his knee making his pants stick as he adjusted his position against the wall.


    It was quiet. Always quiet. He hated the quiet. Hated how still the dead man was. Hated that no matter how many times he came here, history never changed.


    He settled, back straight, knees up, the head of the dead man near his left foot. He couldn¡¯t stop looking at the dead man, at the strip of white cloth he¡¯d used to cover the man¡¯s eyes, and the blood was wicking up from the cold floor, staining the shroud.


    It was silent. The same stillness that hung in the locked, disconnected section of the Agency that held the Director¡¯s office. A dead man, and a sleeping man, both surrounded by silence.


    Reynolds wouldn¡¯t have approved of what Ryan had done. Would approve of what he was going to do. It would add efficiency to the Agency. More than that, it would bring the Agency closer to what it had been when it had been¡­good.


    Whatever it was now, it wasn¡¯t ¡°good¡±. Reynolds¡¯ sacrifice had started it. Ryan¡¯s mistake had finished it.


    When Mimosa¡¯s mirror had shattered on his gym floor, the area had been quarantined whilst the Scholar did their work. Grigori had insisted on downtime. A meal. A performance. Things Grigori hoped he would enjoy. For the sake of his friend, he had compiled.


    On return, he had expected- H- Expected that some sort of scan would have found the mirror only hidden by boot rubber.


    The Scholar had kept the work contained to the obvious area and had not searched beyond.


    Efficient work. Not thorough work.


    Still wearing the outfit Grigori had chosen for him, he had taken the boots from his desk and extracted the mirror.


    Moving like mercury, the small shards and ground-glass-fine specks had flowed into a puddle in his palm. It was a little larger than a five-cent piece - and it was as five cents that a tangible wish was now disguised, sitting in an internal pocket of his coat, the pull of magic begging to be used.


    If he concentrated, it faintly smelt like sugar.


    He had waited. More than fifty hours. Scholar reports indicated Mimosa was fine. No evident memory loss. No change in behaviours or attitudes. Nothing that wasn¡¯t consistent with her¡­inconsistent behaviour.


    Anecdotal reports backed up the Scholar¡¯s empirical work. Magnolia had noticed no changes. Mimosa had experienced no downsides from the accidental shatter. Jones had much larger recovered pieces in storage.


    No adverse effects from the loss. He was safe to proceed. Could correct a mistake without replacing it with another. Wouldn¡¯t be condemning someone else to the life he had unwillingly inhabited for two decades.


    He hadn¡¯t had a choice in dying or in living again. In what had happened to him at all.


    A good man had died, and the people around him had wanted him back. And what had come instead was- Was something he could now correct. Could give everyone what they wanted. Correct a mistake that should never have been made.


    More of the dead man¡¯s blood soaked into his pants as he sat in the memory.


    He had gone to see Reynolds, had sat in the empty, dusty office, and been unable to say anything. Sometimes. Often. He could say something to Reynolds. Give a report, even though the man couldn¡¯t hear him. Maintain a relationship that he¡¯d never truly had. Keep it for the sake of the dead man.


    In the recovered data, in what he had of the dead man, there were some memories of Reynolds.


    There was the memory of the night he¡¯d gone away. That there¡¯d been no goodbye, no last words. Ryan, weeping in the street, illuminated by dim, fuzzy street lamps under a starless sky, telling him the world was saved, but their father was gone.


    Telling the dead man that their father was gone.


    He respected Reynolds - and gave him the title he refused to give Ryan - but like so many of the people the dead man had known, it was a relationship that had to be rebuilt from almost nothing. Impossible when one party was unable to contribute.


    Blood crawled up the shroud. The mirror pulled on him to make a wish. Time passed.


    In Reynold¡¯s office, he had thought of using the wish to wake the Director, but there was too much risk.


    Of all the agents and fae taken as hostages by Sol, none had been woken, despite desperate attempts by some of the families.


    It wasn¡¯t known what would happen if one of the victims were reclaimed, but as their lives had been part of a deal that had saved the world, any risk to that was beyond any reward.


    Correcting Ryan¡¯s mistake wouldn¡¯t be as good as returning Reynolds, but it was the best use for the stolen wish.


    His HUD alerted him that someone was requesting access to the sim - Grigori.


    This had happened before. He never let Grigori in. No point in Grigori seeing his weakness.


    In making his friend relive this.


    Not letting him in avoided conversations. Questions.


    Questions that would no longer exist if he followed through on the plan.


    He allowed the intrusion.


    ¡®I keep an eye on this sim,¡¯ Grigori said as he came into view after a minute, ¡®I know when you run it, how often you make yourself relive it.¡¯ Grigori said beside him, mirroring his position precisely. ¡®Are you- How do I make you stop living here?¡¯


    ¡®Who?¡¯


    A question he¡¯d had in mind for over a decade now seemed impossible.


    Grigori didn¡¯t push or ask for clarification on his half-formed inquiry.


    It wasn¡¯t an answer he wanted.


    It wasn¡¯t something he needed to know.


    The answer would no longer matter when the dead man returned.


    The question was always there. What to call himself. What to call the dead man. Where ¡°he¡± and ¡°I¡± and the nuances in-between began and ended. He had died, but the question remained if ¡°he¡± was self or if ¡°he¡± was other.


    It was easier for templates. That was just¡­heritage. Traits handed down like a human inheriting a behaviour from a parent. They had guidelines. Others with the same experience. He was alone.


    He felt the loss like ¡°he¡± was ¡°I¡±, easy when the clearest memories from the dead man were the moments of that death. Of helplessness. Failure. Fear.


    Templates could inherit an instinctual knowledge of a city, feet tracing paths their former had tread for a hundred years. His first and core memories were of the end of a life. What it felt like to die.


    Soon, it wouldn¡¯t matter, but clarity on who he was, where the lines were drawn, might have made things easier.


    The dead man - the man who would soon be walking again - didn¡¯t need this answer. This conversation. Whoever he was, whatever he was, wanted to ask the question. Whatever of him wasn¡¯t the dead man needed to know.


    The answer was obvious. The answer was why he¡¯d taken the mirror. The answer was every look on every face he¡¯d received for two decades.


    ¡®If you had to choose. Who.¡¯


    Beside him, Grigori¡¯s breath hitched, then he sighed.


    Something in the way he reacted- As inevitable as asking this question had been, answering it had been equally inescapable. ¡®I wish I could pretend I didn¡¯t know what you meant. What can I- What do you want me to say?¡¯


    The exact words didn¡¯t matter. It was the answer he¡¯d expected. Every look. Every comment. The dead man was wanted, he wasn¡¯t.


    Grigori¡¯s hand laid on his. ¡®We don¡¯t talk about this. You never want to talk about this. You will allow me to answer before you condemn my words. I know my answer, I think you know my answer, but it is not¡­without context. And don¡¯t walk away before you allow me to-¡¯


    ¡®Speak.¡¯


    Friends could speak at funerals. This conversation, and one more, was all that would mark the correction of a mistake.


    ¡®I-¡¯ Grigori¡¯s hand squeezed his. ¡®Not here. Not here.¡¯


    A shift request appeared. He accepted it. The dead hall of the dead man disappeared, and his gym, lights dim, appeared. A few lights clicked on as Grigori paced, then the rest, bringing the room up to full brightness.


    He sat on the lowest level of the bleachers and waited for words he had expected for a long time.


    ¡®You don¡¯t remember me. You don¡¯t remember us. You have files of the missions we took together and photos I¡¯ve shared with you, but you don¡¯t remember decades and decades of friendship. Love. You were my oldest and best friend. I lost- You know what I lost. What the Solstice took from me. And I still had you. I lost children. Spouses. Hope, sometimes. And I still had you.¡¯ He stopped pacing, turned, and walked over to take Taylor¡¯s face in his hands. ¡®And then you died. A glitch. A fucking glitch, and my Earth fell from its orbit.¡¯


    Grigori knelt before him, hands still on his face. ¡®Jones opened your eyes again, and I knew from that first second it wasn¡¯t you. You didn¡¯t love me when you looked at me. You didn¡¯t remember the thousands of times we¡¯d fucked, or the totality of years we¡¯d spent in conversation, silence, and the deepest friendship I have to this day not surpassed.¡¯


    Grigori¡¯s hands slipped from his face, and his friend sat heavily beside him, slumping gracelessly, tears on his cheeks.


    He had expected- Something. Not this. Not as much as this.


    Grigori and the dead man had been close, best friends. That had been made clear from the day he¡¯d first awoken - reawoken - awoken - in the Scholar¡¯s lab. This description, however. More than expected. More than accounted for.


    As little as he meant, the dead man had meant so much.


    Grigori crying beside him, the disc of mirror pulsing with each heartbeat, the question had finally been resolved. The delineation point discovered.


    ¡®I am not him.¡¯ Words. Out loud for the first time. Part of a decision. ¡®I can never be him. Even if it is expected. Wanted. I am not him.¡¯


    A thousand small details made them two separate men. Differences he had always viewed as flaws. As failing to live up to ¡°himself¡±. But so many of the differences were inconsequential. The way they wore their uniforms. The way they tied their shoes. The drinks the dead man liked and the ones he tolerated.


    They shared a face, but he was no more the dead man than Ryan was Rhys or any other templated agent was their former.


    One question answered. He was not the dead man.


    Peace. Some kind of peace. A resolution for the mistake before correction.


    ¡®I tried not to expect him of you,¡¯ Grigori said and took a swig from a flask. ¡®You were innocent. You had the face of someone I loved, and I was a stranger to you. I wanted- Him.¡¯ The words were choked out, shame evident and heavy. ¡®I still miss him. I still love him. I want to hear his laugh again. But I can¡¯t. And nothing I was feeling was fair to you. So I had to mourn while I was smiling. Had to meet this new man, had to hope he¡¯d want me in his life.¡¯


    Effort. Too much effort for someone who wasn¡¯t the dead man.


    He could question it. Could ask why someone would bother, but the answer would be as expected or within the range of expected. The same as Ryan. A familiar face was enough to keep a memory alive. Enough to feel some part of the dead man was still around.


    Grigori¡¯s hand touched his again. It wasn¡¯t comfort for him, so he allowed it. What he wanted didn¡¯t matter. A small service to someone who had been kind, even he could do that.


    His free hand slid into his pocket, and the mirror squirmed under his fingers as he fished it out, losing all pretence at hiding as a coin. Taylor lifted his hand, palm flat, fingers slightly curled up, and let the mirror pool in his palm.


    What had been lost could be returned.


    ¡®I am able. You could be more specific. You know him. I don¡¯t.¡¯


    Grigori lifted his head to look at the mirror but made no move towards it.


    The pull to wish was there, but he¡¯d grown used to it. It was possible to make a wish by accident. At least, according to popular myth and the plot of many pieces of fae entertainment, it was. Being so close to mirror for so long - longer than most people ever would - he was sure some measure of intent needed to be expressed.


    Nothing would happen until he or Grigori willed it to be so.


    ¡®If you¡¯re going to do this, you need to do me a favour first.¡¯


    Reflexively, he closed his hand around the pool of mirror, and it retreated into its coin form. Magnolia. He hadn¡¯t noticed her. She¡¯d been there long enough to have the context of the conversation. To know his plan. Understand the implications.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Heavy standard-issue boots slammed into the floor as she strode towards them, angry as she¡¯d been when he¡¯d first recruited her. Instinctively, he felt his body adjust, waiting for an attack, ready to counter if she came at him.


    A folder appeared in her hand as she reached them, and she slammed it against his chest, letting the papers fall before he could grab them.


    They didn¡¯t need words.


    ¡®My dismissal paperwork,¡¯ she clarified. ¡®If you¡¯re doing that,¡¯ she said, spitting the sentence, her eyes flashing towards his closed hand. ¡®Do this first.¡¯


    Another question without words.


    ¡®You¡¯re intending to- Become him, correct, sir? He¡¯s not my commander. You are. I¡¯ve got no reason to stay if- I work for you, sir. If you died in the line of Duty and Jones made a new Combat agent to replace you, do you think I would serve them? Then why would I serve him?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re an exemplary recruit-¡¯


    ¡®Who he wouldn¡¯t want or need.¡¯ She narrowed her eyes. ¡®I don¡¯t know much about him. Pieces. Indicators. I wouldn¡¯t fit with him.¡¯


    ¡®Adapt.¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    Slowly, she looked down at the floor. ¡®Why, sir, why?¡¯


    He opened his hand to look at the piece of mirror, and its surface rippled as he stared. From there, he looked to Grigori, at the dead man¡¯s friend, who was still fighting for words. ¡®So that things can be returned to how they were.¡¯


    Correct a mistake. All he was doing was correcting a mistake.


    Magnolia stepped forward, closing what distance remained between them and snatched the mirror from his hand. With the same intensity that she threw a knife, she flung it towards the far end of the gym, where it, with an odd bell-like sound, embedded itself into the wall as a small blade.


    ¡®That isn¡¯t how you¡¯d word the wish. How would you word the wish? Sir.¡¯


    ¡®For him to be restored.¡¯


    ¡®And what happens to you?¡¯


    ¡®Irrelevant.¡¯


    ¡®What. Happens. To. You?¡¯ she asked through gritted teeth.


    ¡®Irr-¡¯


    ¡®Say that word one more fucking time,¡¯ she said, leaning down, her fists curling at her sides. ¡®And before you reprimand me, Agent, I¡¯m not your fucking recruit anymore.¡¯


    A pile of paperwork appeared beside him - voluntary resignation, effective immediately. ¡®If you¡¯re going to kill yourself, I¡¯m not sticking around to watch.¡¯


    She knelt, pulled her knife and its sheath from her boot, and then tossed it onto the resignation papers. A careless action when she¡¯d only ever treated the knife with respect.


    ¡®Magnolia.¡¯


    ¡®Better say my name a few more times because as soon as you make that wish, it¡¯s not going to mean anything to you.¡¯ She folded her arms across her chest. ¡®Who are you doing this for? Because it¡¯s not for you.¡¯


    ¡®He thinks it¡¯s what everyone wants,¡¯ Grigori said at last.


    He couldn¡¯t look at the dead man¡¯s friend. ¡®You said you wanted him.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t say that,¡¯ Grigori said, ¡®I very carefully did not say that. I miss him. I still love him. It took time to-¡¯


    Magnolia knelt in front of him and looked up to meet his gaze. ¡®I want to understand. Please, sir, I want to understand.¡¯


    He wanted to touch her face.


    It hadn¡¯t been his intent to cause distress.


    He had known there would be an adjustment period. Like when a recruit returned to duties after a serious injury or a long break. Adjustment. Not anger. Not distress.


    Not the storm of emotions on Magnolia¡¯s face.


    ¡®He died. I am made from him. He is not forgotten. He is missed. I am incomplete. Inferior. A good agent would be restored and no longer grieved.¡¯


    ¡®But you would die. I don¡¯t-¡¯ Magnolia pressed her fingers into her eyes for a few seconds, then blinked rapidly. ¡®If you¡¯re bringing him back, then you go away. If you amalgamate, you¡¯re not truly bringing him back, and you don¡¯t do half-measures. So it¡¯s the first, and you die. Everything you are, every opinion, every memory, every fee- Feeling.¡¯


    ¡®We make sacrifices.¡¯


    ¡®No one is asking this of you.¡¯


    Not out loud. Not with words. But every time he wasn¡¯t the dead man, it was obvious the trade would be immediate and without regret. Ryan. The Scholar. Grigori. All would make the wish if given a chance.


    ¡®I¡¯m not,¡¯ Grigori said. ¡®She¡¯s not. Who else matters to you?¡¯


    No one.


    Magnolia pressed on her eyes again. ¡®How can I stop you?¡¯ He looked towards the mirror, but she grabbed his face and turned him back towards her. ¡®I¡¯m not an idiot. I know that¡¯s there. I could beat you to it. I could beat you for it. What difference would that make?¡¯


    ¡®You asked.¡¯


    ¡®Getting rid of that would be a delay. All you¡¯d have to do is shoot Mimosa again. Or wait for the next to fall out of the sky. Or sell Clarke on the black market. You can get your hands on a wish.¡¯ She let go of his chin, and her hand fell onto his knee. ¡®How do I stop you from wanting that?¡¯


    It didn¡¯t matter what he wanted. Had never mattered.


    He hadn¡¯t wanted to be this. Hadn¡¯t wanted to be forever compared to a dead man. To feel lesser. Worthless. Valuable only as a blunt instrument. He existed as a function, not a person. The person he¡¯d been, or never been, or however he was to process his relationship with the real Taylor, was dead, and he was all that remained.


    Whatever he was, would be easy to push aside, to make room for the real Taylor.


    Magnolia¡¯s reaction made no sense.


    Magnolia¡¯s hand was warm on his knee.


    It wasn¡¯t a way she¡¯d touched him before.


    There were few physical boundaries between them. Between spars, training, first aid and clipping her feathers, they had seen and touched the majority of each other. It was practical.


    Touch outside of those categories was rarer. An acknowledgement that they had lived through an event that should have killed them. Or a few of their codewords and signals that necessitated touching each other to communicate a message. A tap on the hand. A brushed forearm. Simple. Quick. Messages that couldn¡¯t be intercepted.


    The last time she¡¯d grabbed his face to ensure eye contact had been, as a new recruit, one of her attempts to murder him.


    She¡¯d been enraged that he¡¯d been able to treat himself for a punctured lung.


    The hand that wasn¡¯t on his knee pressed into her eyes again, her eyes watering from the force she¡¯d applied.


    ¡®Magnolia-¡¯


    ¡®I love you,¡¯ she said, her voice cracking on the last word.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    Impossible words. Words said with a ferocity that indicated-


    Impossible.


    He-


    Impossible.


    People loved the dead man. Not him.


    She stood, and he understood that not all the moisture in her eyes was from sheer mechanical pressure.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ she said and laughed joylessly. ¡®This wasn¡¯t something I was ever planning on burdening you with. But if you¡¯re going to be a fucking idiot, then I can indulge too.¡¯ She scratched her head and tugged at one of her braids. ¡®For a long time too. This isn¡¯t something I¡¯m pulling out of my arse. Scar just above your left knee. That day? I was bleeding out in a blackout. You came in. Bleeding. For me. And that was the moment.¡¯


    ¡®You¡­tried to kiss me,¡¯ he said, remembering the moment with ease.


    ¡®That I¡¯m blaming on blood loss because I was not thinking straight, but- You. Dirty. Blood. So fucking beautiful to me. Bridal carry cause it was the best way to monitor me. Keep me talking and conscious? You¡¯d given me purpose. Showed me what I could be. Sir, I have been in love with you for most of the days I have been here.¡¯


    People didn¡¯t talk to him like this.


    Magnolia didn¡¯t talk to him like this.


    Magnolia couldn¡¯t-


    ¡®You were in danger.¡¯


    The simple, true explanation. The standard recollection of the day. A recruit had been in danger, so he had rectified the situation. All he had ever allowed himself to understand about his actions. Recruit. Danger. His job to protect.


    ¡®Agents don¡¯t throw their lives away for recruits,¡¯ she said. ¡®We¡¯re replaceable, we¡¯re-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re not.¡¯


    He rarely spoke without thinking.


    And now, two words would demand even more words. Would demand he claw through the armour he had placed around certain thoughts. Actions. Decisions.


    Magnolia was quiet for a moment, then she closed the distance to where he sat and looked down at him. ¡®I¡¯m just a recruit. It would take a while to train a good replacement, but you got me up to speed in a few months, get someone from the Academy and-¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    She tilted her head a little, the movement bird-like. ¡®Why the fuck not?¡¯


    Everything about the mission she had cited had gone wrong. Wrong intel. Bad timing. Bad weather. A double-cross by an informant. A lucky shot that had killed one recruit and scattered the team out of position.


    And then the blackout bomb had gone off. A conventional drone, one not impacted by the blackout, had managed to track Magnolia, only to see her get shot twice before she took down her attacker.


    Due to her other injuries, she¡¯d been in no shape to get to the edge of the blackout zone.


    Greatly outnumbered, it would have been murder to send in a recruit rescue team.


    He had restocked his weapons, required body armour and gone after her.


    A recruit had been in danger, so he had rectified the situation.


    He met her gaze.


    Recruit. Danger. His job to protect.


    Magnolia had been in danger.


    Something he was only thinking about now because she was demanding it of him. Something buried. Something unacknowledged.


    Not for any other recruit. Not for any other aide. Not on his own. If it was another recruit, and she was there with him, ready to take the risk with him, that was different. Dying side by side in battle was fine.


    Her question remained and deserved an answer.


    He reached out to hold her fist.


    ¡®You are my constant. And I need you.¡¯


    Her fist loosened, and she moved to thread her fingers through his. No words and her gaze had shifted to look down at their joined hands.


    He looked from their hands to her bowed face and saw the tears on her cheeks.


    Her hand was warm, and he never wanted to let it go.


    ¡®Before either of us says anything else,¡¯ she said, her fingers tightening on his. ¡®I want to kiss you. If you¡¯ll let me. If you want me to. I want this one moment before anything else happens. Because you still haven¡¯t said you¡¯re staying. Because I could still lose you. I need to show you. I need you to know. I need- You. Sir.¡¯


    It would be his first.


    He had none of the dead man¡¯s memories of intimacy, and his life had been one without romance.


    Their hands were still connected.


    One without acknowledged romance.


    ¡®Sir?¡¯


    ¡®I consent.¡¯


    She closed the remaining distance between them, her breath tickling his face, and smiled. ¡®It¡¯s better when you close your eyes.¡¯


    He followed the suggestion and braced himself.


    Soft lips touched his in what he knew was a deliberately chaste way. Gentle. No expectation of him.


    All that he could handle.


    Perfect. Because she knew him. Because she was- Constant. And that word seemed so little but meant so much. She- Kept his world in order. Was the ever-present beat of the universe. A partner. Easily worth dying for.


    There was a question.


    The kiss ended, and she rested her forehead against his.


    Grigori¡¯s hand was on his, fingers entwining. ¡®None of this is easy. Especially when we have spent so long not talking about this.¡¯ Magnolia moved to sit beside him, and now, Grigori took his face in his hands. ¡®It took me a long time to know how to love you in a different way. To take you as yourself. You never told me you weren¡¯t him, that you didn¡¯t want the connection to that old life, some lifeline even without memory. But I am your friend, and you¡¯re mine. I miss him. Every day. But I would not trade your life for his.¡¯


    Grigori kissed him, and he felt tears as he touched his friend¡¯s - his, not just the dead man¡¯s - face.


    Just like with Magnolia, it was¡­right. Affection from someone who knew him. Who loved him.


    Someone who still mourned the dead man but- Didn¡¯t begrudge that he was there instead.


    Grigori pulled back, kissed his cheek gently, and then laid back against the bleachers. ¡®You¡¯re mine, and you¡¯re not allowed to go anywhere. You¡¯re going to give that piece of mirror back, destroy it, or sell it. You¡¯re not going to use it.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not-¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t care what you¡¯re not,¡¯ Magnolia said. ¡®And this is messy, but- He¡¯s right. We¡¯re here, and no one else matters. Will you stay?¡¯


    Whether or not he was the dead man. Answered.


    If his friends were worth dying for. Answered.


    Living was the last question.


    He had never planned. Not when it came to personal life. Before this moment, that term had meant nothing. He was his tasks. His Duty. He was a blunt instrument. A function. And nothing more than that.


    To his left, Grigori was slowly pulling his head down onto his chest. To his right, Magnolia was curled to match the curve of his body. Tactically irresponsible. Not a mission. Not Duty.


    And he had no desire to move.


    He wanted this.


    He didn¡¯t want things. Had never allowed himself to want things. If he had been the dead man, he would have wanted things. Wanted more than to exist as a function, as his role incarnate, but-


    Now that he had said it out loud, now that he had acknowledged that he and the dead man were two separate beings. That, shared face or not, he truly was something closer to a template than a resurrection. With it settled in his mind, it was easy to see how it had always been true.


    Neither of his friends were saying anything. He hated silence. Dead corners of the Agency. Empty halls. Moments without stimuli where there was nothing but thoughts he had to reject.


    The silence now was- Optimal. Comforting. Right.


    Grigori was breathing softly against his hair, and Magnolia¡¯s hand held a fistful of his jacket, anchoring her hand over his heart.


    And whatever this was, he wanted it.


    He wasn¡¯t the dead man. Had never been the dead man. But with an identity contingent on his former, if he were to step away from it-


    Compared to the dead man, he was incomplete. If he wasn¡¯t the dead man, then he would have to start again. To build. To recognise the self that he had been treated like a mistake.


    He could hear Grigori¡¯s heartbeat, and Magnolia¡¯s knuckles rested over his.


    He was incomplete, but he wasn¡¯t nothing.


    Everything he had done with Magnolia, their training, their codes, their victories, and their losses, all of that belonged to him, not to the dead man.


    Every smile from Grigori, every event he¡¯d been dragged to, was something Grigori had given him - wanting to know him, even while mourning his former.


    He had his former¡¯s memories, but he also had his own. He had built something. Had created his own space, his own impact, even whilst living in the shadow of a dead man.


    And that meant, if he moved forward, he wouldn¡¯t be doing it alone.


    And if he moved forward, everything would be different.


    And-


    Nothing would be different.


    Everything he was experiencing now was new. He could still feel each kiss, couldn¡¯t stop seeing the intensity of Magnolia¡¯s eyes as she¡¯d said she loved him, and the certainty of the word ¡°mine¡± that had slipped from Grigori¡¯s mouth.


    Every single sensation was new. He¡¯d never felt intimacy like this, affection like this. And it wasn¡¯t something he wanted to pull away from. It was new. It would change how he interacted with them, but-


    He¡¯d still spar with Magnolia every morning and Grigori every time he visited. He¡¯d still lay down his life for either of them. They wanted him. Wanted additions. Not changes. Not reversions.


    This was acceptable.


    This was-


    They weren¡¯t asking him to die for them. What they wanted was more complex.


    He slipped his hand onto Magnolia¡¯s face. ¡®I¡¯ll stay.¡¯ He lifted his head and tilted his face towards Grigori¡¯s. ¡®I will stay.¡¯


    Warmth and more affection followed. Small words. Things that should have been said long ago. Love.


    A beginning.


    And past midnight, in a bed much softer than the one he usually slept in, he finally allowed his sleep cycle to run.

 30 – A Fairy Tale Moment

    ¡®I love you.¡¯


    Words that she had expected to remain unsaid. Something kept close to her chest, unspoken unto the ending of the world. An emotional reality that would interfere with how everything operated. A change that couldn¡¯t be taken back.


    And he had accepted it. And let her kiss him. Had accepted touch and intimacy and a thousand small sensations that had barely been part of her imaginings whenever he¡¯d been in her mind as she masturbated.


    Magnolia tried not to move, tried to keep her breathing even, her movements as subtle as when she¡¯d been sleeping. Still, with how large his back muscles were in her field of vision and how loud her heart was beating in her chest, this early morning, fairy-tale-perfect moment was going to end sooner or later.


    Nothing had been planned. She hadn¡¯t known what Grigori had been going to say. What her commander had been planning. That such a thought had even been a possibility.


    And she hadn¡¯t noticed him secret away any mirror when Mimosa¡¯s heart had exploded.


    But it had happened, and Grigori, all the gods bless him, had shifted her in. Had let her listen in.


    She¡¯d been halfway through designing a new makeup macro, the simple joy of deciding between multiple shades of black lipstick. And in a few seconds, she¡¯d gone from a rare moment of completely chill downtime to listening to the man she loved float suicide as his only viable way forward.


    Love confessions followed. More conversations followed.


    And¡­things had changed.


    In every way that mattered, he was still her commander, but it was obvious some immense, unfathomable weight had been lifted from him.


    He¡¯d cut whatever ties remained to the dead man, to the man she¡¯d never cared about, and to the man Grigori still loved - someone remembered but whose loss had been accepted.


    In a way that had been as natural as breathing, as unbelievable as a dream, they¡¯d moved from the relative discomfort of the gym into a bed easily built for five. They¡¯d then slept - just slept - with Taylor as the meat of an affection sandwich.


    And now, she lay spooning him, one arm under her head, the other lying on her hip, unwilling to reach out and lay it across him again, lest it wake him up.


    Nothing was guaranteed.


    It didn¡¯t seem like things would suddenly revert to how they¡¯d been before, but there was always the possibility. Breakthroughs - especially ones as big as this - were never clean and simple.


    Nothing was guaranteed, so every second right now was precious.


    Whatever happened when he woke up would determine the entire course of her future.


    She¡¯d always been prepared to walk away. Staying while things were simple was easy. Staying while her feelings were under lock and key and they were nothing more than commander and soldier was no problem. There was no worry that he¡¯d look at her with pity or contempt whilst her feelings were boxed.


    If these few fairy tale hours were about to come crashing to some awful, dark end. If he needed to back away or wanted to reject either or both of them now that he¡¯d had time to process things, then¡­then she¡¯d leave.


    A hundred Directors would fight to the death for the privilege of getting her to transfer to their Agency. A dozen security firms in Fairyland would fulfil every wish and desire she had as a signing bonus to get her on board. And Ryan was a broken enough man that if she asked for a consultancy job, working one hour a week, retaining all of her requirement licences, allowing her to live like a fucking emperor, he wouldn¡¯t even ask her to increase it to ninety minutes a week.


    That was the worst-case scenario, but it was something she had to prepare herself for.


    It was possible to be friends with your exes. It was possible to have conversations with friends where one party¡¯s crush wasn¡¯t reciprocated and for the friendship to stay intact. Those were healthy, adult ways of functioning.


    In this situation¡­it might not be possible. With how balls-deep they already were in each other¡¯s lives, with how every moment relied on their teamwork and co-dependence, a love confession would-


    Taylor shifted a little, and she couldn¡¯t help but lay her fingers on his hip. His hand pulled on hers and extended her arm so that her hand lay on his stomach.


    ¡®Sleep,¡¯ he said, and his body settled again.


    She kissed his shoulder blade, closed her eyes, and drifted back into a wonderful, warm, half-conscious haze, still in disbelief that somehow, it seemed like her biggest dream had come true.


    Sometime soon after, there was a shifting of sheets as Grigori stood. She watched as he stretched, his skin and hair rippling as he refreshed himself. Then his suit appeared - something he didn¡¯t often wear, which meant he was likely due for some meeting in Central or some conference where showing up in a Combat uniform would be seen as a faux pas.


    He walked around the head of the bed, kissed Taylor¡¯s forehead and her cheek, and then shifted away with a wink.


    As it always did, someone actually getting out of bed broke the spell - as enjoyable as the moment was, the real world was calling.


    Taylor still slept, which backed up her theory that his sleep had been less than optimal. Each morning, there¡¯d been signs that he¡¯d been up longer than usual, perhaps not sleeping at all. And if that was the case, there would be some time tacked onto the sleep cycle to flush the extra shit from his temp cache, to defrag and refrag whatever needed to be reorganised.


    She left the bed and slipped through the door into their private gym. The polished wood was cold under her feet, and the air conditioning cool on her arms after the warmth of the all-night cuddle puddle.


    A couple of requirements refreshed her cami and boy-short-style underpants, then added combat pants and boots. Another tidied her hair, slicking the short hair back and capturing the longer hair usually reserved for her braids in a short ponytail. Simple. Efficient. Too much on her mind to think about how she wanted to wear her hair for the day.


    They¡¯d left everything on the bleachers, as tidying things away had been the last thing on anyone¡¯s mind - but it needed to be done. It would be one less point of stress for Taylor when he finally rose if she dealt with it now.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Her knife went back into her boot, where it belonged.


    She gathered the paperwork and tidied it into a stack before dismissing it - this was the other fallout she was going to have to deal with - and likely soon. The dismissal paperwork had been a threat but had meant nothing without her commander¡¯s signature.


    The resignation paperwork would be virtually waving its ass in front of Ryan, demanding his attention and signature to finalise.


    She was surprised he hadn¡¯t burst in through the wall, like some fuddy-duddy version of the Kool-Aid Man, ready to beg for her forgiveness for whatever had made her quit. Perhaps the fact that she¡¯d remained within the Agency had kept his panic under control.


    Things hadn¡¯t even progressed enough to have cut off her ability to require.


    ¡®Hmm.¡¯


    She stepped back and up onto the bottom row of the bleachers, then gave a lazy wave of her hand - as she did, she required a surface-to-air missile unit. The unit appeared, shining and new, in the middle of Taylor¡¯s gym.


    Another wave of her hand dismissed it, and she stepped back down onto the floor.


    To be able to require something so destructive and so unusual meant that in addition to still being able to require, Ryan hadn¡¯t even clamped down on her licences. So he was either sure that she was bluffing or was hoping he would be able to beg her to stay.


    She required her phone and workbook, set both onto the second row of the bleachers, and let her inbox fill up with everything that had come in overnight as she walked to the far end of the gym.


    The third piece of fallout was still sticking out of the wall in the form of a silver throwing knife.


    It was a conversion you had, late at night, maybe after a drink, around a table bought at Kmart or Bunnings, mozzies biting your arms, too hot to sleep, because Queensland was a place the gods had abandoned long ago.


    ¡°What would you do with a piece of mirror?¡±


    The answers largely depended on the amount of liquor consumed and how close you were with the people around the cheap, glass-top table.


    Sometimes it was a chorus of ¡°shove it up my arse, obviously¡± to rules-lawyering questions of how far you could break down a piece of mirror and still get an effective wish. Sometimes you got real answers.


    Being real was hard, and letting people in was harder, so most often, she¡¯d been amongst the arse-shovers.


    It had always been a faraway thing, the same thing regular humans would ask ¡°what would you do if you won lotto¡±. It wasn¡¯t supposed to be a real possibility.


    And a few feet away was any - albeit relatively small - wish she could want answered.


    The magic pulled her, beckoned her, whispering like sirens, begging her to make a wish. Strangely, as close as she¡¯d been to Mimosa - often grabbing the remote-piloted empty husk to line it up for their tests, she¡¯d never felt tempted to tear the girl¡¯s shirt off and rip into her chest.


    But separated and without a purpose, this piece of mirror proclaimed its usefulness to the world, reverbing on frequencies deeper than her soul.


    And nothing came to mind that she would want to use it for.


    There were things she would like, but they mostly amounted to frivolities. A dress by Arshan Yo, a week in the impossible-to-book Cloud Suite, bucket list items that would remain like that, that wouldn¡¯t be major points of regret when she inevitably died, blood in her mouth from taking her killer down at the same time.


    Likewise, there were things that she very much didn¡¯t want - events she¡¯d wished had never happened, memories that refused to fade to the depths of time.


    But those weren¡¯t worth a wish when - admittedly irregular - therapy could help her work through some of it.


    Some people would think it was arrogant to not want to make a wish - as if it was something she could lord over people at a later date, that she was pretending not to want something for some kind of weird clout.


    As ready as some people were to grab anything shiny and wish, there were honestly probably an equal number of people who would think double-think, second-thoughts and consider before ultimately deciding that maybe using a piece of some fundamental part of the universe probably wasn¡¯t the best way to get a mint-condition classic convertible that could also fly and attracted every girl you decided to honk at.


    But the knife couldn¡¯t stay stuck in the wall; it was dangerous to leave it as it was.


    Sooner or later, whatever luck had followed her from the dreamy, fairy-tale morning of waking up next to the man she loved would fade, and one of two things would happen. Either Ryan would appear, ready to beg on his literal hands and knees for her to stay. Or Merlin would start chatting to the mirror in a language that had last been spoken before the sun had been birthed.


    Merlin was an area where she was going to have to let cognitive dissonance or some other ability to hold contradictions live and let live.


    Taylor was¡­her everything, but she wasn¡¯t going to betray Merlin¡¯s secret, not until there was a reason to. Not until it came down to a choice between them or Merlin became the threat that his parents had surely been designing.


    She yanked the mirror from the wall, the handle of the knife sliding easily and perfectly into her palm. The magic pushed at her but wasn¡¯t making demands. It was a bright red notification asking for attention, but something you could choose to ignore.


    ¡®Stay¡­inconspicuous,¡¯ she said, keeping her mind still, making sure that it knew it wasn¡¯t a proper wish. Just the same sort of non-wish magic that had morphed it into a knife as she¡¯d hurled it away from Taylor¡¯s hand.


    Somehow, it shone more dully, and it seemed less impressive. Something you could easily overlook. Even the pulse from it was less intense. Good enough. Probably not enough to deter Merlin, but Mimosa spent half her time in the Tech Department, so he could cuddle with her if he needed to hear another mirror¡¯s song.


    She crossed the gym, pressed on a wall panel, and it slid back, revealing the storeroom behind. A room full of the myriad tricks and toys Taylor - both her Taylor and the former Taylor - had accumulated.


    It was long-term storage mostly, things that were pulled out for special occasions or because there was some rare problem that needed something more than a simple - as Screen liked to put it - tank-and-spank.


    Most of the items there were fae, things that couldn¡¯t be required. Some were over-the-counter pieces from the fae equivalent of army disposal stores. Most were far rarer than that. Most, their providence and purpose were mysteries - coming in here was a treat, not part of regular training.


    The more and more context she got about Taylor and his former - both he and Grigori had started using the term, usually reserved for templates, to lay the line in the sand about the man who had been and the man who was - the more some things were easier to understand.


    Because it had mainly continued items obtained by his former, this room was probably as much an emotional drain as it was a place of inventive ways to deal with problems.


    It was why a lot of his favourite objects lived behind panels.


    At the back was what looked like a wooden footlocker. Without looking more closely, that¡¯s all anyone would see - one more bit of military-style chic in a division full of them. She knelt and opened it - inside were various rare bullets and glass jars of various occult and weird things.


    More proof that it was an ordinary footlocker.


    She required a sheath for the mirror knife, wrote her name in marker on it, and then tucked it down behind a jar containing a small glass-headed hammer. She closed and locked the box and sat on it, trying to see if it had worked.


    As glorious as her ass was, it wasn¡¯t thick enough to defer the pulses of please-make-a-wish from a mirror under ordinary circumstances.


    Hidden away in the locker that seemed to block any and all magic in and out, she had to really, really search to feel the barest phantom notes of the mirror¡¯s magic poking at her soul.


    It would do. It was secret. It was safe. It could stay there until her commander decided what to do with it. Use it, save it, destroy it, try and wish it to rejoin its sibling pieces of broken mirror Jones had collected from the floor, or¡­just hand it back to Mimosa and hope the fallout was manageable.

 31 – Not a Bribe

    With things squared away and Taylor still sleeping, she started to go about her morning duties. As normal as she could do, anyway, given that her entire status quo had shifted since the previous morning.


    Magnolia smiled as she shifted all of the unread emails from Ryan into their own little folder to deal with in a moment.


    Aside from those, very little had come in overnight that she had to deal with immediately. Most incoming requests had sorted themselves according to her filters and workflows. Leave forms, education requests and schedule changes all sat in their own sections, ready for when she had some time to deal with them.


    On a usual day, that was usually mid-morning.


    A dozen or so other emails later, most of which were easily sorted into an existing workflow, she clicked into the new Ryan folder.


    The first email had come in three minutes after she¡¯d required the paperwork.


    Part of her was surprised it had taken that long - but she was also proud that it had shocked him greatly enough to warrant that three-minute period of shock, to stump a man made of unfathomable technology, capable of so many calculations per second that it was nigh-on porn for Tech recruits.


    For the next two hours, he¡¯d spent an email every fifteen minutes and accompanying Vox messages.


    He¡¯d finally stopped in the early morning, wishing her a good night and asking if they could talk in the morning.


    At no point had he pulled rank, demanded her time, or attempted to invade her space. Entirely within expectations of how he¡¯d act. If he had been tempted to immediately prostrate himself and beg, he would have done that at the three-minute mark instead of sending a polite email.


    Less-immediate prostration was still possible, though.


    A Vox notification popped up, and she tapped into the app.


    {Good morning.} His avatar was the default ID picture - something that hadn¡¯t changed as long as she¡¯d known him. {May we talk?}


    {Yes.}


    She folded her workbook closed and laid beside her, then looked towards the door that led to Taylor¡¯s office.


    Many things in the world pissed her off. One that gave her a special kind of headache was the trope of a couple, or couple-to-be, spending their first night together, and one party leaving before the other woke without leaving a note.


    It took maybe ten seconds to scrawl ¡°I¡¯ve gone to get coffee¡± on a Post-It or send a text.


    She clicked into her Vox chat with Taylor - a place of sterile message and acknowledgments - and sent a non-urgent message - one that wouldn¡¯t be delivered until his sleep cycle had ended and explained that she was meeting with Ryan.


    Ten seconds, and now there was no chance he¡¯d feel abandoned when waking up.


    {You can shift me now.}


    She expected the boardroom. Simple. Boring. What Ryan would default to. The guest suite was a surprise.


    The guest suite was something she knew about, but, like the storeroom where the mirror now hid, it was a place she rarely saw. It was reserved for visitors who warranted VIP treatment, people who would warrant a penthouse or presidential suite.


    And it was very much set up like one of those hotel rooms that you only got to see when a vlogger got special access. Multiple rooms, a bar with top-shelf fae alcohol, a complete set of memory glass windows and set pieces, on top of the usual sim windows that could show any view you wanted.


    It even smelt fancy.


    And sticking out like a sore thumb, her director sat, perched on the edge of one of the white couches, a few blue manilla folders stacked neatly on the glass coffee table in front of him. He started to rise as he saw her, but she waved a hand, and he resumed his seat.


    Even if she did transfer somewhere else, there was probably no other Agency on Earth where she¡¯d be able to as easily order a Director around as she did Ryan.


    He didn¡¯t wear the title easily, and it showed in a hundred small ways. Unless there were particular circumstances, he tended to still introduce himself as ¡°Agent¡±, only referring to himself as ¡°Director¡± in those circumstances when he needed to pull rank.


    When she¡¯d been young, she¡¯d mentally nicknamed him ¡°Agent Principal¡± for how he¡¯d often treated Darren like a naughty child. It had seemed like Ryan had only visited their Agency to gripe at Darren about some way he wasn¡¯t measuring up.


    When she¡¯d been nine, she thought he¡¯d been a dick.


    With time, with responsibility, with perspective, she would have been a much bigger dick.


    Their network was a joke. Not the worst in the world, not by a long shot. Just in that lower half of average that made every other local network look askance at them, to make a joke of them, and to worry that Central would just scrap the entire group.


    It had happened before, more times than anyone liked to admit. People tended to reference the Florence network as the one time Central had gone scorched earth, but that was just because the execution of that¡­execution had been a world-class clusterfuck.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Darren, gods love and preserve him, hadn¡¯t been built to be a good agent. A good man, a good dad, someone who had taken in a lost man and his angry bird child just because they¡¯d needed help, and the kind of guy who looked after his community like an unsung guardian angel.


    But not a good agent.


    And the first time she¡¯d met Ryan, she¡¯d been eavesdropping on him telling Darren to shape up or die.


    A poor first impression.


    That had been several lifetimes ago, and now they were in a strange position where he¡­treated her like an agent, like an equal. Understood and accepted that to talk to her was to talk to Taylor, that if he needed things done, he had to meet her on her terms.


    She sat on the couch opposite him, immediately making herself more comfortable than his stiff, anxious form. ¡®I¡¯m here.¡¯


    ¡®Technically, I cannot address you by your rank at the moment, Magnolia, but given your feelings about being addressed by your surname, I would like to continue even if it is not currently accurate.¡¯


    ¡®You may.¡¯


    Getting this far seemed to stump him. He fiddled with the folders for a moment, then sat back, trying to look comfortable, but only managing to rise to ¡°miserable¡±.


    ¡®Aide.¡¯ He paused. ¡®Magnolia. You- Know why we¡¯re here. You know what I need to ask you, but if you¡¯d like me to say it, I will.¡¯


    ¡®I had my reasons.¡¯


    He looked even more miserable for a moment, then rallied a little. ¡®You are, however, still within this Agency, so I hope it is a situation we can rectify?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not entirely up to you, but I am open to negotiation.¡¯


    ¡®Can I ask what he did? Because it¡¯s Taylor, there¡¯s no other reason, no other person who-¡¯


    ¡®You may not enquire into my personal life.¡¯


    Ryan¡¯s head lifted a little, and the ghost of a smile settled onto his face. ¡®Are congratulations or commiserations in order, Aide?¡¯


    ¡®What are you¡­¡¯ she trailed off, shutting up before she gave away further information by inclusion or omission.


    ¡®You¡¯ve never referenced your relationship with Taylor as personal before, so whilst I may be inferring too much, am I on the right track?¡¯


    She kept her face blank.


    ¡®Magnolia. If you want to stay, you¡¯ve got a place here. As much as I might like to bribe you, I hear you and understand mine isn¡¯t the deciding vote.¡¯ He reached forward, laid a hand on the folders, and they disappeared.


    He stood and walked over to where the bar was, but instead of grabbing the nearest bottle of high-proof booze and drowning himself over the potential loss of the only aide in their Agency, he reached over and picked up a small box that had been out of sight.


    It was made of purple wood and lacquered with something that caught the light in a strange way. Both of those facts paled to the delicate silver embossed letters that spelled out, in the fairy alphabet of Below-Nine, Arshan Yo¡¯s name.


    A dozen times, she had floated - jokingly - the idea of getting something from an Arshan Yo collection in meetings. Whether it was a costume for a mission or as a reward for doing something above and beyond the call of duty.


    Something she¡¯d held a small, secret hope for, but not something she¡¯d ever expected.


    Arshan Yo was her favourite fae designer - and more than a few times, she¡¯d torn pieces from magazines or printed out pictures to decorate a section of wall in one of her previous lives.


    His company or lawyers or whatever were one of those that had agreed with Central to make their designs unrequireable and keep the supply of high-quality fakes to a minimum. Not that even required fakes would have really held a candle to the real ones, not with the bits of magic woven in the fabric that did things that blue couldn¡¯t replicate.


    The closest she¡¯d come was, for her thirteenth birthday, her ¡°big¡± present had been a single bead from a collaboration Yo had done with Fig - basically the fae equivalent of Pandora. A small silver bead with the letters for ¡°Yo¡± in Below-Nine.


    And she¡¯d treasured it every day until she¡¯d run away from home.


    It was probably still in her room in Caboolture, a room that, Darren had often assured her, was the same as she¡¯d left it.


    And maybe one day, wounds would be healed enough to return to that time capsule.


    She flicked the silver clasp and opened it up to reveal a pair of white gloves. Delicate and beautiful, from a collection eight years prior.


    ¡®This was all I could arrange within budget and the short notice I had.¡¯


    ¡®You just said you weren¡¯t going to bribe me.¡¯


    ¡®Magnolia, could I ever truly get you to do something you didn¡¯t want to do?¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    The ghost of a smile grew a little stronger. ¡®Then how could it be a bribe?¡¯ He sat back, his body a lot less tense now. ¡®I hope you do stay. You know your worth.¡¯


    She closed the wooden box gently, not wanting to exert any force on a treasure like this, and looked up at him. ¡®And if I don¡¯t stay?¡¯


    ¡®Then they¡¯re a gift.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, that¡¯ll look good on the expense report, Director.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s my issue to deal with. Now.¡¯ He drummed his fingers on his knee. ¡®If you do stay, I¡¯d like you to be more selfish. You don¡¯t take the leave you¡¯re entitled to, and I want to sit down with you and negotiate a regular stipend. It would be small, as you don¡¯t often operate in Faerie, but it would be something. Jane told me she ordered you to take some time off each week as part of her Agency evaluation, and-¡¯


    She held up a hand to stop him. ¡®This feels like it¡¯s in bribe territory.¡¯


    ¡®No. It¡¯s what you¡¯ve earned through your own actions. I simply want you to take it, not just accept what you¡¯re given. I want you to want to be here, not to be here by default. I want you to be happy.¡¯ He folded his hands together. ¡®I¡¯ve been given- It¡¯s a rather stark difference, being and being happy. I want that for my people.¡¯


    She quirked an eyebrow at him. ¡®That gremlin child of yours seems to have removed the stick from your ass.¡¯


    Ryan sighed, then smiled. ¡®She is a breath of fresh air. I think a lot of us have been...stuck in habits for too long.¡¯ The expression on his face changed as quickly as a switch being flipped. ¡®Emergency.¡¯


    Even as the word left his mouth, her buzzing earpiece appeared in her hand, which she slammed into her ear. ¡®Speak.¡¯


    Two - thankfully dampened - gunshots rang out in the background as Rachel shouted for backup. ¡®On it,¡¯ she said, loud enough and forcefully enough so Rachel could hear without resorting to shouting. Panic rarely did a situation any good, and already her fingers were moving across her phone¡¯s screen, sending summons to her emergency team.


    Her earpiece clicked as Taylor made contact. ¡®Retrieve me,¡¯ she said, ¡®the others in thirty.¡¯


    ¡®Good luck,¡¯ she heard Ryan say as Taylor shifted her from the last moments of the fairy tale and back into their real lives.

 32 – Nothing Nefarious

    Curt pressed the tips of his fingers together over the bridge of his nose, his fingernails digging - just a little - into the growing crease between his eyebrows and wondered if it was possible to stroke out as a recruit or if blue stopped that kind of biological malfunction from occurring.


    ¡®Newbie. I know what you¡¯re trying to do.¡¯


    Stef, hands clasped in front of her, cheek resting on her left shoulder, contrived to look as innocent as a kitten. At a stretch, it might have fooled the idling Agent Bob, that sat next to Milla on the bleachers.


    ¡®I¡¯m not doing anything,¡¯ she said, voice as sweet as a child who had definitely broken a window.


    He took a step closer and pointed at her shirt. ¡®Then explain that.¡¯


    She grabbed the hem of the Quantum Leap shirt and pulled at it so that she could look down at the design. ¡®It¡¯s just Sam and Ziggy. There¡¯s nothing nefarious about it.¡¯


    From his left, a foam ball flew at her head, which she caught without looking at it.


    ¡®What?¡¯ she demanded, looking at Milla, all the syrup gone from her voice. After a second, she seemed to realise she was holding the ball. ¡®Oh. Huh.¡¯


    ¡®Al,¡¯ Milla corrected and threw another ball, which was easily caught. ¡®Sam and Al. Ziggy is the gay little computer in his hand.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, fine.¡¯ She tossed the balls back. ¡®Sam and Al. It¡¯s just a shirt.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t dislike Enterprise so much that I will attack anyone bearing Scott Bakula¡¯s face, Newbie!¡¯


    Stef pouted, her clothes rippled, and she became¡­default Newbie again. Full uniform, minus jacket, with sneakers he was sure would somehow be filthy within an hour, despite being in a building that magically kept itself clean.


    Her logic - one she¡¯d voiced a few times leading up to this part of the ¡°project¡±, as everyone called the entire process of taking her from human to agent - made sense. She would primarily be fighting in a suit, so she may as well get used to it, rather than get used to fighting in gym clothes or a training outfit, then have to get used to an entirely new set of sensations when dealing with in real life.


    He¡¯d also made a note to keep track of any sensation sensitivities she might have and textures to avoid.


    One tiny part of his mind also posed the theory that she¡¯d waited her entire life to become a cartoon character that wore a single outfit day in and day out, and this had been the perfect excuse.


    It couldn¡¯t be that comfortable to sleep in, it just couldn¡¯t. But almost every morning that he¡¯d been there to drag her ass out of the void that was the Agent¡¯s version of the land of Nod, he was met with hair that looked like it belonged to a wild Muppet and a suit crumbled by multiple hours of restless sleep.


    Another foam ball thrown. Another catch.


    Technically, as it were, agents were right to go straight out of the box. You could have a newborn agent open their eyes, hand them a gun and send them into a firefight right next to Mags, and they would handle themselves. Perhaps not with grace, and definitely not with style, but with a technical accuracy that it would take Combat recruits years to muster.


    If you were a dick, you could do the same thing with Stef. Right now, if she had to, she could go dead-eyed, hunt and corner a Solstice, and¡­do what agents did.


    Maybe it would be okay if it was Newbie. She¡¯d be quick. She¡¯d be kind. She¡¯d-


    But she wouldn¡¯t.


    ¡®I¡¯m loving my accuracy,¡¯ she was saying to Milla, ¡®but you didn¡¯t tell me what I¡¯m supposed to be calibrating.¡¯


    ¡®Hang on, doing a screen share.¡¯


    He didn¡¯t trust a lot of people. Less than what he could count on one hand. Usually, it had taken blood or death or something substantial. Nearly getting killed trying to save Carmichael the night they¡¯d met. Being useful enough to Mags that she¡¯d counted him as a friend. The simple virtue of Two being two, filterless and acerbic.


    And then this little genius idiot had quietly made her way onto the list.


    It was fragile - and would probably break when he got the go-ahead to tell her what he was actually like. What his real history was, rather than the bland red shirt explanation most recruits got. For the moment, it was good. For the moment, at least he could be useful.


    And even if she did have to put him up against the wall one day, he hoped he¡¯d bought enough goodwill to-


    ¡®Hey, punch me in the head, would you?¡¯


    He blinked and tilted his head at her. ¡®Any particular reason, Newbie, or have you just got-¡¯


    She tapped on her temple, not even looking at him as she - presumably - continued an in-HUD Vox conversation with Milla.


    He took a couple of steps and ensured the distance was such that, even fully extended, he was far enough not to actually make contact with her head.


    After a second, she tapped her head again, and he threw the world¡¯s slowest punch, one that - he was sure - that even a non-agentified Newbie could dodge if he¡¯d miscalculated the distance.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    There was always the possibility that she would step right into his fist, but that was a risk they would both have to take.


    ¡®I¡¯ll bring back the shirt,¡¯ she said. ¡®Maybe forget who your favourite captain is?¡¯


    He let his hand drop, his fist not even halfway to her head. ¡®Do you remember that thing where explaining what you need¡­gets you what you need?¡¯


    Her shoulders slumped a little. ¡®Yes. Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t be sorry, just explain.¡¯


    She lifted her hands, balled them into fists, and then mimed an explosion, blowing out a breath at the same time.


    A large¡­ floating sci-fi hologram screen appeared in front of them. He immediately recognised it as an agent¡¯s HUD, and as she swayed a little, the picture changed, showing it was a live feed from her head.


    Milla stepped back onto the bleachers and threw foam balls from the large bucket. One by one, she caught them, not even looking to the side.


    Each time a ball was thrown, there was a small, soft flash of light at the right of her HUD.


    ¡®See that?¡¯ she asked, dropping the latest ball into the growing collection around her feet. ¡®Object detection recognises there¡¯s going to be an impact, but there are algorithms to figure out if something is dangerous or not. Like, if she were to chuck a live grenade at my head, much bigger reaction. Ryan says I¡¯m not allowed to play with grenades,¡¯ she said, scuffing a foot back and forth, ¡®so you¡¯re here. And Bob. But for now, I prefer you.¡¯


    ¡®High¡­praise?¡¯ he said.


    ¡®What I¡¯m doing is basic,¡¯ Milla said, ¡®there¡¯s a lot to autopilot that isn¡¯t combat-focused, but it still takes time to get used to. Like, going on a rollercoaster for the first time or something, it¡¯s an entirely new type of movement, even though it¡¯s an old movement. There¡¯s a lot of going with the flow that can make your brain itchy, especially-¡¯ Another ball was thrown. Then another. Then another.


    ¡®He¡¯s safe,¡¯ Stef said, ¡®you can say itchy brain stuff around him.¡¯


    Warmth swelled in his chest, but he kept the somewhat put-upon expression on his face. ¡®Yes, I promise minimum human decency standards,¡¯ he said.


    Stef threw a ball at his face, and he tried to stop himself from smiling.


    ¡®So you have to hit me in the head, with like a certain degree of, iunno, Kirk versus Gorn?¡¯


    He could hit her, and it wouldn¡¯t hurt. He could drop a steamroller on her head, and it wouldn¡¯t hurt.


    It still felt weird to hit a girl.


    ¡®It¡¯s like learning a new sense as well.¡¯ She pointed at the floating screen. ¡®At the moment, it¡¯s only calibrated in the red and blue binary of danger and not danger. A tooltip can be added so you know what¡¯s incoming. Depending on the autopilot tuning, red might just trigger actions, so I only have tooltips on for blue warnings. That way, I go less Terminator around civilians if someone decides to chuck something at me.¡¯


    This was fascinating - a level of detail he was sure no Solstice, and few ex, would have ever known. Not that there were probably many ex-Solstice who had been this close to an agentification project.


    He took a couple of slow steps, hopefully, discreet enough so that Stef didn¡¯t notice him moving out of her field of vision, then pulled his gun - and in sims, guns only ever fired paint rounds, so it was safe to point at her, even with no intention of pulling the trigger - and aimed it at the back of her head.


    The floating screen flashed red, and she dropped, the movement very quick and un-Newbie-like, and his legs were swept out from under him. He landed on a soft mattress - today was about learning, not pain, so all the falls would be cushioned.


    ¡®Sorry!¡¯


    ¡®The Gorn is allowed to get in some hits, Newbie.¡¯


    She offered him a hand, which he hesitated before taking. Even simple touch like this wasn¡¯t something she did easily, but beyond that- He took her hand, and she stayed standing, not even wiggling an inch as she helped him off the mat and to his feet. As soon as he was standing, he pulled his hand away so that the contact wasn¡¯t longer than necessary.


    To most people, it would seem like nothing. To people who knew how hard it could be to make even a small change like this, it was admirable.


    Somehow, he must have made it onto her ¡°trust¡± list as well.


    One question loomed, especially given the apparent ¡°here lies Newbie, killed by a stiff breeze¡± physicality she¡¯d had as a recruit. ¡®Newbie, where did they put you on the human-to-punch-through-concrete scale?¡¯


    She met his eyes for a brief moment, then scuffed her shoe again. ¡®So, like, agents are really strong and- I mean, what they say is up to, like, ten times as strong as a normal person, but that¡¯s kind of- There¡¯s sensible limits and unsensible limits, cause sometimes people like Taylor need to chew concrete or do lacework with railway-¡¯


    ¡®Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy said she set it to ¡°regular-ass human man¡± for now, autopilot adjusts automatically, and I do have a slider if I need to manually override.¡¯


    ¡®So, still a lot stronger than you used to be.¡¯


    She blushed. ¡®Yeah, and I¡¯m happy to keep it in regular ass-¡¯ She stopped and started counting on her fingers. ¡®RAHM, that¡¯s not a bad acronym, but sounds like I¡¯m trying to say ¡°RAM¡± with cake in my mouth.¡¯ She looked at her hand, her eyes shining.


    ¡®Do not require cake and test that theory!¡¯


    ¡®Ra-cuff,¡¯ she coughed and covered her mouth to stop from spraying cake crumbs. She paused, then coughed again, proving that - even as an agent - she was an accidental danger to herself.


    He required a bottle of water and offered it to her. ¡®Thumbs up if you need a thump,¡¯ he said as she coughed again.


    She battled through the piece of cake, drank half the bottle of water, then spilled some on her shoes as she dropped her arm, bottle uncapped. ¡®Fine, I¡¯ll do the listening thing more often,¡¯ she said. ¡®Was good cake, though,¡¯ she mumbled, staring at the ground.


    He took a step closer. ¡®We can take a cake break in half an hour. If you do some calibration and promise not to choke on it.¡¯


    She stared at the ground for a moment longer as if processing that she wasn¡¯t being admonished, then looked up and nodded.


    ¡®Let¡¯s work on blue first. Recruit, come here and-¡¯ she sighed. ¡®I really should have thought before requiring a bucket of blue balls.¡¯ Luckily this comment seemed to pass over Stef¡¯s head as she required a fresh uniform. ¡®Spyder, open the calibration file I sent you, and let¡¯s run through some pre-sets.¡¯


    He hated that there was still a¡­weird shadow in her eyes, that some part of her had expected to be yelled at for such a tiny mistake. Something else to watch out for, something else to adjust behaviour around. A little kindness that would go a long way.


    He pulled a red foam ball from the now rainbow assortment of balls and gripped it like he was about to bowl a cricket ball. ¡®Ready?¡¯


    She gave a tiny thumbs up, and he smiled, hopefully enough for the both of them.

 33 – The Border of the Real

    A dozen different delays had led to the meeting getting pushed back and back and back.


    Part of her hadn¡¯t minded, it had meant she could keep the image of how she expected things to go in a perfect little snowglobe of expectations.


    The rest of her had been poking at the little bits of research Ryan had suggested, somehow simultaneously wanting to learn everything and nothing about a significant patch of magic in her life that she had no real memory of.


    Stef adjusted her back a little, careful to keep her shoulder angled so that it didn¡¯t hit the slats of her bed. Agent or not, small contained spaces were still safe when the world was too loud.


    Maybe one day, she¡¯d install a wardrobe and recreate the really very comfortable escape nest she¡¯d had in her apartment, but for now, the tiny world of under-the-bed was more than suitable.


    She¡¯d strung tiny fairy lights to give the space an ethereal glow, and there was a snack basket under Frankie¡¯s side of the bed, along with a good quality cuddle blankie and an extra pillow.


    On the page, an illustration of Wendy Darling smiled at her, and she wished this wasn¡¯t a painful set of memories to revisit.


    Peter had been very real, and he¡¯d left. Flown away to Neverland, even after calling her Wendy, even after promising her a place in his family. A love lost, a lifetime ago.


    Hook had never been real. He¡¯d been a part of childhood play, a friend, a wonderful grandfather of a storybook villain she¡¯d conjured to fill an empty life. Just another part of her imagination¡¯s universe, along with Queen Charlie and the weird Doctor Moreau abominations she¡¯d made by dissecting various soft toys.


    Her Captain had just been imaginary - any fuzzy memory exclaimed too closely always had its edges. Any memory of being on a pirate ship recalled the touch of pillows on the carpet, and climbing to the crow¡¯s nest came with it the jitter of standing on furniture that wasn¡¯t meant to hold the weight of an excitable child.


    Not real. Just the earliest example of her mind providing what had been needed at the time.


    Except¡­one conversation with someone else who couldn¡¯t have been real, someone else she¡¯d thought was nothing more than dream and imagination, had told her that the pirate had been real. And that there was an entire Court dedicated to helping lonely children and rescuing who they could from situations that needed a little more than escapism.


    Some cases were referred to them, some they found on their own - and she was so curious to figure out which she had been.


    Before this, there¡¯d been moments of magic in her life. Meeting Ryan for the first time and Death holding her hand as a rescue crew had tried to figure out what had been mangled car and what had been mangled child. There¡¯d been - to her knowledge - nothing else. The simple fact that she was alive seemed to speak to the fact that James had been some unaware civilian.


    Surely, if James had ever peeked past the curtain, he would have arranged for something nasty to happen to her. Not just to disappear her body in a way that had no legal consequences, his status already guaranteed that - but in a way that had no social repercussions.


    He could have played the part of the grieving father for the tabloids and put out a reward for her safe return. All the while, she¡¯d been ground up and sold for mystery meat on the fairy black market.


    Her family was ruled out.


    They might have had a fae member of staff. Still, contrary to the world of cinematically-idealised rich people and their relationships with those in service, most people below stairs did their level best just to get through the day. To involve themselves in as little of the family drama as possible and go home at the end of the day, content to draw a paycheque whilst waiting for the aristocracy to burn.


    Hook could tell her if she had the guts to ask.


    Like Ryan, it would take some measure of getting used to the fact that he was real. It had been easier with Ryan - pretty much from the moment she¡¯d stepped into the Agency as a recruit until the moment she¡¯d accidentally offed herself, they¡¯d barely been apart.


    It was easy to accept and understand someone was real when¡­you could see them being a person. When she¡¯d seen the confused looks he¡¯d given her or the polite smiles when she¡¯d attempted a joke, and it had utterly failed to land. To see that, despite being some creation of perfect code, if you scraped the surface, he seemed almost as weird and awkward as she was.


    It¡¯s not just that.


    She clapped the copy of Peter Pan closed and let her fingers trace over the carved leather cover. ¡®I know.¡¯


    Ryan had been the one to find this information out, to make contact with the Lost, to arrange the meeting. Hook - and she couldn¡¯t keep calling him that; he had to have another name, a real name - had agreed, obviously.


    But there was the heavy question of exactly why he¡¯d agreed - if Ryan had pushed or swung the Agency¡¯s name around. She had no proof he wanted to see her after all this time. If he even remembered her, or if she¡¯d been just another case amongst hundreds.


    You had to - probably - be a wonderful, caring person to get into the line of work that the Lost did. That didn¡¯t mean every single child under your purview was a wonderful, special, perfect person that you thought about years later.


    All her memories about him were fuzzy, but she didn¡¯t remember anything about him after she started boarding school. That made sense. That would have been the year she turned thirteen, and maybe teens were handled by a different department or something. Or it had been that - alone and miserable as she¡¯d been at school, and as absolutely fucked as her mental health had been - it hadn¡¯t been the constant, soul-crushing misery that living with her family had been.


    Part of her wanted to go into this meeting and suddenly be seven again, for Hook to hand her a child-safe sword and to go on an adventure.


    Part of her wanted to stay under the bed forever, happy to live with the fuzzy memories and not set herself up for rejection.


    She at least wanted to thank him, though. That was the safe middle ground, to greet him like a real person, to thank him for doing his job, and to see where the conversation went from there.


    The lights twinkled in the small world beneath the bed, and she held the book to her chest, grateful for the escape it had given her from the world of Stephanie.


    * * *


    The¡­headquarters, or whatever they actually called it, of the Court of the Lost wasn¡¯t precisely located on Earth or in Faerie. It was, like, a lot more places than she realised, in some sort of weird in-between space.


    Earth and Faerie were a binary that was easy to understand. One was ¡°here¡±, and one was ¡°there¡±.


    Bolt holes, dens, burrows, and the dozen different names people had for the weird bubbles that straddled the line were the in-between spaces. Imperfections in a piece of blown glass. Places where Earth and Faerie had flexed, but instead of like tectonic plates creating mountains and valleys, little¡­extra bits of space were born.


    Some could only be entered from one plane or the other, some created a portal between - though most of these known sites had been turned into the earliest fairy stairs as stable wormholes between the worlds.


    They could be as small as a coffin or as large as a city - as was the case of Madchester. As part of the liaison Agency that dealt with the Court of the Mad, Milla had promised a tour as soon as she wasn¡¯t Top Secret anymore.


    The Lost had a larger pocket, but from what she understood, maybe the size of a university campus rather than a city.


    So many facts. So many little pieces of information. None of which were distracting enough to keep her vision straight or the anxiety-puke-lump out of her throat.


    Ryan had gone from occasionally patting her hand while they waited to holding a firm, tethering squeeze to stop her soul from escaping through her fingertips.


    The reception office for the ¡°Starlight¡± building - most of the buildings in the main campus had celestially-themed names - reminded her of a doctor¡¯s office. Simple chairs. Magazines that were years out of date. Just an overall¡­slightly outdated, homey feel. An emergency phone on the wall with a fading paint fingerprint on the side from where someone had failed to clean up after fixing a patch on the wall. Plastic flowers with just a touch of dust.


    A kind of real she¡¯d never seen in a childhood where perfection had come before happiness.


    I want to puke and die.


    She bit the inside of her cheek but tried to stop herself from drawing blood.


    And I¡¯m really good at one of those things.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Ryan had checked in with her about whether she wanted to go through with the meeting. Given her every chance to back out. Even now, she could shift to Canada with- Well, with a quick sprint back out into System territory and then the press of one button.


    And she wasn¡¯t above running from tough conversations. Or one that her diseased and stupid brain imagined might be tough.


    But she was supposed to be- Not growing up, not exactly, really growing up was probably going to take a lot of time. But...trying, at least trying to be more than she¡¯d been as a hopeless hermit hacker, now that she could act and know that there was an emotional net to catch her when she inevitably fell.


    The receptionist¡¯s phone rang, and he spoke to the caller for a moment. There was a click as he came out from behind the desk and waved them towards a door that would take them further into the campus.


    ¡®He¡¯ll be with you in a moment. Erstwhile is on time for the children, not so much for anyone else.¡¯


    Erstwhile?


    She nodded politely and allowed Ryan to gently push her out into what her brain immediately parsed as a garden square - a large park-like area in the centre of this group of buildings.


    Wards - children looked after by the imaginary friends of the Lost - were supposed to be the ones to ask for their friends¡¯ true name, if and when they grew up or became aware of the friend as more than a figment. But the receptionist had just-


    ¡®It might not be a term you¡¯re familiar with,¡¯ Ryan said as they headed towards the one open park bench in the square.


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    ¡®Erstwhile. I can¡¯t imagine fae terms of endearment for partners is high on your research list? It¡¯s something you call a former partner, but one you are on good terms with. Someone who is a friend, even if no longer anything more.¡¯


    She curled her toes inside her shoes. ¡®Thought it might be his name. He¡¯s gotta have one, but-¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re free to ask, and he¡¯s free to offer. It¡¯s not an obligation on either party, though.¡¯


    She nodded and looked around the square, looking for the sign of a pirate stalking across the grass, or standing, melodramatic, in the shadow of a doorway, but saw nothing.


    There was something weirdly familiar about the place - some sense of deja vu that had her looking for black cats. It wasn¡¯t the entire place, just- She looked around - there were benches, mismatched paths, a few large trees - in the shade of one, three people lounged on a blanket, under another, a child read a book, and under the last, a white dog so large it could have been a baby luck dragon snoozed.


    Just a green space for people to spend their lunch.


    She looked up at Ryan as they sat, and a strange, small smile on his face told her that maybe she was missing something.


    There was the smell of salt in the air.


    The detail of the memories were long gone. Out of costume, she wasn¡¯t a hundred per cent sure she¡¯d recognise Hook. For most of their adventures, she would have needed to improvise detail beyond ¡°we hunted the Lost Boys¡± or ¡°we swashed some buckles¡±.


    The smell of the ocean made her a child again, and somewhere, the second star to the right twinkled.


    Striding with the confidence of a man who ruled the seven seas, Captain Hook approached them, just as regal as her dreams had allowed her to remember. He looked like an old king who had handed over his rule to younger men. He was content to tell the stories of his glory days to whatever children would gather around the fire.


    Most depictions of Hook tended to put him in red - as to stand out from Peter¡¯s green - but he¡¯d always worn shades of dark forest green, teals that had verged on blues, and rich tones that made you think of water, seaweed and brine.


    A cutlass was strapped to his side, and his silver hook glinted like treasure.


    She reached for her dad¡¯s hand and squeezed it, not afraid of the approaching villain, but afraid she wouldn¡¯t measure up to the bright-eyed promise she¡¯d surely held as a child before she¡¯d grown into a disappointment that was-


    Stop.


    His pace slowed as he approached the table, all the swagger of his cool, action-hero entrance gone as brown eyes, surrounded by wrinkles familiar to her soul, if not her mind, settled on her.


    ¡®Hello,¡¯ and there was a little choke in his voice, ¡®dearheart.¡¯


    Immediately, she scrambled off the picnic bench and ran to him, all doubt assuaged and gone with two words. As she reached him, he held her at arm¡¯s length for a moment, looking at her as one did a relative they hadn¡¯t seen in a very long time, then gently embraced her, arm and hook crossed behind her back, crushing her against crushed velvet.


    After a moment, he pushed her back to arm¡¯s length and touched his hook to the side of her head. ¡®I¡¯d say you¡¯ve grown,¡¯ he said, a little laugh in his voice, ¡®but you¡¯re no taller than the last time I saw you.¡¯


    ¡®I run best on compact hardware,¡¯ she said and sat back down at the picnic bench, smiling as Hook took a moment to disarm himself so he could sit comfortably.


    ¡®I¡­¡¯ Hook trailed off and shook his head. ¡®The uniform looks good on you, little one. I never expected to see you again, most of the time, we never see our charges again, so it¡¯s a treasured thing when we do.¡¯


    ¡®I understand exactly what you mean,¡¯ Ryan said. He extended his hand to Hook. ¡®Thank you for taking the meeting.¡¯ Ryan held onto Hook¡¯s hand for a moment longer than usual. ¡®She hasn¡¯t noticed, Captain, and I¡¯m curious. I won¡¯t say anything if it¡¯s not time to share, but¡­¡¯


    ¡®Clever boy,¡¯ Hook said.


    For a moment, she felt arguments bubbling in her brain. That despite the ¡°I dunno, probably forty-something¡± appearance she¡¯d say Ryan had if someone asked, agents were mostly a lot older than they seemed. But someone working for a faerie court would know that. And that might mean Hook was even older than Ryan.


    Which meant potentially hundreds of years of looking after kids, and somehow, she had still been worthy of a hug and being remembered.


    I¡¯m¡­gonna process those feelings later.


    Can you stop thinking everyone hates you now?


    Still mostly everyone.


    Spyder.


    She¡¯d latched onto the least important thing in their exchange, as was the norm, and she tried to refocus. ¡®What¡¯d I miss?¡¯


    ¡®Yourself, as it happens,¡¯ Ryan said and gestured towards one of the trees. She followed where he was indicating and, again, saw a child relaxing in the shade, reading-


    She stood hurriedly, caught the back of her knee on the bench, and immediately sat down to rub at the sore spot. ¡®Is that-¡¯ If this had been System territory, she could have zoomed-and-enhanced, but here, she just had an agent¡¯s naturally good eyesight. ¡®Is that me?¡¯


    ¡®Illusory,¡¯ Hook clarified, ¡®but yes. I can¡¯t imagine you have any memory of our first meeting, so I thought I would give it to you as a gift.¡¯


    She briefly looked at Ryan - things getting stuck in her memory were responsible for so much of her life. But unlike one memory remembered and recycled and dreamed until he¡¯d become no more than a memory of a voice and a positive association with the colour navy, this was a memory purposely aged to be forgotten.


    But there had been the feeling of deja vu.


    She focussed on just the tree, under which a sim - or probably something like a sim - sat, reading what had to be her old copy of Peter Pan.


    ¡®Kensington,¡¯ she said slowly, ¡®this is- No. Not all of it.¡¯ She whipped her head around. ¡®Not this whole square, but just a little bit of it is Kensington Gardens.¡¯ She looked up at Ryan. ¡®The Peter Pan statue is here - there - yaknow what I mean. My parents knew if I came here that I¡¯d be well-behaved. Sometimes Mum would make James- If we came here, he knew he could read the newspaper or whatever, and I wouldn¡¯t be a bother.¡¯


    Ryan gave her the look he did when she said something stupidly tragic about her childhood.


    ¡®On this occasion,¡¯ Hook said, ¡®you might have been a little too quiet.¡¯


    Long, long ago memories started to turn like gears without grease. Context clues and faint impressions making little things start to click. She hid her face in her hands for a moment, trying to drill down on something from so, so long ago.


    The gears slowly ground forward a little, and she looked up at Hook. ¡®There was one day. James left- Forgot he¡¯d taken me on a walk. Went home without me. But- They found me? I remember getting in trouble for causing so much trouble.¡¯


    ¡®There are¡­many things I would say to that man,¡¯ Ryan said.


    ¡®You seem to recall a rather mild version, little one.¡¯


    She shrugged.


    I got yelled at a lot. At least, I don¡¯t really remember this.


    Dappled sunlight played over the pages of Little Stef¡¯s book, and she scooched back further against the tree.


    ¡®Some of this we had to put together afterwards, of course. There was a phone call, and the man responsible for your safety forgot he had been in charge of something precious. He left you here, alone, from the early afternoon and into the evening.¡¯


    ¡®O-oh,¡¯ was all she could manage.


    That was a lot worse than what little she could recall. That wasn¡¯t just negligence. That was ¡°should have been discovered as a corpse the next day¡±.


    ¡®You were spotted by chance. We take cases like this when we can. Most often, it¡¯s a child wandering off. A parent turning away in a crowded market, a little adventurer straying from a campsite, understandable lapses and incidents. I haven¡¯t often had a case like that take up half my day.¡¯


    Across from them, an illusion of Hook joined Little Stef, and he sat a good few feet away from her, the sun shining on his hook, jewels, and sword.


    ¡®It was an easy job,¡¯ he said. ¡®We didn¡¯t know the situation, so there was no way to get you back to someone responsible. You, for your part,¡¯ Hook¡¯s eyes twinkled, ¡®seemed far more comfortable being with a stranger than the idea of being reunited with anyone you knew. That was a red flag to us and a good deal of why I tried to rush some things behind the scenes whilst keeping you fed and safe.¡¯


    Under the tree where Hook and Little Stef, and only under that tree, the quality of light changed, warmer afternoon light melting into a sunset, and then twilight


    ¡®We agreed that if no one came to find you by nine, we¡¯d take you in as a foundling. They collected you about seven.¡¯


    The illusion of the tree faded, taking with it the little piece of Kensington Gardens - there were a few looks from other people enjoying the real parts of the square. Still, none reacted as if this were anything unusual.


    ¡®It¡¯s more or less a ¡°finder¡¯s keepers¡± system,¡¯ Hook said. ¡®If we have room for a new charge, of course. The less change and the more stability we can offer our children, the better. I had the space, so you became one of mine.¡¯ He smiled with a warmth she¡¯d never seen on either of her grandfather¡¯s faces. ¡®I was happy to serve, though.¡¯ He pressed a hand to his chest. ¡®I¡¯ve been him before, though often as an enemy for one of my colleagues¡¯ wards to fight. I do rather like the roles associated with the sea. Though, I will choose not to say more for her sake,¡¯ he said, gesturing to where Little Stef had been. ¡®It doesn¡¯t matter how old our children get, the mask we wore is one we¡¯re glad to maintain.¡¯


    If she were grown-up, she would have asked him to drop the disguise. Told him it was okay to tell her his real name. Learn more about everything behind the scenes of a court that had been one of the few good things about her childhood.


    ¡®You can tell me a couple of things,¡¯ she said. ¡®That¡¯s as much as-¡¯ She examined the grain of the picnic table¡¯s weatherworn wood. ¡®I don¡¯t think I¡¯m ready to know everything yet.¡¯


    Hook smiled. ¡®Then let me tell you just a few stories.¡¯

 34 – In Every Way

    Magnolia leaned her head back, and shampoo-laden warm water rolled down her back.


    If there was no other reason in the world to be employed by the Agency, it was for¡­everything to do with taking a bath or shower. Water that was always the perfect temperature and would stay there, even if you ran it on full for hours on end. A showerhead that could spit out water of any combination - fat, soft droplets when you wanted something calming, or thin sharp spikes that drove themselves into your skin like shards of glass.


    It didn¡¯t matter if you got shampoo in your eye; some bit of blue programming available, even to recruits, meant irritation lasted a couple of seconds at most.


    And with a thought, you could have a bench to lie on or turn the entire thing into a sauna.


    Some days - more days than she liked to admit - she dipped in and out of a shower in three minutes, doing whatever was necessary to scrub away blood and sweat. Efficient, quick, like so many aspects of her life. No frills, no bullshit, just doing what needed to be done because there weren¡¯t thirty-seven hours in a day.


    Other days, she could take her time, massage her scalp, use some wonderfully-scented soaps and, sometimes, just lie back and attempt to let the water wash away her sins and worries.


    If today had been any other day, it would have been a day for the latter.


    If today weren¡¯t a day she was hoping - and not just dreaming - that Taylor might knock on the door and ask to join her. Even though shower sex was the most awkward and definitely-not-worth-the-effort thing that had ever been invented. Shower not-sex was good, though, a press of bodies and warmth and a pressing need to get to a horizontal surface.


    The day had started with perfection, then had slid into momentary anxiety as the sun had begun to burn away the afterglow. Then reality had punched its way in, and they¡¯d gone to work. Providing backup for Rachel¡¯s team and successfully pulling out all of their recruits, along with the fae they¡¯d been there to rescue.


    Everyone had lived. Most with injuries, some that would - even under the care of the Parkers and a fae consultant - take a few days or a week to deal with. But everyone had come home alive, and that was worth celebrating.


    While bleeding from the gut and being loaded onto a stretcher, Rachel had offered to resign, taking responsibility for the incident, berating herself with every blood-choked breath.


    She had assured Rachel that every team leader - new, as Rachel was - or seasoned, could have things go absolutely tits up. She¡¯d rejected the resignation offer and assured her friend that the team was still hers.


    Then Rachel, realising how much blood she was losing, had dropped into unconsciousness.


    When the day had started, she wasn¡¯t sure how Taylor was going to feel, not after what was effectively the first intimate night of his life. Intimate, not sexual, and somehow a lot more impactful than most first nights she¡¯d had with other partners and lovers.


    She¡¯d been worried he might reject her, Grigori or both.


    During the rescue mission, they had been as they always had - working together like they were extensions of each other. Complementing weaknesses and strengths, knowing who would take left and right at each door, who would go low and high. Ease and perfection, a routine long ago worked out.


    But nothing more than that. No attempt to treat her any differently while they were in danger. No hesitation about sending her forward or hesitation to ask her to do something dangerous just because they¡¯d shared a night together.


    Which was good. If it had been any different, she would have kicked his ass. Disrupting how things were would have put both of them in danger.


    When things had died down - and the remaining Solstice had just plain died - and when she¡¯d been coordinating the pullout, he¡¯d done something that wasn¡¯t a part of their usual routine. Something that had crushed every anxious thought that still occupied some inefficient part of her mind.


    A simple touch to the back of her hand. Three seconds of contact. His hand covered in dust, and hers sweaty. Small. Soft. Deliberate. Nothing anyone else had noticed. Nothing that truly disrupted the flow of operations.


    Enough to know he was glad she was alive and that he wanted to acknowledge that in a way that was more personal than usual.


    Now with everything squared away. All the recruits and fae in care or discharged. All immediate inter-Agency and inter-planar chats had been done. There had been the moment of life and death stress, the paperwork-filled aftermath, and now was the time for the moments of reflection and recovery.


    Which meant a shower for her and would mean Taylor would be in his gym, doing a cooldown routine or something else basic to relax his muscles.


    A good moment, now that she was clean and smelled like - according to the soap label, petrichor and a lakeside cabin - for them to have a chat.


    She dressed - boots, a black skirt, and a textured, lacey tank top. Simple. Something in her usual rotation so that it wouldn¡¯t seem like she was being too forward, that she was trying to change anything, or that she expected-


    Everything was going to change, but if today was any indication, everything was also blessedly going to stay the same.


    Her feet naturally took her to his office, where she tried the handle. His office, at least during daytime hours, was essentially their communal property. If she could open the door, she was welcome to come in...and in all the years she¡¯d been there, there¡¯d never been a case of him improperly setting the security level. No time when she¡¯d walked in and hadn¡¯t been - at least on some level - welcome.


    She¡¯d seen him at his worst and at his best. When he needed space, he would ask for it or simply not allow her in. She hadn¡¯t expected the door to be a barrier, but it still felt like succeeding in some step in her quest to get dicked down by or dick down, her commander. Whichever he would prefer. Hopefully both.


    Taylor was at the far end of the gym - one of the wood panels was open, and he was organising its contents. Simple, easy work. His clothes were still stained from the mission, though he¡¯d discarded his jacket, so his upper half was relatively clean.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    He paused in what he was doing for a moment, lifted his head, but didn¡¯t look at her, and continued to optimise the objects in the shallow display unit.


    Someone less sure of themselves might have run at that. She knew him far better, knew what was beneath the surface of those tiny motions. He was unsure of what to say, how to act and was waiting for her to take the lead.


    ¡®When we get a new recruit, there¡¯s paperwork. There¡¯s negotiation as to what their particular duties will be. If they need any special accommodations or require us to take any aspects of their life into account.¡¯


    He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement.


    ¡®It¡¯s rather similar now, sir. We need to see what our wants are, our needs, our limits and our boundaries. What we¡¯re going to call each other. If we¡¯re going to be public or not. I feel like you¡¯ll be more comfortable going forward.¡¯ She wrapped her arms around his left arm and rested her head against his bicep. ¡®If you have guidelines to act within.¡¯


    His knuckles gently ran across her cheek, and she tried not to melt. ¡®Yes.¡¯ He put away a revolver, something old and dangerous, one of the many things in their stores that could kill an agent. ¡®You. Start.¡¯


    It wasn¡¯t surprising to go first - she was more experienced, and it would provide him with a template of how he should answer. Still, it left her ass hanging in the wind a little, making her vulnerable, exposed, bearing her heart. Not something she minded doing, but it still took a moment to disarm herself, to lower her defences enough to be real.


    ¡®I want you, sir. It¡¯s everything I said last night. I love you. I want you. Romantically. Sexually. Deeply. As a friend. As a partner. As what we are now, just with added dimensions. I want you to continue to respect me, my abilities, and my worthiness in the field. Like today. If we act like we did today, but sometimes we fuck afterwards, I would be rather happy with that life.¡¯ She slid her hand down his arm to interlace their fingers. ¡®We¡¯re Combat, I can¡¯t think long term. I don¡¯t think it would scare you off if I said I wanted to grow old still loving you. I doubt either of us will see old age in any capacity.¡¯


    Another grunt of agreement.


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to call you my boyfriend. We¡¯re already a lot more than that. And I¡¯ve always thought it denotes a¡­shallow relationship. It can be cute as a pet name or-¡¯


    She noticed him stiffen a little, and she couldn¡¯t keep the grin off her face at the idea of someone calling him their lovebug, honey bear or cupcake. Maybe some kind of tactical cupcake. One kept behind glass for emergencies.


    ¡®I think we¡¯re safe on that front, sir. I- You are who you are to me. I barely call you by your name as-is, sir. I can¡¯t promise the same from Grigori. You¡­might need to win a match, so he doesn¡¯t call you babygirl.¡¯


    ¡®He is¡­infuriating.¡¯


    ¡®And you love him.¡¯


    His fingers tightened on hers. ¡®I do.¡¯


    ¡®Is that something we need to vocalise? I don¡¯t think you will ask for exclusivity, and I¡¯d never keep you from anyone who loves you as much as I do.¡¯ She smiled. ¡®Or even just someone who takes your eye. Not everything has to be always and forever. Casual is its own, very valid thing.¡¯


    His fingers traced her face. ¡®You. Him. I am not seeking more.¡¯


    ¡®I anticipated that was how you felt. I just don¡¯t want you to feel confined. And there are people I would like to continue to see. Some- Maybe a little more seriously, now that I know I¡¯m staying here.¡¯ She kissed his fingertips. ¡®I needed to know where we stood before I felt like I could put down roots. I didn¡¯t want to be unfair to people if I left.¡¯


    ¡®I will not make unfair demands on your time.¡¯


    Slowly, they made their way to the bleachers. ¡®I know you won¡¯t. We¡¯re- The old joke is that poly is almost more about scheduling than anything else. I¡¯m pretty fucking good at scheduling, sir.¡¯


    There were still questions on his face, parameters they needed to set, and details that needed to be hammered out. Still, this had been the optimal version of this conversation. Two people who had been on the same page for so long¡­continuing to be on the same page, even the same paragraph.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want to be the only one to speak, sir. If this is a partnership, then¡­¡¯ She looked down at him, where he sat one lower than her. His hand was on her leg. Not¡­suggestive. No attempt to go beneath her skirt. Just- Contact. Touch.


    And it was good.


    ¡®I am not Grigori,¡¯ he said.


    A true statement, but she wasn¡¯t sure what particular point he was trying to make. Not to expect grand romantic gestures? No invites to fancy restaurants? All nice things, nothing that was necessary for a relationship to work.


    ¡®Grigori doesn¡¯t have his hand on my thigh right now.¡¯


    ¡®He is experienced. I am not.¡¯


    Words spoken plainly.


    She gave him a warm smile, took his head in her hands for a moment, and gave him a gentle kiss. ¡®Is that all?¡¯ She turned her body and slid onto his lap, straddling his muscular legs, one hand helping him to maintain contact with her leg.


    ¡®You-¡¯ Her skirt shifted slightly so that it covered the tips of his fingers. His hand hadn¡¯t ventured further, but somehow with the movement of a little bit of fabric, it suddenly seemed¡­more intimate. ¡®I am aware-¡¯ He faltered again. ¡®It is important. And I am not trained.¡¯


    She took her hand off his. ¡®May I establish a baseline?¡¯


    He nodded.


    ¡®Is it something you want? Grigori flirts with everything that has a pulse, and you¡¯ve walked in on me in fla- whatever that phrase is. Mid-fuck. Multiple times. How we act is not an expectation of you. If it¡¯s not something you want. Or if it¡¯s something to be put off until much later, that¡¯s valid. And you need to know it is. I will wait, or I will readjust my expectations. I just need your lead so that I may follow.¡¯


    He kissed her, and he moved so that their bodies slid a little closer together, that her crotch rested against his buckle, their chests in contact, his arm- Slid around her back, thumb finding its way under the hem of her shirt, hand sliding up her back to rest between her shoulder blade, his fingers splayed, pressing her closer to him, holding her even closer than the previous night.


    ¡®I want you,¡¯ he said, and she died, surrendered to the moment, and kissed him.


    One of his hands slowly moved across the muscles of her back. Fingers probing like a masseur looking for knots that needed to be worked on. His other hand remained on her thigh, just a little hidden by her skirt.


    ¡®I do not-¡¯ he said as their foreheads rested together. ¡®I don¡¯t know what I want, not in the way he can articulate his- I¡¯m not him. But- I want. Is it enough?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯ll start with the basics, move to expert programs later on, and figure out exactly what it is that you like, that we like, and what works.¡¯


    His hand pulled away from her back, and he moved to hold both of her hands. ¡®I-¡¯ He looked down, the movement deliberate, something she was meant to recognise and respond to. ¡®You are aware-¡¯


    ¡®If and when you want to add a dick to this equation, sir, that is-¡¯


    He squeezed her hands, and- Even with several layers of fabric separating them, there was a subtle change to how he sat and what she could feel beneath.


    ¡®Oh!¡¯ The noise slipped out, higher pitched and more surprised-sounding than she would have liked, and she rushed to get her face under control. ¡®I will be aware of this information, sir.¡¯


    ¡®Not- Now. But. Yes.¡¯


    ¡®Whenever you¡¯re ready. Whatever you want to do before that. After that. Let me know. And- I promise to be gentle.¡¯


    He cupped her face, and she curled in against him, face in the crook of his neck. Maybe without the blood stain on his collar, it would have been perfect, but she¡¯d always take real over perfect.

 35 – A Place of Truth

    The fae boy on the screen was cute - animal fae of some variety, maybe a cat, given the shape of the pupils, but Curt shook his head. ¡®You can do better.¡¯


    Carmichael pulled the phone back, looked critically at the probably-a-cat-fae and nodded before swiping the profile away. ¡®How about him?¡¯


    ¡®Plin, that¡¯s just abs.¡¯


    ¡®Good abs,¡¯ Carmichael said, then flagged down their waitress to order another brunch cocktail.


    ¡®Which mode are you on? Peony or Rose?¡¯


    The Rose Room app had several profiles you could select from, depending if you were looking for immediate hookups with no questions asked. Rose, some casual chat and maybe an activity, but with an end goal of sex. Peony, and more for people seeking longer-term relationships. A profile pic set to a perfect, post-workout set of abs was normal on Rose mode, less so on Peony.


    ¡®Peony,¡¯ Carmichael said, ¡®I have no plans this afternoon. There¡¯s a festival in Sua, and I¡¯d like some arm candy, then a night in a mid-range hotel.¡¯ He very deliberately showed that he was swiping in the affirmative to the set of abs. The match sound played immediately, and a smile crossed Carmichael¡¯s face. ¡®He¡¯s got nice eyes as well.¡¯


    The match photo showed Mr Abs¡¯ face - who looked strangely bookish when wearing clothes. ¡®Invite him,¡¯ he said, ¡®I hope you have fun.¡¯


    ¡®Already on it.¡¯


    The waitress returned with the green cocktail and cleared some of their finished plates.


    ¡®Curt.¡¯ Some seriousness had come back into Carmichael¡¯s voice - no longer just in the light ¡°help me pick a cute hookup¡± mode.


    He stared down at his plate, needing and dreading the conversation that was to come; and even more the conversation that would come as a result of it. ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®If I wait for you to talk in your own time, we¡¯ll be waiting until-¡¯


    He stabbed at a slice of a vegetable that kind of looked like slices of purple avocado. ¡®I have to tell her what I am, and I don¡¯t- I¡¯m being a fucking coward about it.¡¯


    There was no need to explain anything. Carmichael would know who he meant by ¡°she¡±; Curt had kept him up on some of the details of the project. Just a few texts here and there amongst their other conversations and irregular-word-of-the-day exchanges.


    Carmichael had given him space to vent a little about things that he still didn¡¯t feel safe to say out loud in the Agency or even to think too loudly.


    Petersen had put a bomb in his head, and he wasn¡¯t sure he could trust it had been removed when he¡¯d been transferred to Brisbane.


    It was a question Two could have answered easily, but- But even asking about it felt vulnerable.


    A problem for himself in the future, something to keep kicking into next week again and again until he had some courage to confront it.


    So much had happened over the course of a few weeks that he still felt like he had whiplash over it.


    Everything had been normal. His simple, ordered, mundane life where he woke up, plastered a fake personality onto his body, embodied the perfect recruit, and spent most of his days wondering if anyone in a uniform would actually get into trouble if they decided to shove him to his knees and put a round in his head.


    Baseline normal. Mask up. Act perfect. Hate that he had some hope left.


    And then Newbie had - reportedly - died. And he¡¯d gone apeshit on Ryan, breaking every rule he had about being quiet, demure and the perfect submissive bitch around anyone with the title ¡°Agent¡±.


    Ryan had handed his ass to him. He¡¯d apologised later, offered to make amends, and even explained himself. The emotion behind the moment had been understandable, but it had taken him weeks to stop being skittish around Ryan.


    He could almost look at the agent now without the feeling of his head cracking through a wall.


    It had been mild, even compared to the lightest, laziest hours of Petersen¡¯s cruelty. Still, it had been unexpected from someone who mostly seemed to be a robot built for paperwork.


    He could get past it. It was something he could deal with. Live with. Just another shitty moment to add to all the barely-repressed trauma the Agency had inflicted on him.


    After that¡­he¡¯d gotten what he¡¯d wanted.


    The rank, title and relative safety of ¡°Aide¡±. It hadn¡¯t been entirely due to his own merit. He was sure of that. Part of it surely was. Additionally, he was the only one who had ever seemed interested in the job - or at least, in actually doing the work required to apply and looking like a good candidate.


    Brian always talked a big game of ¡°deserving¡± the position, that his seniority meant that Ryan should be bowing and scraping and offering the job to him on a silver platter.


    Yet, with a little bit of poking - mostly thanks to Raz, who was far better with the Agency intranet than Curt would ever be - they couldn¡¯t find any trace that Brian had ever even attempted to take any of the self-guided learning that was the first step in applying to be an aide.


    Part of getting the job was because he had earned it. He¡¯d done more than just the required and suggested courses. He¡¯d tried to expand his knowledge base as wide as he could while, at the same time, worried every time he clicked on some advanced course or lecture that something would get flagged in the System and some Central suit would come knocking on his door and that he¡¯d be questioned for possibly trying to¡­smuggle out the secrets of the Agency e-learning hub to the Solstice, or something.


    Even thinking it loud enough to properly conceptualise the thought, rather than it being some unknown dread in the back of his mind, was enough to know it was ridiculous. It was like some stupid, over-extrapolated line of logic that would lead Newbie to stop talking out loud and stare off into space until he gently brought her back to reality.


    The fear remained, but he had persisted.


    And from that training and education, the extra work he¡¯d done for Ryan over the closing in on two years he¡¯d been in Queen Street, mixed with a healthy sense of guilt on Ryan¡¯s part and a need to bribe things back to normal; and maybe a kind word from Newbie¡­he¡¯d become Aide.


    He¡¯d achieved the only goal he¡¯d had at the Agency - to prove himself useful enough that killing him represented a poor value proposition.


    And strangely, it left him feeling more adrift.


    At least before he¡¯d become aide, there¡¯d been some¡­honesty in being the wolf in sheep¡¯s clothing, that he was still a Solstice, uncomfortably wearing the uniform. With the promotion, there was at least some veil of separation, some tacit promise that they were going to treat him more like a regular recruit.


    And it made him feel more like an imposter.


    Maybe the feeling would fade. Hopefully, the feeling would fade. A big chunk of it was from the confrontation he¡¯d had with Ryan and the days he¡¯d spent feeling like every Solstice propaganda fear had come true. The fear that the man responsible for his life, the person most in control of whether or not he had any kind of future, was callously allowing a depressed chinchilla of a recruit to be captured, tortured and murdered.


    He understood why Ryan had said what he¡¯d said, why he¡¯d lied, but it had made every ¡°agents only look human¡± come screaming to the surface.


    Now he had to be excited for Stef - to witness her endless enthusiasm every time she found some new weird trick she could do with her agent body. And more than that, start to gain the tiniest bits of confidence in doing¡­anything.


    He wanted to be her friend, but to do that¡­was probably going to end their friendship.


    * * *


    It wasn¡¯t a bribe.


    It was a bribe.


    It was probably a goodbye present.


    What came after this was the one big question mark hanging over his head like he was an NPC. The likely outcome - if she had a reaction like any reasonable person, and this was a time where it was reasonable to expect Stef to be reasonable - he¡¯d probably just have to make himself scarce.


    Ryan wouldn¡¯t - probably wouldn¡¯t - want to transfer him, not after going to all the effort of getting him trained. Contentious or not, even if Stef didn¡¯t ever want to see him again, he was too useful to simply discard.


    He could move his quarters. Mags would probably let him have some corner of Combat¡¯s main floor, and a lot of the aide paperwork could be done without ever having to see another person.


    With some adjustments, he could turn what was already a literal work-from-home job into somehow an even more literal work-from-home job.


    The door to the project lab was closed, but the keypad beside it indicated it was unlocked. He knocked anyway. After counting to fifteen, he opened the door and walked through to the door that led to Newbie¡¯s office - aware that they were surely in the countdown phase before Jones bent space and moved the office and its connected rooms up to the Field floor.


    A knock on the office door led to a slight buzz of the pen in his pocket - it was a subtle thing, even less intense than a smartwatch, just enough to let him know that the message on the slide had been changed.


    He juggled the bags in his arms and pulled out the pen to see that the default Field logo engraving had been changed to a tick.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Presumably, that meant he was okay to enter the office.


    He waited a few seconds, just for some random cry of ¡°do not enter¡± or for the door to turn into a steel lockdown version of itself, but nothing happened.


    Once in the office, he put his bags down on the round desk, placed his folded jacket onto the sideboard, as had become custom, and took his usual seat.


    For her part, Newbie was lying on the floor, not unusual for this time of day when a nice slice of sunlight warmed the carpet.


    In some alternate reality, where he didn¡¯t have the cargo ship worth of baggage trailing behind him, he knew he would have followed through on his impulse to make one of those ¡°cat lying in sunbeam¡± time-lapses starring Brisbane¡¯s newest agent.


    Her hands moved about in the air - the first couple of times he¡¯d seen this, he¡¯d assumed it was a sunbeam-lazy kind of stimming, but when they¡¯d been doing some random piece of paperwork, and she¡¯d pointed to a patch of thin air as proof she¡¯d done it, she¡¯d had to explain it. There was a kind of Agent-only augmented reality - but rather than using the tech to hide Pokemon in the wild, agents could make virtual murder boards that were only visible to someone with both a HUD and permissions to see that particular murder board, to-do list, or - because people needed their fun - weird off-brand virtual pets.


    He was sure that she didn¡¯t know about the virtual pets yet, and if things went his way, she wouldn¡¯t for a while.


    ¡®Can you save whatever you¡¯re doing?¡¯ he asked. ¡®We kind of need to-¡¯


    He wished he could be a coward.


    Wished he could be anyone else.


    Her hands stopped moving. ¡®Is this an important thing?¡¯


    He nodded down at her. She lifted her left hand and tapped something only visible to her, rolled over onto her stomach, failed to stand, groaned at the movement, and then shifted into her chair.


    She wiggled in her seat a little and positioned herself into her ¡°I¡¯m putting all my energy into listening¡± pose, her head pointed directly at him, her eyes looking just to his right. This was Newbie at one hundred per cent ¡°meeting¡± focus, which was a superpower she could only maintain for so long.


    And drawing things out only made things easier for him, not for her, and this wasn¡¯t a time to be selfish.


    He started to unpack the bags - meals and some shared sides from Famous Fry¡¯s - and slid a paper packet of coins to just above where her right hand was - close enough so she knew to give it some attention, but not placed where it was expected she could grab it straight away.


    ¡®You know how sometimes you¡¯ll get Kiwi coins in your change, and it¡¯s a pretty normal thing? Local Courts get a lot of that. Some currencies are even unofficially-officiailly accepted at an exchange rate of one-to-one. I asked for all their foreign currency in the cashier¡¯s draw in my change, figured there might be some coins you hadn¡¯t seen before.¡¯


    She nodded, eyes shining, knowing it was a reward for having the conversation.


    He could start gently, or he could tear off the Band-Aid.


    ¡®I was never a red shirt.¡¯


    He watched her face as she took this in - really, it was no information at all, but with context, it should have already told her a lot. That it wasn¡¯t a time to make some light comment, and that - as hard as it might be, her focus was needed and appreciated.


    She opened her mouth a little, then closed it, and nodded, giving him the go-ahead to end their friendship.


    ¡®It¡¯s a lie, but one I¡¯m allowed to tell, like your cover story, it¡¯s mine. People like me, it¡¯s hard enough to integrate us for very obvious reasons. I know that. I accept that. I¡¯m still glad that most people don¡¯t- Well, a lot of recruits do think a lot of shitty things about me, some I deserve, some I don¡¯t, and most of the time, I deserve a lot worse.¡¯


    Carmichael knew what he was, almost from the moment they¡¯d met, and had accepted him. Had repeatedly called him a ¡°deceived child¡± and understood the careful information control that the Solstice did.


    Mags seemed to use Merlin like some people used their pet cats - if Merlin got a good vibe, it was as good as an aloof cat settling into a stranger¡¯s lap and saying, ¡°this one¡¯s okay¡±.


    Two started with the baseline assumption that everyone was a bastard and still treated him more like a person than any other agent he¡¯d ever interacted with.


    He¡¯d never had to tell anyone, not like this. Mags and Two had known. And¡­he¡¯d mostly been hoping Carmichael would put him out of his misery when he¡¯d confessed to being ex-Solstice.


    He¡¯d never sat down and had to tell someone while condensation beaded the inside of a takeaway bag.


    He¡¯d never wished more dearly that he could be a coward.


    ¡®It¡¯s an old story,¡¯ he said, tensing his face to ensure that every muscle was working hard to keep Recruit Curt in place. That he wasn¡¯t forcing his emotions onto her. Wasn¡¯t making this harder than it was already going to be. ¡®Boy and girl on a date. Monster attacks a cafe. Boy helps the-¡¯ He tensed to stop his voice from cracking. ¡®-good guys who are saving everyone from the monster. Boy gets invited to join the secret society of monster hunters. Boy feels like a fucking hero. Boy¡­does a lot of violent and fucked up shit, but it¡¯s okay because they¡¯re monsters. It¡¯s okay to hit something that¡¯s nothing but vines and tentacles. Okay to take a lead pipe to something with a hundred eyes. Boy¡­doesn¡¯t find out the truth for way too long.¡¯


    He started to break open the Famous Fry¡¯s bags just to give his hands something to do. ¡®When you¡¯re new, they never show you the ones with faces. Who talk. It¡¯s not fae as people. It¡¯s¡­cosmic fucking horrors and shit from grungy nineties comics. I didn¡¯t know there was more to know till-¡¯ He tore the lid off the aole chips and started to arrange the dips. ¡®I killed people. Tortured people. I- You¡¯ve got the rank. You¡¯re allowed to know now. I¡¯m sorry I took this long to tell you.¡¯


    He pushed her burger - faux unicorn meat, the silhouette of a unicorn branded onto the top of the bun - toward her but kept his in the bag in case he had to flee. For when he had to flee.


    It took every bit of courage he had left to look at her.


    The formal posture of ¡°I¡¯m concentrating very well, but there had better be a cookie after this¡± was gone. In its place was a blankness he wasn¡¯t sure was natural or emoted onto her face so that she didn¡¯t have to show what she was thinking.


    He wanted to say something but couldn¡¯t find the right name to call her. ¡°Newbie¡± was right out the window. If nothing else, it was emotional manipulation. ¡°Stef¡± felt best reserved for times when he needed her attention, and ¡°Newbie¡± might pass straight through her brain fog. And¡­¡°Agent¡± just felt wrong, might almost be as bad as calling her ¡°Newbie¡±, just in a different way.


    With no good options, he stayed silent.


    After another moment, she stood and immediately, he felt like he¡¯d been punched in the heart. She wanted him to leave, to fuck off and- He started to rise from his chair, some half-formed apology or protest starting, but she held up her hands, and he collapsed back into his chair. She made a little ¡°don¡¯t, just don¡¯t¡± noise and walked through the door at the back of the office into the increasingly-RGBified cyberpunk hole she called a bedroom.


    He expected a slammed door, a way of ending the conversation without a word.


    The door didn¡¯t slam, and he could hear rummaging.


    If he¡¯d been having this conversation with Mags, he would have suspected she was looking for the poetically perfect weapon to kill him with. But since it was Newbie¡­


    Maybe she¡¯d looked at him and used her new agent brain to entirely erase the contents of their friendship, so after hitting delete and blinking, she¡¯d come face to face with a stranger, and not wanting to deal with some unknown person in her space, she¡¯d retreated to go work on whatever Frankenstein PC build was momentarily grabbing her attention.


    He should leave.


    He couldn¡¯t. Not without¡­being formally dismissed - not agent to recruit, but in the same way that she¡¯d needed something tangible to know that they were friends. Something that meant that she could properly move him from ¡°acquaintance¡± to ¡°friend¡± without worrying that she was misinterpreting his friendliness as just coworker geniality.


    A hand holding a piece of paper was thrust in front of his face, too close for his eyes to focus on. He leaned back, and saw the notebook page he¡¯d scrawled the word ¡°friends¡± onto.


    ¡®Yeah, that,¡¯ he muttered to himself.


    He reached up to take it, to accept the metaphor of nullifying their friendship and- She yanked it away from him, slammed it onto the table, causing the sauce containers to jump a little, required a pen, underlined the word ¡°friends¡± and signed her name beneath his.


    Still not looking at him, she slid it across the table, between his hands - the same place he¡¯d put something that would require her immediate attention.


    The lump in his throat had spikes on it. It was more than he¡¯d hoped for and so much more than he deserved, but he had to give her a chance to- ¡®You don¡¯t need to-¡¯


    She grunted and stabbed her finger onto the paper.


    ¡®You-¡¯


    Grunt. Stab.


    ¡®Stef.¡¯


    Angrier grunt. More enthusiastic stabbing.


    ¡®A vocabulary like that¡­did they mix some Taylor into your- Not-DNA. But you know what I mean.¡¯


    ¡®Too tall.¡¯


    ¡®I- What?¡¯


    She grabbed the back of her chair and dragged it around so she could sit next to him. ¡®Too tall. And mostly living agents don¡¯t get used for spare parts. You can if there¡¯s a reason, but mostly it¡¯s dead people in Agency-GitHub. And you couldn¡¯t map anything useful from him onto me cause he¡¯s too tall. I mostly get my combat stuff from someone a lot closer to my height.¡¯ She reached over and slid the notebook page an inch closer to him. ¡®You- You probably want to have more talk, right? You¡¯re not gonna just accept the conversation is over, yeah?¡¯


    He looked down at the page and hated the hope it gave him. Hated hope so much. Hated that it kept him going. That it- That there was a chance that maybe his life wouldn¡¯t just be misery for another couple of decades before someone got a lucky headshot.


    ¡®You don¡¯t have to accept this,¡¯ he said. ¡®I think- I know what I¡¯ve done isn¡¯t the kind of- You don¡¯t have to pretend things are okay. I know this is fucked up. I- You don¡¯t just have to accept shit, you know?¡¯


    ¡®I- Was a baby when some Solstice broke into my house and put a gun to my head in the hope that Ryan would go ¡°oh, fair play, you win this one, old boy¡±, and just let him go? And the next ones I met? Looked a bunch of nerds in the face and smiled as they handed out poisoned pizzas. I¡¯m alive because I wasn¡¯t hungry. And because I was stupid enough, scared enough, lucky enough, whatever enough, to hide in a fucking wardrobe from men who wanted to kill me for no fucking reason at all.¡¯


    She chewed on a knuckle, then let out a long breath. ¡®I don¡¯t know you. Not yet. I don¡¯t know your favourite colour. I know your favourite captain, that¡¯s something. I¡¯m not going to say I¡¯m a good judge of people. I haven¡¯t been around people enough to say that. I told you my-¡¯ She stabbed her fingers against her chest, where he knew the mirror scar was. ¡®I told you my secret cause I wanted to take a leap of faith. You¡¯d done enough nice things to make me feel safe enough to do that.¡¯


    She met his eyes for a moment. ¡®And you¡¯re doing the same thing right now, aren¡¯t you?¡¯


    ¡®You deserve the truth,¡¯ he said and hated the shake in his voice.


    ¡®But what do you want?¡¯ She tapped the paper. ¡®I can take my name off this. I can eat it. I could send it into the sun. What do you want the terms of our Khitomer Accords to be?¡¯ She grabbed the Fry¡¯s bag and pulled out his meal. ¡®It¡¯s getting soggy in there.¡¯ She grabbed an aole chip and dunked it into the pumpkin-coloured sauce. ¡®I¡¯m not incapable of nuance or understanding. You- Acted on the information you had. If all you saw were monsters- There¡¯s a lot more stories about scary things that go bump in the night that need to be bumped off than there are about fairies with really good internet and some gloriously shit memes.¡¯


    He wanted a hug.


    He wanted to be told that everything would be okay, that the tiny thread that his entire life hung from was strong enough, and that it was okay to have hope. That maybe one day, he¡¯d be happy that he¡¯d held on.


    And he hoped that she could see none of that on his face.


    ¡®I wanted you to know.¡¯


    ¡®I got that,¡¯ she said and stole one of his chips, despite her own packet untouched. He lifted his head a little to look at her, and the small, cheeky smile hurt and healed him in equal measures. ¡®Stolen chips taste better,¡¯ she said and took another. ¡®But what do you want now?¡¯


    He stood, retrieved the Stef-to-English dictionary from his jacket and, after requiring some sticky tape, set the Friendship Accord on the inside cover like a bookplate.


    ¡®Hey-¡¯


    Her hand was halfway to his chips again, and with a pout, she slid her still-untouched packet towards him.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ he said, meaning it for so much more than the chips.


    ¡®Just- Do what you did for me, okay? Don¡¯t pretend things are okay when they¡¯re shit. I don¡¯t want to be the only one who gets anything out of this friendship. I can¡¯t do a lot, but I can- Something? I¡¯ll try, at least.¡¯


    He pushed a small smile onto his face and took one of her chips. ¡®You¡¯re doing just fine, Newbie.¡¯

 36 – In Search of Softness

    Magnolia adjusted her skirt as she walked down the hall. Ahead and to her left, two techs were leaning over tablets. However, as she passed, familiar colours told her that they were comparing Rose Room profiles rather than doing anything work-related.


    Given her own similar romantic intentions for the night, she couldn¡¯t hold back a small smile.


    She¡¯d been half-tempted to bring flowers, but that had never been their vibe. Picking Screen up from her room, however, was something she was happy to do.


    Whenever possible, she liked to pick up her date from their room. Most of the time, given her life, it wasn¡¯t.


    Most of the time, she¡¯d get shifted to the location of whatever group activity that she was participating in, and her friends would already be one round of drinks in, or someone would have ordered her dinner for her.


    And that was just how life was, barely taking a moment to make sure that she was free of blood, that her makeup was half-presentable and that she had sufficiently shifted headspaces from ¡°life and death¡± to ¡°dinner and drinks¡±.


    The inattentive gods had been kind, and she¡¯d remained free of emergencies and last-minute rescues.


    Some weird kind of anti-deja-vu fuzzed at the edge of her brain as she crossed the intersection that marked the point where small miscellaneous Tech rooms became the living quarters.


    She¡¯d walked this same path hundreds of times. Although there¡¯d been small changes over the years - a couple of changes to the pattern in the linoleum or tiles, recruits putting different designs on their doors, different announcements on the cork boards and screens, this was a¡­ Different kind of different.


    Weirdly, she thought of some of the apartments she¡¯d lived in before she and her father had been able to penetrate the magical side of the world.


    In most complexes, the units were clones of each other - sometimes flipped to account for staircases or whatever. Still, mostly to your left, right, upstairs or downstairs, there were people with the same square footage you had but who used it totally differently.


    And when she¡¯d had reason to go into another unit - the few times her father had made friends with a neighbour or to sit very quietly while some kindly old lady watched her for a couple of hours, it had been like entering another world.


    There¡¯d be a painting where they had a poster, the colour of the toilet had been wrong, or someone had put plates where you were obviously supposed to keep the coffee cups.


    Small, parallel worlds that didn¡¯t seem quite right.


    This wasn¡¯t ¡°wrong¡±, but it was ¡°different¡±. Like this was stepping into the alternate apartment of some other Mags, a Mags who had time to date, to actually call people her partners, rather than the person she¡¯d been the last time she¡¯d walked this hall.


    A knock, a kiss, and a quick pressing of bodies together had her in Screen¡¯s room, who was half-dressed. Hair tidy, simple makeup set, pants on, but naked from the waist up.


    Carefully, casually, she walked around the side of the bed and let her gaze linger on the carefully-managed detritus of the bedside table and its various little bowls and containers - then immediately looked away when she saw the necklace she needed.


    ¡®It¡¯s a bold look,¡¯ she said and found a patch of the wide bed that wasn¡¯t covered with clothes. ¡®But I wouldn¡¯t complain.¡¯


    Screen turned and attempted to look angry but only managed to be ¡°frustrated and cute¡±.


    ¡®Come on, babe, what¡¯s wrong? All of these shirts look fine, so it¡¯s not that.¡¯


    Screen picked up a black bra, glared at it, and threw it towards the pile under the window. ¡®Bad boob day.¡¯ She dropped onto the bed and rested her head on Magnolia¡¯s lap. ¡®I get them a lot less now I work here, but sometimes¡­bad boob.¡¯


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Magnolia ran her fingers through her friend¡¯s hair. This was an old complaint - and Screen was right - this was rare, but not rare enough.


    Screen had described it as a bane of girls with sizeable bodohonkaroos, that sometimes, no matter what, you just couldn¡¯t get a bra to feel comfortable, not even an old faithful that you were too afraid to wash, lest its shape or texture change.


    And there was little you could do about it.


    But¡­maybe the conversation she wanted to have would be a distraction from the annoying not-quite-pain-pain.


    For as long as they¡¯d known each other, love had always been easy. It had started, like so many of her relationships, friendships, beneficial scenarios, whatever term best applied, with it purely being about sex.


    She¡¯d been part of a rescue team that had put an end to the hostage situation in Screen¡¯s old workplace. A couple of hours later, they¡¯d been naked and figuring out what level of ¡°hang out afterwards or fuck off immediately after fucking¡± they were at.


    Generally, she tried to keep some distance at first, just as she got to know people who would get into her friends-with-benefits circle.


    But she hadn¡¯t wanted to leave.


    There had been something magnetic and comfortable about her newest friend, which had kept her from smiling and leaving as soon as was polite.


    And it had just gotten better from there.


    They¡¯d broached the idea of dating a few times over the years Screen had been with the Agency - the first time was a conversation she had to have with everyone who became a friend rather than just a fuck buddy. A simple fact that had to be understood for things to continue was that there was no real chance of it becoming anything close to ¡°normal¡±.


    The way she simplified it was, ¡°I don¡¯t have time to date¡±, and it was true.


    It didn¡¯t stop her from doing date activities, though, she could go to dinner, go out, see a movie, or just hang out and pet required animals and watch internet videos. Anything a friend wanted to do that sounded fun, but it couldn¡¯t come with the label, couldn¡¯t come with the expectation of more than she was capable of giving.


    The next few conversations had been gentle check-ins. By then, Screen had been well aware of the whole story, that Taylor was the axis on which her Earth spun, and that there was always the possibility that she¡¯d leave the Agency and everyone there.


    The door had always been left open, that if things with Taylor changed, then an evolution of their relationship would always be accepted, welcome even.


    And now, there was nothing left to do but propose just that.


    Screen still grumbling in her lap, she leaned over to the bedside table and fished a necklace out of a little iridescent bowl - a silver chain with a pendant that held charms.


    Two charms sat on it at the moment - a mushroom and a frog - a set that Screen often wore.


    She quietly opened the charm loop, slid the charms off, and dropped them back into the bowl.


    ¡®Whatever you¡¯re doing, it¡¯s not helping.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m picking out jewellery for you to wear when your boobs stop arguing with you.¡¯


    Magnolia slid a little felt pouch out from the top of her shirt and threaded the two custom beads onto the loop.


    They were something she¡¯d designed a long time ago in the hope that this day might come, and like all of her design work, she¡¯d tried to incorporate some substance in with the style.


    Two beads, one to represent each of them. Screen¡¯s was a purple and gold glasswork bead that had been embedded with a little bit of blue, which allowed it to be scanned with a phone and could display or transmit whatever data Screen set up.


    The other was a clear lampwork, set with the tiniest bits of one of her feathers. Unlike the data-nerdery of Screen¡¯s bead, this one would summon Magnolia if held.


    An emergency button, one that could always alert her if her girlfriend was in trouble. And it would be paranoid and overbearing¡­except Screen insisted on calling her ¡°the bad bitch I pulled by being a hostage¡±.


    She closed the charm loop, held the necklace to her heart for a moment, and then dangled it in front of Screen¡¯s face.


    Screen took it. ¡®So I guess I¡¯m going to have to pick a top with-¡¯


    Magnolia felt Screen take in a huge breath and hold it, her body shaking slightly. Then, Screen rolled over and sat up, a black cami covering her chest. ¡®I¡¯m not- Not having this conversation naked.¡¯ She held the necklace up. ¡®Girl, are you- I don¡¯t know if you remember the conversation-¡¯


    Magnolia leaned forward. ¡®Mm-hmm. I do.¡¯


    Screen curled her finger around the loop and the beads. ¡®Are you fucking proposing to me?¡¯


    Magnolia placed a finger under Screen¡¯s chin and drew her face close. ¡®Mm-hmm, I am. Be mine.¡¯


    She took the kiss Screen initiated as a ¡°yes¡± and smiled as she pulled her girlfriend close.

 37 – The Predictability of Friends

    Curt pressed the button for the elevator, then lifted his hand to play with his hair, but it pinged before he¡¯d done anything. No standard wait time, which meant the lift had already been in motion.


    He steeled himself, hoping he wouldn¡¯t have to share a car with one of the many, many people who looked at him like he was shit and-


    The breath in his chest untangled as he saw Sacha. A layered black skirt that looked like it could have been borrowed from Mags, a sleeveless top and striking gold makeup.


    Sacha grinned as he stepped into the lift. ¡®Nice,¡¯ he said, gesturing to Curt¡¯s top. ¡®That¡¯s a Maple, right?¡¯


    Curt nodded. The top was one of the first Carmichael had bought him - it had been amongst the clothes that had been supplied along with the apartment. Most of those clothes had been from the brand Maple, a mid-to-high-end chain store that did many good quality, simple clothes. A perfect start to a fae wardrobe.


    The shirt he¡¯d chosen for the pub outing was slightly asymmetrical, both on the hem and the neck, and had several reflective fibres stitched into the right-hand side that only showed under direct light. Nothing that read as ¡°magical¡± or that civilians would really look twice at. If they did, all they¡¯d be able to assume was that he was doing a really-half-assed cosplay attempt of some obscure character.


    But it had been one of the few pieces he¡¯d transferred to his Agency wardrobe.


    This was, despite his mixed feelings, going to be where he lived for at least the next few years unless he died on a mission, so it was probably time to start to make it feel like ¡°home¡±, if only in the smallest ways.


    Nothing like the absolutely extravagant modifications Sacha had done to his quarters - the Tech lived in, once you stepped past the very plain door, something that resembled part of a mansion. Marble and gold and rich furnishings. A level of detail, care, and customisation that very few recruits did.


    ¡®I can¡¯t always rely on you and Mags to dress me for events,¡¯ he said, so I saved up some per diem and took whatever the sales guy told me to buy.¡¯ A lie, but a harmless one. ¡®I know I could have gotten cheaper, but I didn¡¯t see the point? Especially since it¡¯s not like I¡¯ll be wearing it every day.¡¯


    Sacha smiled as the lift opened. ¡®There¡¯s hope for you yet.¡¯


    Mags stood in the lobby with the rest of the party for that evening - Screen, Raz, Hewitt and Caipe.


    He gave her a quick look, which she returned with a smile. The news was coming out in just over twelve hours anyway, but it had felt fair that this group would get the head¡¯s up first.


    Screen and Raz were directly affected - Stef¡¯s operator and his operator, respectively. Sacha was a department head in Tech, and someone Mags always invited out on group nights. Hewitt essentially functioned as Mags¡¯ aide, and it was rude to invite someone out without also inviting their fiance.


    And he liked Caipe, even with as little interaction as they¡¯d had. The quokka with the inability to wipe the smile off his face, even when annoyed, was endearing.


    The pub was a casual walk from the Agency.


    The early evening air was nice, if hot. Something that would be immediately solved as soon as they were back inside.


    He walked at the back of the pack, not wanting to impose on anyone, but Raz moved to walk beside him, and Mags yelled at him about keeping up.


    They passed a group of people walking in the opposite direction, some other group of co-workers probably heading to a night out, and he noticed the immediate change in body language. Mags tensed in a way that he knew meant someone utterly getting their ass handed to them was definitely on the menu, and everyone else seemed to follow suit.


    The other group continued on, but as he swung his gaze back around, he saw Raz looking at him.


    ¡®You¡¯re a very confused straight boy right now, aren¡¯t you?¡¯ Raz asked.


    ¡®I-¡¯ He looked at the group that had passed, then at his group of co-worker-slash-possible-friends as they gained a little distance from him and Raz and became fully aware for the first time that he was indeed the only straight guy in the group.


    Raz smiled, the look tinged with pity. ¡®Most of us can pass,¡¯ he said. He held up his hand and showed a small white patch over the pixel-rainbow-heart tattoo on the back of his hand. ¡®Sometimes just takes a second to make sure you don¡¯t have a pin or a badge on your bag or jacket. When you¡¯re with someone who is visibly queer though, and you¡¯re walking in a group, there¡¯s always at least one person who is ready to throw hands if anyone says anything.¡¯


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡®Hurry the fuck up!¡¯ Mags called from up ahead.


    ¡®Mostly it¡¯s looks,¡¯ Raz continued. ¡®A look says a lot. Even a look¡¯s enough to make you feel unsafe. Those two,¡¯ he said, pointing at Hewitt and Caipe, ¡®are picking out wedding tuxes and they don¡¯t feel great about holding hands most of the time. It¡¯s easier to be invisible.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re learning. You listen when you¡¯re being a stupid white boy or haven¡¯t had to stop and reconsider what your het privilege has gotten you. Look, Agent C,¡¯ he said, using the nickname that Raz meant with something akin to hero worship. ¡®I know you¡¯re one of the safe ones. That if something happened to me, you¡¯d go ham with a cricket bat or something.¡¯


    ¡®Anytime. Anywhere.¡¯


    Raz smiled. ¡®That does affection stretch to telling me what this announcement is?¡¯


    ¡®You can wait five more minutes.¡¯


    ¡®Pleeeeeeeeeeease?¡¯


    Curt leaned in close. ¡®No.¡¯


    Raz slapped his arm and grinned, then they hurried to catch up with the group.


    Since the pub was so closely affiliated with the Agency, recruits always got first dibs at booking the private event rooms - not that there was much competition on a Wednesday evening.


    Magnolia had arranged everything, and there were already finger foods and a couple of pitchers of angel water waiting for them. As much as he managed his alcohol intake so that he was never impaired, never caught vulnerable, angel water was something it was easy to drink a few glasses of - it was barely alcoholic, somewhere just under two per cent.


    Everyone took a seat around the long table, and he noticed that before they said, Hewitt and Caipe shared a quick kiss, now that they were somewhere safe.


    ¡®Please don¡¯t be schmoopy all night,¡¯ Mags said as she poured herself a glass of blue angel water.


    ¡®I¡¯ll dial it down if you tell us why we¡¯re here,¡¯ Hewitt said and pulled a basket of fries towards his fiance.


    ¡®I was trying to literally wine and dine you all first,¡¯ she said, but stood, her chair scraping the floor theatrically as she did so. She looked at him, and he nodded, giving her his blessing. A photo of Stef appeared in her hand, and she showed it to the group. ¡®Who recognises her?¡¯


    Raz and Screen both nodded.


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ Screen said, ¡®I had her for about a day. Died in the mirrorfall. Field. Uniform in the photo gives it away, but yeah.¡¯


    ¡®Her?¡¯ Hewitt said, blinking with recognition as Screen spoke. ¡®The almost dead girl from the cafe where the Director was injured.¡¯


    ¡®Ice cream shop,¡¯ Curt corrected quickly.


    ¡®Sorry. No. Yes. There¡¯s a cafe next to it. Ice cream shop. We handed her over to the Parkers with a prayer and not a lot of hope.¡¯


    Curt kept his expression neutral. He knew she¡¯d been hurt that night. She told him she¡¯d been shot, but not- Not that she¡¯d been so close to death. Between that, how she¡¯d recruited and how she¡¯d died, it had been one truly miserable week for her.


    ¡®Is it being investigated for some reason?¡¯ Screen asked. ¡®Or-¡¯


    Mags squeezed Screen¡¯s hand. ¡®Let me tell it.¡¯ She looked at the group. ¡®What was on file after the mirrorfall was that she was killed that night. Lie. Not without reason, but a lie.¡¯


    This was met with a general consensus of ¡°yeah, shit happens¡± from the group, all of them having been in the Agency long enough to know that official records weren¡¯t always the truth and that the truth could vary by your security clearance.


    ¡®Mimosa was hit by an experimental fae weapon. Fucked her up a lot. A decision was made, and the reason behind that is the second part of the secret. She¡¯s Ryan¡¯s daughter. Raised completely human, so she¡¯s still a fucking newbie when it comes to Agency shit. Which will make calling her ¡°Agent¡± weird but technically correct.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m helping her catch up,¡¯ Curt said, breaking into the silence that followed. ¡®But I¡¯ve had to start from basic recruit orientation.¡¯


    ¡®Agent Mimosa?¡¯ Sacha said. ¡®Sounds like a pretty good drink, honestly, like a mimosa with curacao. We should order some.¡¯


    Magnolia grinned at Sacha. ¡®I knew one of you was going to say that. It¡¯s already a thing, a ¡°Tiffany Mimosa¡±.¡¯ She paused. ¡®We should order a round, though.¡¯


    ¡®On it,¡¯ Sacha said and picked up the ordering tablet.


    Hewitt leaned across the table, his elbows planted in the empty spaces between the glasses and baskets. ¡®Ryan fucks?¡¯


    ¡®For all I fucking know, he stole her from a nerd factory. He does not give off ¡°fucks¡± energy.¡¯


    ¡®At least twice,¡¯ Sacha said. ¡®Now that another child is in play.¡¯ This was met with a round of blank stares. ¡®Look, there¡¯s a lot you can hear in working here for a decade. Director Ryan has at least one other child. Jonesy has shown me pictures. A son. With the age difference though, I¡¯m going to assume these two are half-siblings.¡¯


    ¡®Wait,¡¯ Screen said, ¡®so, if she was raised human, did she not know the Director at all?¡¯


    Thankfully, the cover story had been pretty comprehensive in terms of the basic questions that might be asked. ¡®As I understand it,¡¯ Curt said, ¡®it was a pretty awkward, ¡°Luke, I am your father¡± moment.¡¯


    The door opened, and a server brought in a tray of champagne flutes, each with a sugar-crusted rim, containing liquid that was pretty close to the colour of the angel water on the table.


    Raz looked at him. ¡®Is she going back into Field? Or getting reassigned?¡¯


    ¡®Field,¡¯ he confirmed, ¡®as a secondary agent. There¡¯s going to be a lot of ¡°not trying to rock the boat going on¡±, so don¡¯t expect her to be throwing out a lot of orders.¡¯


    ¡®We should do this again next week,¡¯ Screen said, ¡®and properly welcome her to our beloved little dumpster fire Agency.¡¯

 38 – A Second Life

    ¡®I¡¯d like to ask, daughter, if you got any sleep at all.¡¯


    Stef looked up, the warm fuzzies from the word ¡°daughter¡± beating even that of her third coffee of the morning.


    ¡®None at all,¡¯ she said and patted the moss-covered stone of the wall beside her. ¡®It¡¯s like- I mean, proper agents might not get this, but¡­trying to sleep before Christmas or a holiday or something, your brain is too excited or hyped or nervous or whatever to properly allow sleep.¡¯


    Ryan took off his jacket, folded it, laid it on the cleanest patch of the wide wall, and then sat beside her. For once, they matched - he rarely took his jacket off, and she rarely wore hers, so the tiny moments where they met in the middle were nice.


    ¡®Alexander was like that,¡¯ he said. ¡®I would hear him trying to sneak around the house to see if Santa had arrived.¡¯ His face took on the getting-familiar sad-nostalgia look it did whenever he spoke of his family, and she squeezed his hand to try and get rid of the bad feels. ¡®Sometimes I would require a sound here or there to add to the magic, but nothing that wasn¡¯t didn¡¯t come with plausible deniability. Reindeer noises on the roof could be possums, that kind of thing.¡¯ He paused. ¡®I can see security cameras. I assumed you¡¯ve accounted for them.¡¯


    He was checking, but it had come with an inbuilt assumption of her competence, which was nice - unfamiliar, getting familiar, weird, still weird - but nice.


    She nodded and tapped her head. ¡®There were always a couple of blind spots on this side of the garden. Security tech has gotten better and less obtrusive, but when the existing layout covers eighty-five per cent and physical security is likely to deter all but the hardest-core thieves or crooks, why would you bother installing new poles or whatever that ruin the aesthetic?¡¯ She paused. ¡®And because I¡¯m paranoid, I did jack into the security system and loop the two cameras that get even close to this fence with some nice harmless footage. We¡¯re safe.¡¯


    She swept her gaze across the grounds again for what had to be the hundredth time since she¡¯d shifted in about an hour ago.


    The house - the mansion - where she¡¯d grown up. Where she¡¯d first met Ryan. Where he¡¯d changed the course of her entire life.


    So much, and yet so little, had changed. All of the big, old, established trees were still there. Most of the hedges that acted as dividers or walls to partition sections of the gardens also remained. Many of the smaller plants, the flowers, however, and most of the statuary had been swapped out.


    This was a place that had never been ¡°home¡±. Not like her apartment had been, not like the Agency was. It had been the place where Stephanie had lived and where Stef had to fight at the corners for any kind of existence, any kind of freedom.


    ¡®You deserved better than what that little girl had,¡¯ Ryan said, turning his hand to hold hers, returning the compassion and love. ¡®There are a thousand ¡°ifs¡± that can be wondered about, but I hope there is at least one world out there where some version of myself realised that it wasn¡¯t luck that gave me the quick and easy cleanup. That no good parents would leave a child alone as long as you were.¡¯


    She leaned against his shoulder and gently kicked the cool stone of the old wall. ¡®I love you too.¡¯


    In the house, a light went on, and she tried to figure out what room it would have been - too far to the right to be her bedroom, but not- The third upstairs bathroom. The one with the lavender theme.


    A room she¡¯d used mostly for hiding when she¡¯d been out of her room, and she¡¯d heard someone on the stairs. She¡¯d been allowed to use whatever bathroom she¡¯d wanted to, of course, but- It was less trouble if she used her ensuite. It was where she was expected to be and being what people expected-


    Fuck.


    She scrubbed at her face with the back of her free hand.


    ¡®I¡¯m okay,¡¯ she said to the offered handkerchief. ¡®Relatively. You know. Whatever.¡¯ The handkerchief stayed offered, and after a moment, she took it and blew her nose. ¡®I knew coming here would make me feel shit and feel like shit. But it¡¯s- This is me, this was me, I¡¯ve got an anchor here, whether I like it or not, and it¡¯s probably a good thing I¡¯m immortal cause healing the sad little girl who lived here is going to take forever.¡¯


    She folded, then balled the handkerchief, and passed it back and forth from hand to hand, hoping the motion would keep her brain moving, thinking, processing. ¡®I also never got to say goodbye to this place. Hospital. Boarding school. I never got to come back before it got sold. I think some further flung bit of the family lives here now, but it wasn¡¯t like I could have knocked on the door and asked to come in for tea. So no closure. And I wanted that, wanted to do that before I do the first goddamn thing I¡¯ve ever done in my life.¡¯


    She required the handkerchief clean and turned to face the first person who had ever loved her, ever wanted her, who wouldn¡¯t have minded which bathroom she¡¯d used, or if she¡¯d played in the gardens instead of sitting quietly, making as little noise as possible.


    ¡®I¡¯m- I¡¯m not good at being a person. Or being- I¡¯m barely good at anything. And I still want to remind you that you can- I know you said you don¡¯t want to get rid of me- I¡¯m nothing. I feel like I¡¯m nothing, but for the first time, I feel like I can be something. I want what you¡¯ve offered me. I want this. I want you to be proud of me. I want to be proud of myself. I¡¯ve gotten everything I¡¯ve ever wanted, and- I¡¯m happy.¡¯


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    More tears fell.


    ¡®I really am. And I¡¯m still worried that I¡¯m gonna puke on my shoes when I have to meet everyone again. But that¡¯s okay. I can live with that. Cause I wanna live. And that is still such a new and weird feeling. But- Thank you. For everything. And more than everything. And I¡¯ll make you proud. And you¡¯re gonna do the dad thing and say¡­¡¯ She lifted her hand and made the ¡°come on¡± gesture.


    ¡®I¡¯m already proud of you,¡¯ he said obediently.


    ¡®But I¡¯m going to earn it. I am. And I¡¯m gonna fuck up too. And cry. And sometimes, I¡¯m just gonna live under my bed for a week. And- And I think that¡¯s all okay. Because things are okay. And I got my fairy tale. And I got magic. And everything she,¡¯ she said, pointing to the house, to the little girl she¡¯d been, to everything she was finally able to take a step away from, ¡®never thought she was going to get.¡¯


    ***


    The first time Ryan had tried to introduce her to the rest of the recruits, she¡¯d hidden in the bathroom.


    Now, as an agent, she didn¡¯t really have that excuse.


    Jonesy had been nice, and had handled the details with an email blast. Mags had said she¡¯d take care of her recruits.


    That only left Field, and it made sense that she¡¯d have to make an appearance in her own department to stand in front of people she could technically order around.


    /serious had her face set to something appropriate, a nice, neutral, alert face that showed she was present and attentive, and that would hide all of the anxiety that was making her want to shift to the middle of Canada.


    Why is it always Canada? I¡¯ve never even-


    Pay attention.


    Ryan had specifically chosen the time so that there were the most possible Field recruits available for the meeting, finding the sweet spot where a couple of the shifts crossed over.


    That fact gave her some comfort, knowing that she was inconveniencing as few people as possible, that at most, she was stopping some patrols that should be happening - something she and Curt were scheduled to do right after the meeting - or that a couple of reports might be a little delayed in their submission.


    Other than the people who had known all throughout her Top Secret existence, Curt and Mags had used their aide privilege to break the street date on her secret about twelve hours earlier by telling three Techs, one Combat recruit, and a civilian.


    The reactions had been¡­positive, so far as she could tell.


    Screen had sent customised ¡°congrats on not being dead¡± gifs, and asked if she would still be her primary operator moving forward.


    Raz had suggested a group chat with Curt so he could send memes once, which she had accepted.


    Sacha had sent an invite to a group dinner to be held the next week, which seemed to be the same group that had been present at the pub the previous night, which she had tentatively accepted.


    And¡­not much else had happened. Which was the best possible outcome.


    If Field followed what Tech had done and either went, ¡°lol, yay, congrats on not being dead¡±, and then proceeded to ignore her as much as possible, it would be an absolute win.


    Paranoid scenarios ran continually, bringing her useful and productive thoughts to a crawl.


    There was the possibility that they¡¯d be mad at her, either for ¡°faking¡± her death, which wasn¡¯t accurate, or for ¡°skipping¡± the line and becoming an agent, when that was usually a boon only bestowed on the best and brightest recruits.


    They could call her out as unfit to lead or to give orders, which she agreed with.


    They might - and this hurt the most, made her the most anxious - question Ryan, belittle him for his choice to upgrade such a shit recruit, and ask if he was fit to be Director.


    It didn¡¯t matter what vitriol came in her direction, so long as Ryan didn¡¯t suffer any more for her presence than he already did because-


    With the timing of a mind-reader, Ryan¡¯s hand came down onto her shoulder, and the connection evaporated some of the anxiety. Just the tiniest bit, but maybe enough to stop her from having to explain her presence to confused Canadian agents if they had to rescue her from a bear.


    Are there bears-


    Concentrate, Spyder.


    ¡®Whatever happens,¡¯ Ryan said, his perfect dad smile on his perfect dad face, ¡®whatever happens today, tomorrow, or in the future, I¡¯m proud of you, and I¡¯m here for you.¡¯ He straightened her tie, and some tiny part of the broken little girl healed.


    Words would be too much, so she just nodded.


    As far as the hall stretched in her mind, as much as it seemed like it could go on forever, they reached the common room in just a few seconds.


    Everyone quietened down as Ryan walked in, but no one seemed to have any reaction to seeing her beside him. No one screamed ¡°zombie¡± or ¡°cheater¡± or anything.


    This much, at least, was expected. As far as the rest of the Agency was concerned, she¡¯d died, and it hadn¡¯t really made an impact. She hadn¡¯t been present long enough to make an impact on anyone.


    Except for Ryan. And probably Curt.


    Ryan began to speak, and it was everything they¡¯d discussed beforehand. The simple cover story, her injury, her upgrade and the not-precisely-a-lie that she was his daughter.


    As much as she worried about the backlash, and people getting mad at her for the upgrade, the concept of ¡°agent¡¯s kid¡± cast a pretty comprehensive protective aura, as it was relatively routine for agents to do this.


    He finished by explaining her position as a secondary Field agent but that inquiries should first go through Curt or directly to himself until she was more experienced in the role.


    After a call for questions, which yielded no raised hands, he dismissed the recruits, and she started to breathe again.

 39 – Looking to the Next

    Being a gentleman, he opened the car door for her.


    Being some sort of gremlin, she¡¯d stared at him, at the car, back again, and said, ¡°you have to drive, I can¡¯t¡±.


    ¡®Newbie, I¡¯m not-¡¯ He felt his head tilting as he tried to figure out if she was fucking with him, and then sighed as a tiny smile broke through her tired expression. ¡®Come on, in.¡¯


    Curt circled the car and settled into the driver¡¯s seat, enjoying the one luxury he really allowed himself when it came to his life at the Agency.


    He kept his room so close to default it seemed like he had no personality, even when some recruits - like Sacha - had entire mansions hidden behind an ordinary door.


    Part of it had not been wanting to feel like he had a life at the Agency. Part of it was not wanting to get smacked down for taking advantage of the freedom they¡¯d allowed him. Part of it, he knew, was just punishing himself.


    A car, however, was okay. In his mind, it was like a rental, something he could enjoy when needed, but he could handle the loss of if they decided to restrict his requiring licenses.


    So while it lasted, and each day that was more of a sure thing, with Queen Street becoming somewhere he belonged, somewhere he had a place, if not somewhere he felt comfortable yet¡­While it lasted, he¡¯d drive something fast, expensive, and red.


    He looked across at Stef to make sure she was buckled in, and that she had managed not to strangle herself with the seatbelt and drove off towards the garage exit.


    It was a simple plan, and one that made for a good first day, as getting her used to the city through new eyes was part of her ongoing training.


    And a drive to show her where all the outposts were was a good, no-stress way to begin her official job as an agent.


    ¡®So we¡¯ll do south of the river before lunch,¡¯ he said, ¡®north of the river after lunch. A few don¡¯t fit into the route that well, so you can get some shifting practice in.¡¯ He took one hand off the wheel, reached into his jacket, and handed her the map he¡¯d made the previous evening. ¡®Here¡¯s the plan.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks. Um?¡¯


    He slowed down to not run the yellow light. ¡®Mm?¡¯


    ¡®Can I keep it?¡¯


    ¡®I mean, sure, Newbie. Why?¡¯


    She tugged on the edges of the paper to stretch and straighten it. ¡®I¡¯m gonna scan it in and make a copy, but I¡¯m also going to tie some AR notes to the physical copy, cause I¡¯ve been doing that with some,¡¯ she paused, ¡®stuff. And it¡¯s really fun.¡¯


    He knew she¡¯d been making virtual - and only visible to her - lists to help with all the education and cramming she¡¯d had to do while she¡¯d been in her post-agentification phase, but there was something in her tone, in the slight hesitation that-


    ¡®Newbie?¡¯


    ¡®Mm?¡¯


    ¡®Does ¡°stuff¡± include people. Does ¡°stuff¡± include me? Do you have a bunch of murder board notes around my head?¡¯


    She lightly tapped his left shoulder, the touch so brief he wasn¡¯t sure if it had been real. ¡®I have most of them branching off from here. But they¡¯re not on all the time.


    ¡®Anything I should be worried about?¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said, and he wasn¡¯t at all convinced.


    ¡®Okay, so we¡¯re hitting up Wynnum first. Do you know anything about Agent Kelly?¡¯


    ***


    Somewhere to his left, a truck horn sounded.


    Almost immediately, Stef screamed, then went silent.


    ¡®Fuck, fuck, Newbie?!¡¯ he started to turn his head to look at her, but another horn sounded as he began to drift into the next lane. He jerked on the wheel, overcorrected, and nearly hit a second car.


    ¡®Say something!¡¯


    There was something wet on his leg. Fuck. Blood. But there hadn¡¯t been a shot or- The noise from the truck might have-


    He pressed the accelerator to the floor, overtook two cars, and barely missed the guardrail as he shot onto the closest exit.


    Drive. He had to drive. If he took his eyes off the road for a second- Well, she¡¯d probably be fine, but there might not be enough of him left for Parker-2 to put back together.


    Red light. Through the red light. More horns.


    He tried to overlay his mental map of where he was and, for once, was grateful for all the long, lonely hours he¡¯d spent just driving around the city, trying to get used to his new home.


    Tyres screamed as he took a left turn. Park. There was a park with a hidden entrance to Faerie. If they couldn¡¯t shift, then at least they¡¯d have a way out.


    He eased off the accelerator a little, took his left hand off the wheel, and reached towards Stef, awkwardly slapping his hand against her face. Warm. Breathing. Tears. Good. Whatever had happened hadn¡¯t-


    Gravel crunched under the tyres as he slammed to a halt in the parking lot of the small picnic area.


    Gun in one hand, he unclipped his belt, turned, braced his back against the steering wheel, and looked for signs of pursuit. After a count of five, nothing, so he spared a look at Stef.


    She was barely moving, her body tight and curled, her face wet with tears. In her hands, the slushie was a mess, spraying green ice and sugar over her uniform, her seat and- That was what the wetness against his leg had been. Not blood. Good. But-


    He looked out through the back window again, still no pursuit.


    He looked at Stef again and saw no signs of injury. No- This hadn¡¯t been an attack. It had been something else.


    A thought dismissed his gun. Opened his door and quickly rounded to the passenger side. None of her weight was against the door, so she barely moved as he opened her door and knelt on hot gravel to bring himself down to her level.


    She blinked once as he came into her field of vision, but otherwise, stayed locked in place.


    ¡®Everything¡¯s okay,¡¯ he said as gently as he could. ¡®I know that sounds like bullshit right now, but it¡¯s true.¡¯


    Green slushie dripped off the leather seat onto the gravel and dirt.


    He looked at the cup in her hands - she¡¯d completely crushed it, her fingers ripping through the cardboard to curl back to form two tight fists, each holding onto sodden remnants of the cup. Blood mixed with the ice on her hands, her fists so tight she was cutting into her own skin.


    ¡®Oh, Newbie,¡¯ he said quietly.


    He looked down at his hands and required a copy of a cat plush he¡¯d seen once - an almost perfectly spherical purple cat with huge eyes and a little tail. Carefully, he reached in and grabbed the piece of the cup in her right hand slowly enough so that it wouldn¡¯t scare her.


    ¡®Please, Newbie,¡¯ he said and gave it a tug, gentle enough to not seem threatening, strong enough so she¡¯d have to expend energy to fight him on it.


    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her blink, and at a glacial pace, she relaxed her grip just a little and let him pull the wet cardboard away.


    He dropped the cup to the ground, took her hands in his, just long enough to see that the fingernail cuts were healing themselves, and placed the plush in her sticky hands.


    Her hands immediately curled around the purple cat and pulled it to her chest.


    This little bit of movement seemed to unlock her a little, enough to let her curl further towards the fetal position, her face mashed against the leather of her seat, eyes aimed out towards the park, but not really seeing anything.


    He turned his back to her and sat crosslegged, the back of his head just barely touching one of her pointed knees. ¡®Just¡­tell me when you¡¯re okay. We don¡¯t have to move till you are.¡¯ He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out the pen she¡¯d gotten him as a present for officially becoming an aide.


    ¡®Got this if you need to talk.¡¯


    There was no change to the engraving on the clip. It just sat as the poking-tongue-emoji that had been her final parting shot after a playful argument about Star Trek uniforms.


    He required a tablet and brought up the specs for this car - he¡¯d only made a few alterations to it, mainly in the performance and armour categories - driving around in an Agency uniform made for an ongoing target, even if the red sports car wasn¡¯t the first thing most Solstice would associate with agents.


    ¡®It was the truck horn, wasn¡¯t it?¡¯ he said. Unless this had been an entirely out-of-the-blue panic attack, the loud horn had been the only external stimulus that had coincided with her reaction.


    And itshe wasn¡¯t as though she didn¡¯t have moments where she froze without external cause, nothing he could clue in on. But¡­a lot of those moments seemed to come more from stress, and the scream he¡¯d heard had been pulled from some deep, primal place of pain or fear.


    After a long moment, the engraving on the pen¡¯s clip changed to a thumbs-up.


    ¡®What I can do is change the sound-proofing qualities. I can-¡¯ He paused and looked at a few more options. ¡®Actually, I can entirely filter out that entire category of sounds. It might fuck us a little if we¡¯re ever in a chase with a truck or something, but I¡¯m going to take that risk.¡¯


    He made the necessary changes, and with a button tap, the car behind him refreshed, taking on the new attributes - and clearing away all the splattered slushie, though not the chunks that had melted into her uniform.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    ¡®There,¡¯ he said. ¡®Doesn¡¯t help what happened, but it can help going forward.¡¯


    For a long few minutes, there was nothing but the background sounds of traffic and the closer noise of someone stupidly mowing their yard during the hottest part of the day.


    Something soft touched his hair, and he smiled as Stef bounced the purple cat up and down on his head.


    ¡®I¡¯m covered in green.¡¯


    ¡®I know, Newbie.¡¯


    ¡®I look like Slimer puked on me.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, you do.¡¯


    Slowly, she shuffled behind him, and he moved over so she could slide down to the ground beside him. She held the cat in her lap, turning it over and over, squeezing it gently with her hands that were covered in dried blood and the remains of green syrup.


    She adjusted a bit, pulled out a pointy rock from under her butt, chucked it towards the edge of the parking lot, and then settled, her arm barely touching his.


    ¡®Is this okay?¡¯


    He leaned to bump his shoulder against hers. ¡®The Khitomer Accords do allow for this breach of territory without punitive action.¡¯


    She hugged her purple cat tighter, and with a sigh that made her body sink even lower, she pressed her arm against his. ¡®I didn¡¯t used to- I used to handle everything by myself.¡¯ She resumed rotating the plush. ¡®But now it¡¯s like- There¡¯s people I can rely on, and that¡¯s still scary. And I know I¡¯m too much. And- I want you to be mad at me cause I fuck everything up. And I want you to hate me-¡¯ Her voice shook. ¡®And even more than I want you to hate me, I want you not to hate me.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t hate you, Newbie. There¡¯s not a lot you could do to make me hate you. This was a bad moment. You had a bad moment. If we stay friends, I¡¯m gonna see you have a hundred more, a thousand more, and that¡¯s okay,¡¯ he said, stressing the last two words. He shuffled to sit facing her. She was staring at the patch of ground between them, arms still tightly wrapped around the cat. ¡®Look at me? I know it¡¯s hard.¡¯


    After a moment, she lifted her head enough to stare through the hair covering her eyes.


    ¡®I know things are easier for you when they¡¯re said in really plain words. So you know there¡¯s no subtext or doublespeak or whatever. I don¡¯t hate you. I don¡¯t think less of you when you have a bad moment. I would like to be a better friend and know your coping mechanisms or what you want me to do in specific situations. There, okay? Got me?¡¯


    She puffed out a long breath and blew some of the hair out of her face. ¡®I hear you.¡¯


    He waggled a finger. ¡®There¡¯s no ¡°buts¡± okay?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, there is. I just had a rock poking in mine.¡¯ She smiled weakly. ¡®Okay. I¡¯ll trust for now that there¡¯s no ¡°buts¡±.¡¯ She pressed a hand to her chest, and her uniform finally refreshed itself, clearing away the sticky, melted slushie. ¡®It doesn¡¯t usually- I¡¯ve heard trucks before. Just not- Not that close for ages. It¡¯s different when they¡¯re on the street, and you¡¯re in a building. And I was feeling good and safe and- And- Just- Just- Ripped straight through. Car accident. I was in a car accident. I don¡¯t know if I said that. EMS didn¡¯t bother pulling me out at first cause they thought I was dead. I mean- I musta looked dead. Had enough shit ripping holes in me. The fact that nothing fucked with my spine is some sort of miracle.¡¯


    ¡®Holy shit, Newbie, I¡¯m so sorry.¡¯ The words came out reflexively. It was the kind of rote thing you said when someone shared a tragedy. ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ he said, trying to sound sincere and not like a sympathy greeting card.


    You weren¡¯t always supposed to share a similar story, even if it proved you could empathise with their situation. It could be seen as taking the spotlight off them, but- If he was wrong, he could apologise, but part of him knew she¡¯d appreciate the context.


    ¡®My little sister got hit by a car. I was like, nine, she was like, seven. Drunk guy mounted the footpath, she was in the driveway. We were gonna go out- My parents weren¡¯t watching.¡¯ He brushed the ground in the small patch between them and drew a naughts-and-crosses board. ¡®She¡¯s the reason I do okay with you. With your¡­you-ness. It was different with her. She was close to non-verbal all the time, so I got really good at trying to figure out what her tells meant. When she was angry versus frustrated, when something was a little problem, when something was going to cause a meltdown. Even if- There are always going to be people who understand you and people who don¡¯t understand you. You need to stop thinking you¡¯re worthless just because your brain is a bit different. Everyone¡¯s got stuff, Newbie, even if it¡¯s not as obvious.¡¯


    ¡®Most¡­¡¯ Her voice faded, and she drew a circle into the board, then wiped the dust on the leg of her pants.


    He drew a cross.


    ¡®It¡¯s hard. Existing¡­when you feel like bedlam orderlies could show up and drag you off to a padded room. It¡¯s not safe being like me. Not safe having other people know what I am. You-¡¯ Tears dropped into the dirt. ¡®You are the first friend- First? Yeah, first really. I don¡¯t remember most of primary school. The only reason anyone spoke to me at boarding school was public civilness, and most of the time, that didn¡¯t exist. You are my first friend, and I am terrified to say anything.¡¯ She dropped the cat onto the ground. ¡®Everyone has stuff, fine. How many hurt themselves to get through a conversation. Or-¡¯ She blew her nose into her sleeve. ¡®How many have hallucinated? How many have a voice in their head?¡¯ Her question barely made it out through ragged breaths.


    She looked terrified. Blue eyes sat wide in a snotty, tear-streaked face, her expression telling him that the merest thread of a tether was stopping her from shifting away and never coming back.


    He¡¯d seen men about to die less afraid than the girl in front of him.


    ¡®I¡¯m still here. I¡¯m not leaving.¡¯


    She blew her nose into her other sleeve.


    He retrieved the cat and offered it to her.


    Stef stared at it for a moment, wiped her nose again, lifted the cat out of his hand, dropped it into her lap, and then took his hand with both of hers. ¡®Is it- Really okay?¡¯ she asked, staring at the ground.


    ¡®Yeah, Newbie, it is.¡¯


    She squeezed his hand and let out a shuddering breath. ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    He looked at her carefully - sometimes, there were times to push. Sometimes, there were times to back the fuck off, and moments like this needed a very, very careful decision. The terror was mostly gone, but some shadow of it still remained, some unneeded reminder of how fragile she was.


    She¡¯d trusted him with the big thing, so maybe it was okay to ask the questions that would help him help her, to be the kind of friend she deserved.


    Unfortunately, the book recommendations he¡¯d gotten from Two didn¡¯t cover anything in this arena - he¡¯d focussed on supporting what was obvious, what he¡¯d been able to glean from their interactions, the moments that had led to giving her the soundboard, or figuring out how to work with her inconsistent concentration. To draw out the occasional seconds that would let her feel accomplished and to see her weird, unpracticed smile.


    These were entirely new waters.


    She was still holding his hand, and he angled his hand a little so that she wasn¡¯t doing all the work.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got voices in my head¡± brought to mind a hundred horror movie images, conjecture if something like that was even real - even possible - and on and on, a pile of useless facts, trivia and tropes.


    Having read some comics with Harvey Dent in them meant nothing. Being able to approximately quote a bunch of Gollum dialogue was useless.


    He needed to tread carefully.


    One time, he¡¯d asked her, ¡°tell me what I need to know¡±, to not push for information but to let her know he was listening. Part of him was tempted to go this route again, but it didn¡¯t seem quite right.


    ¡®What would you like to tell me?¡¯


    Her hand jumped under his, surprised at something - either that he¡¯d spoken, or that he¡¯d asked this question, or maybe that they were still there.


    ¡®I¡¯ve-¡¯ her knee bounced. ¡®It¡¯s not like I¡¯ve ever- Talking about it is hard. Like. It¡¯s hard and weird to even put it into words in my brain.¡¯


    A car pulled up at the other end of the lot, and three tiny primary schoolers immediately ran for the playground. Their mother followed, imploring them not to get their uniforms too dirty.


    ¡®I told Ryan it¡¯s like I¡¯ve always had an older sister in my brain. It¡¯s not how I think of her - me, her, me - but it¡¯s an easy analogy.¡¯ She pulled her hand away to draw in the dirt, not a rejection of him, but some easily understandable ¡°need to do something with my hands¡± moment. ¡®I¡¯m- I¡¯m always me.¡¯ She wasn¡¯t looking at him, and the tremble was back in her voice. ¡®It¡¯s not like- You don¡¯t have to get used to Newbie-one and Newbie-two or something.¡¯


    Her left hand latched onto her head, and he could see her fingernails digging into her scalp.


    ¡®Hey, you don¡¯t-¡¯


    She shuffled to turn a little away from him, enough so that he didn¡¯t reach for her. ¡®I always- I already told you the bad bit,¡¯ she said. ¡®Leaving this bit unsaid now-¡¯ She wrenched her hand away from her head to hold onto the stuffed cat with both hands. ¡®I think it¡¯s easier cause I told Ryan already. But I¡¯m- I¡¯ve had this bottled up since I was barely older than them,¡¯ she said, lifting the plush to point at the kids on the playground. ¡®Do you know what- What it¡¯s like to have been crazy for what feels like your entire life? Especially when it¡¯s- It¡¯s not a- We¡¯re barely past the point where having depression or anxiety, both of which I very much have,¡¯ she said, bouncing the cat emphatically, ¡®is something more than a very special episode of TV. I know I¡¯m a lot, and I¡¯m a lot, even without this. And this is this the kind- I¡¯m some special edition secret magic fed now, and I¡¯m still- I don¡¯t know that bouncy walls and hug jackets aren¡¯t in my future. I¡¯ve never been safe enough to not worry about that.¡¯ She leaned a little and put the cat on his hand, holding his hand by proxy. ¡®So I hope you have some idea how much friendship XP you¡¯ve power-levelled through.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m still here, Newbie. You didn¡¯t scare me off.¡¯


    She let the cat rest on his hand and switched to patting its head, fingers pulling dust and leaf litter from the fur. ¡®It¡¯s just basically like- Like there¡¯s a more responsible me in here. Someone who isn¡¯t stupid and distracted all the time. The optimal Stef, the all-business-mode Stef, the one who stops me from walking into traffic and tells me to eat when I¡¯ve had nothing but Coke for thirty-six hours.¡¯


    He nodded, taking it all in. This wasn¡¯t some villain origin story or even some more mundane¡­faces? His fingers itched to take notes about what he would need to research. What terms he was going to need to know.


    It sounded nice, in a strange way. To have someone looking out for your best interests, even if that person was¡­also yourself?


    ¡®Do I need to call h-her, you, anything different? Do you need me to do anything different?¡¯


    She shook her head. ¡®Like I said, she doesn¡¯t come out, so it¡¯s always me. It¡¯s more like-¡¯ She twisted her fingers together. ¡®I wish there was some clean metaphor. Just bits that make up the whole. I get to be as dumb and scared in here as I want, and I just get nudged towards something a little less catastrophic, and, yeah?¡¯


    ¡®I think I can handle that, Newbie. Now-¡¯ He let out an ¡°oof¡± as she turned back and hugged him, squeezing the air out of him. ¡®If you kill me,¡¯ he said, ¡®that¡¯s a breach of the accords.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not used to hugging people that need to breathe.¡¯ Her grip didn¡¯t lessen. ¡®Thank you- For being safe. For- Friend. Being a friend.¡¯


    He pressed his right foot into the ground and gave himself the leverage to change positions just a little bit so that he could awkwardly hug her back. Gently, nothing she couldn¡¯t break away from, hopefully not too much to handle.


    ¡®If- If I think about- Think of anything else I need to tell you,¡¯ she said, pulling back after a minute, wiping more snot and tears onto her sleeve, ¡®I¡¯ll let you know. But- I think these are the important bits.¡¯ Her gaze was off to the side, but he was getting to know her well enough to know this wasn¡¯t just ¡°direct eye contact avoidance¡±, this was ¡°ooh, something shiny¡±.


    And he didn¡¯t even need to turn his head.


    ¡®You can have a turn when the kids leave,¡¯ he said. ¡®Just for five minutes, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Ten.¡¯


    ¡®If I agree to ten, promise you won¡¯t ask for fifteen.¡¯


    ¡®Deal.¡¯ Without looking, she held out a pinkie, which he shook.


    It would have been weird to say ¡°thank you¡±, but he mouthed the words at the back of her head as she sucked on another slushie while she waited for the kids to finish with the playground, and by the look of the pacing mother, it wouldn¡¯t be a long wait.


    It was something big, and he still wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d earned the trust she had in him, but he had time to work on it.


    On the day he¡¯d escaped Adelaide, Doctor Farnshaw - who, of all the agents there, had treated him the most like a human, if a monstrous one - had told him to find a reason to keep breathing, to make something of his second chance.


    For a long time, becoming an aide had been the thing that had kept him going, but it had never felt like what Farnshaw had meant. Becoming an aide was more¡­a way to keep breathing. A path to finding something worthwhile to do with his second chance.


    And it was starting to seem more and more like being friends with a girl who needed a signature to confirm their ongoing friendship status might just be a good reason to breathe, so long as she dialled down the strength of any future hugs, lest she accidentally grind his bones to dust.


    It wasn¡¯t a lot in the grand scheme of things, but it didn¡¯t have to be. It just had to be enough.


    The car with the mum and kids pulled away, and Stef turned to him, everything about her demeanour embodying a puppy begging to play.


    ¡®Ten minutes,¡¯ he said, his tone serious but letting a smile onto his face.


    ¡®Yipee,¡¯ she said, scrambling to her feet and running - Stef running, which was a weird kind of gentle jog - towards the wooden play structure.


    ¡®Yipee?¡¯ he echoed, but couldn¡¯t keep the smile, a real, unaffected, not-carefully-calculated smile off his face.


    He let out a long breath, and for the first time in forever, it was easy to breathe.

 00 - Ebb & Flow - Cover and Introduction

    Welcome to Ebb and Flow, Book #4 of Ash and Blue.


    <div>


    For Stef, it¡¯s time for her first proper steps as an agent ¨C and her first assignment brings her face to face with the undead mermaids that inhabit the river¡­and the long-ignored reality that they represent.


    For Curt, he¡¯s juggling Stef as well as Brisbane¡¯s newest newbie, an international transfer that Ryan has taken in as a favour to be called in later.


    And for Vincent, it¡¯s time to figure out how many of Australia¡¯s animals can kill you, and what happens when you get swooped by a magpie.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Ebb and Flow will introduce us to the Phoenix Agency, and as a little cheat sheet, we¡¯ve created a partial organisation chart for your reference.


    <h2>Warnings</h2>


    We will update this as we go, but as a general note going in, we¡¯ll be getting quite a few chapters from a massively traumatised character (Jonathan, this isn¡¯t a spoiler, as the first couple of paragraphs of Chapter #2 will give you a hint as to what we¡¯re in for), and while there isn¡¯t anything directly on-screen (yet ¨C and there might not be), a lot of his thoughts indicate a severe level of abuse. So. Maybe have something sweet to eat, or a plush to cuddle while reading these.


    Don¡¯t worry, the jokes are coming, Shade is co-writing with Stormy this time around.

 01 - The Veil

    Queen St Agency, Brisbane, Australia


    Halloween


    ¡®I hate this.¡¯


    ¡®Newbie, you have to understand, on the scale of things, this isn¡¯t so bad.¡¯


    Stef rummaged again through the decorated pillowcase to look at the goodies he¡¯d brought back. Halloween, trick or treating through the Tech Department, Tech Treating, and she was too Top Secret to attend, even in disguise.


    At first, when Curt had told her about Tech Treating, she¡¯d imagined people handing out the kind of thing you¡¯d expect - or what a basic amalgam of real and assumed knowledge had told her to expect.


    When she¡¯d been a little kid, Halloween wasn¡¯t something people did in Brisbane - it was, despite more obvious roots, seen as an American Thing and to be shunned, with only the occasional weirdo doing their own Halloween party. Some kids had trick-or-treated to their own front doors as some sort of compromise, but it had been a very fringe thing.


    Her years at boarding school had left her away from most holidays and celebrations - and it wasn¡¯t the kind of thing her family had officially celebrated unless they were hooked into some sort of charity event as a tax break.


    And when she¡¯d returned, she¡¯d come back to a place that now had at least small selections of decorations in most grocery stores and department stores - still fringe. Still, definitely, something people were becoming more and more accepting of.


    Probably something to do with people around her age going, ¡°it¡¯s candy and costumes, stop hating¡±.


    But this would have been her first chance to really embrace it, really have fun¡­and she was locked away like a high-tech Cinderella banned from attending the ball.


    Curt, in a full green-shirt-Kirk uniform - though with nothing done to his hair - had gone to the Halloween party with Raz and then done the Tech Treat loop to bring her the goodies.


    The Tech Treat loop accounted for the socially anxious in a way that was really¡­kind and meant she¡¯d be able to do it without issue the following year. Instead of person-to-person interactions, Techs set up stations and stands that dispensed the treats at the push of a button.


    This allowed people to either go ham, slamming the red ¡°dispense¡± button as many times as they liked, which would require a copy of the treat onto the stand each time it was pushed - and for the stands that had a randomised-gacha-mechanic for treat options, lots of buttons were pushed a lot of times.


    Recruits with allergies could press one of the other buttons - yellow that would dispense a treat that automatically catered to their allergies, and that would do its best to match the taste of the ¡°primary¡± option - or blue if you wanted a non-food alternative.


    And the stand setup generally encouraged the recruits that took part to do a little more than set up a button that gave out fun-sized assorted chocolates - if you were inclined, you could spend an entire year virtually designing your treat stand, finding the most aesthetic cookies and treats to copy, and finding the best, weirdest, most unique non-food options to include.


    So out of the pillowcase-slash-bag, she pulled cakes with shimmery fondant, sugar cookies with intricate royal icing designs, customised chocolate bars with Agency memes on the wrappers, and dozens more items.


    A few bottles clanked at the bottom, which she carefully pulled out.


    ¡®Melissa - Recruit Holden from Combat - has been doing holiday beers for a while, apparently. And Pallas got in on it by designing the bottles.¡¯ He pointed at the details - one bottle was curved slightly, another had pumpkins embossed, a third had a tentacle running up the length and wrapped around the cap - making it impossible to open, except by dismissing the cap.


    ¡®I¡¯ve never really done beer,¡¯ she said. ¡®It¡¯s not ladylike.¡¯


    And I was usually going for expedience.


    Curt pulled the bottles to his side of the table. ¡®I¡¯ll stash them in my fridge then.¡¯


    She unwrapped a pumpkin cookie. ¡®Permission to ask a dumb Newbie question?¡¯


    He grinned. ¡®I¡¯m kind of surprised it¡¯s taken you this long. I can roughly guess your line of questioning, but go ahead.¡¯


    She wiggled in her seat. ¡®I didn¡¯t ask earlier because I was waiting for shit¡­to hit¡­the fan,¡¯ she said. ¡®It¡¯s the basis for like every Halloween movie. Okay, not like¡­¡± Halloween¡± Halloween, with-¡¯ She lifted her hand and mimed stabbing. ¡®Rii-rii-rii.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s Psycho,¡¯ he commented mildly and opened a bar of chocolate with a picture of a bloodsoaked Parker-2 on it. ¡®Halloween is¡­dum-dum-uh,¡¯ he paused. ¡®I can¡¯t do it off the top of my head. Something synthy?¡¯


    ¡®Every Halloween-not-Halloween-Halloween movie and most anything even partially aligned with fantasy has some kind of Halloween rule. So why would reality, the most fantasy-aligned thing there is, not have some kind of Halloween rule?¡¯ she asked, bouncing her fists lightly up and down off the table.


    ¡®Because some shit is just made up.¡¯ He opened the pumpkin-embossed beer. ¡®I think there is something, going way back, way- Like ¡°shittily recorded bits of fae history¡± back where some courts and other areas would be more or less accessible at certain times of year. Places that are less stable than the spaces the modern courts occupy. Maybe that¡¯s what metamorphosed into the myth? Or maybe it¡¯s just humans looking for an auspicious day of the year to want magical things to happen?¡¯


    Given that she was the kind of person who always jumped in puddles wanting to fall into Faerie or had always looked for weird paths at the edges of her family estate, wanting there to be an auspicious day of the year with more than understandable


    ¡®So there¡¯s nothing?¡¯ she asked.


    ¡®Nothing I know  of. Given that it¡¯s usually ghosts, I agree with Carmichael¡¯s theory that a whole bunch of mirrorfalls in history have happened in the latter half of the year and through lost history and time compression, it¡¯s all been blamed on Halloween.¡¯


    She bit the pumpkin cookie in half. ¡®So tell me something weird that¡¯s real.¡¯


    Curt rolled his beer between his hands for a moment. ¡®Hm. Boring. Boring. Depressing. Probably a myth.¡¯ He leaned forward and took a petit four with a ghost design painted onto it. ¡®Oh, Brigadoon¡¯s real. Is that weird enough?¡¯


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    She squirmed in her seat, pointlessly trying to hide her excitement. ¡®Pls tell now.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, so it¡¯s not called Brigadoon. I¡¯m sure that¡¯s no shock.¡¯ He set his beer aside. ¡®I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s called; this is a story Carmichael told me ages ago. Basically, there¡¯s this village that¡¯s in one of those less permanent, less stable court bubbles, though I think they did something to the space to purposely unmoor it from the planes. Anyway- Every seventy years, it appears for a week, and in that week, every day it¡¯s here, a year passes there. And in the week it¡¯s here-¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯s ¡°here¡±?¡¯ she asked. ¡®Does it pop in against Faerie, Earth, or what?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a different spot each time. That¡¯s the annoying part. It¡¯s not something that there can be a standing plan for. Not to mention, as it is now, the Agency has only had to deal with it..two, maybe three times? And when it does appear, they send out scouts trying to get new villagers, so that their population doesn¡¯t stagnate and so that some people can escape.¡¯


    ¡®So they¡¯re evil. Evil time-travelling village.¡¯


    ¡®Pretty evil, yeah. I know it¡¯s not a lot of time they have to deal with the-¡¯ His hands shaped around an imaginary sphere. ¡®I always hate when people use the phrase ¡°the real world¡± when it¡¯s not really the right thing to say, but it does get the point across.¡¯


    ¡®The temporally-locked world?¡¯ she suggested.


    ¡®Nerd,¡¯ he muttered.


    ¡®You¡¯re¡­currently dressed as Kirk, Padawan.¡¯


    He reached to the side, then lifted an old-school TOS communicator to his face, and flipped it open. ¡®Captain¡¯s Log, stardate¡­99432.34, the strange lifeform, Newbius Pedantus, has, unfortunately¡­made a good point.¡¯


    She dug into the bag, looking for anything she¡¯d missed, and found a bouncy ball with the Tech Department logo on it. ¡®So, they don¡¯t have a lot of time interacting with the regular timestream, but there are obviously options other than kidnapping. It makes them an automatic enemy to anyone who sees them, which is the opposite of having any sort of sustainable future.¡¯


    ¡®It makes me think of the Borg,¡¯ he said, then stiffened a little as if shocked he¡¯d said it out loud.


    Be gentle. He¡¯s still learning it¡¯s okay to be a nerd.


    ¡®How so?¡¯


    It took him a moment to relax his body - something she found strangely familiar. ¡®There are a lot of good Borg episodes. But-¡¯ He looked like his awkward meter was about to break. ¡®I think their motives and their actions are at odds. Their stated goal is to- Look. Some of this is my opinion.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re allowed those, Padawan.¡¯


    ¡®They want perfection, and they want to assimilate from cultures to achieve that. It would make more sense to, say, take ten per cent of a population so that they get a good cross-section, capturing all the elements of culture, science, tech, whatever adds to their idea of perfection. More than that is just redundant data. It¡¯s why they tend to avoid single ships, at least in most episodes, because their goal isn¡¯t to convert the entire galaxy.¡¯ He finished his beer. ¡®Or at least leave kids behind - throwing them into maturation chambers is a pointless waste of resources when there are at least,¡¯ he threw his hands up, ¡®a dozen on-screen examples on how to grow a clone in a day or so. Take smaller samples, focus more on gathering resources from empty planets, and suddenly, the galaxy leaves you alone, especially those species that have already been harvested from, because they know they¡¯re safe.¡¯ He looked away when he saw her smile. ¡®Fine. I have a lot of Star Trek thoughts. I¡¯m just not used to sharing them.¡¯


    A thought replaced her Agency uniform with Spock¡¯s uniform, and she quirked an eyebrow. ¡®Sharing your thoughts is¡­logical, Captain.¡¯


    ¡®Not-Brigadoon occupies a similar place in my mind. No one knows why they cut themselves off; that¡¯s been lost to history. Could have been a cult. Could have been some small court that wanted isolation, like some attempt to recreate the myth of the Golden Court¡¯s disappearance. They could put forth any attempt at peace, and they¡¯d have dozens of volunteers - anthropologists, humanities students, history students, because there has to be some old, isolated fae in there. But they choose violence, every time, and it¡¯s¡­stupid.¡¯


    ¡®Not logical,¡¯ she remarked.


    ¡®No,¡¯ he said, ¡®not logical.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry it¡¯s not what you expected.¡¯


    There had been so many things that hadn¡¯t been what she¡¯d expected since Ryan had shown her the magic of the world. Places where facts butted up against where myths and fairy tales had led her to believe something else.


    Unicorns were extinct, hunted because they had been so delicious. Dragons were more like weird crocodiles than wise, ancient old men who sat on piles of gold. Fairies were only Barbie-sized when they wanted to be, though some lived that way in order to save money.


    And far from living in toadstools and tiny, picturesque, made-of-straw-stone-and-stick houses, Faerie boasted cities that rivalled anything on Earth, and had much faster internet.


    Joining the Agency was an ongoing adjustment, and this was something easy enough to incorporate into her worldview. No thinning veil on Halloween at least meant that it wasn¡¯t any more dangerous than any other day.


    The unicorns were dead. Vampires weren¡¯t real, well, there weren¡¯t Draculas running around in capes going ¡°blergh¡±, though there were various fae who did drink a little - or a lot - of blood.


    ¡®Zombies?¡¯


    ¡®Newbie, I love when you just say random nouns.¡¯


    ¡®A logical being would be able to deduce my question from context clues.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re the closest thing I¡¯ve ever met to a zombie. People like to call the trashmaids zombies, which is only kind of accurate. There¡¯s no,¡¯ he held out his arms, stiff and rocked from side to side, ¡®no brain-eating menaces.¡¯ He tipped his empty beer bottle at her. ¡®Other than the ones I¡¯m going to kill in about an hour.¡¯


    She blinked. She blinked again. ¡®I would desperately love context.¡¯


    ¡®A logical being would be able to deduce my meaning from context clues.¡¯


    She threw the Tech Department bouncy ball at him.


    ¡®The Techs have Tech or Treat. Combat does a haunted house in a sim room. Mags is expecting me in an hour for my slot. I fully expect and welcome her to kick my ass in the scoring department, but I¡¯m not going to go down lightly. Though I might go d-¡¯ He coughed. ¡®I take it that idea appeals to you?¡¯


    She let out a sigh. Another thing she couldn¡¯t do because she was Top Secret. ¡®Could you ask her to email me a link to the sim so I can run it in my room? I won¡¯t get into whatever official rankings there are, but-¡¯ she shrugged. ¡®It¡¯s something?¡¯


    ¡®Agent Jones-¡¯ he started, his face strangely neutral.


    ¡®Jonesy,¡¯ she corrected automatically.


    ¡®-set you up with a dummy access account, right? Or whatever you¡¯d call it. So you can interact with the intranet without letting people in on your secret?¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®Yeah, I have an entire fake profile. She pulled one of the retired recruit sims, so there¡¯s a name and face and enough data to pass at a glance, which is all is needed since I¡¯m supposed to restrict interactions to an absolute bare minimum. Which-¡¯ She grimaced. ¡®If you have seen some of the bullshit code I have seen people workshopping in the forums, you would understand the superhuman-¡¯


    ¡®Spock!¡¯


    ¡®Captain?¡¯


    He held up his phone. ¡®Mags said you can guy-in-the-chair for me if you owe her a favour.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®Deal! I-¡¯ Something caught her eye.


    Zoom and enhance!


    She focused on his phone, and her eyes adjusted, making even the small text legible. ¡®Captain?¡¯


    ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, fuck,¡¯ she said, ¡®those texts are from yesterday!¡¯ She found her face trying to slip between pleased, confused and frustrated. ¡®So what- Huh?¡¯


    His smile was genuine. ¡®C¡¯mon, Newbie, I wouldn¡¯t leave you out of fucking zombie hunting. You¡¯d break our Accords and declare war if I did.¡¯


    Warm fuzzies spread a pleasant static in her chest. ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    He tapped his phone, and a link appeared in his HUD. ¡®That¡¯s the operator lobby for when I go in. I would like to at least finish somewhere in the middle, so keep me alive?¡¯


    ¡®Of course, Captain.¡¯

 02 – The Bloody and The Broken Man

    Phoenix Agency, Arizona, USA


    Halloween


    If he was human, he¡¯d be vomiting from stress.


    Someone - multiple someones - called his name, but he couldn¡¯t see, couldn¡¯t hear, couldn¡¯t focus. Someone grabbed his arm, and he screamed, the drying blood around his mouth cracking and pulling on his skin as his face distended. If he screamed long enough, hard enough, maybe it would all rewind, go back to how it had been before-


    ¡®Jonathan!¡¯


    The someone hadn¡¯t let go of his arm and now had a hand on his shoulder. No. No contact. No touch. He had to be- Needed space. Needed to scream until he woke Chaos, and the universe reset.


    Gentle words were being spoken in his direction, and only the most distant part of him could appreciate that someone was trying to comfort him.


    He heard words. Victor. Solstice. Desertion. Insistent tones demanded to know what had happened. What had triggered the lockdown. Why he had his director¡¯s blood on him, why there were corpses. Why-


    Joel was dead, and it was his fault. He¡¯d been following orders, too scared to ever say no. And now- Some of the blood on him was Joel¡¯s. Most of what was on his hands was Joel¡¯s. He¡¯d held him, his only friend, and he¡¯d just been¡­gone. Nothing but blood.


    And Victor had laughed.


    He pulled away from the man holding his arm and shoulder, stumbled into the wall, and cried out in pain as the still-open gash made contact. Most of the blood was Joel¡¯s, some was Victor¡¯s, and some was his own.


    And he couldn¡¯t think. Couldn¡¯t deal.


    The world had never been a kind place. He¡¯d known that since - technically before - he¡¯d been born, but this- There¡¯d been no reason he¡¯d been kept alive. No reason he-


    He threw up, crumpled onto his knees, and threw up again, bile splashing onto the spotted grey linoleum.


    He was crying, screaming. He wanted to die.


    A tuft of blond hair entered his field of vision, which gave him some guess at who had been speaking - Jake, from Denver. One of the aides to the regional director. Backup. Someone who could handle the situation.


    Jake put a hand to his forehead. ¡®Sleep.¡¯


    He barely saw the override command in his HUD before-


    * * *


    Jonathan opened his eyes. He was floating. A medical tank of blue. Practical, in its way, but often techs used it for its¡­ recuperative abilities after any surgeries and repairs had been done. It was supposed to feel peaceful, to remind you of the few moments that agents - most agents - had before they truly came online for the first time.


    He had no such peace to return to.


    He took a moment to check himself - he¡¯d been stripped down to his boxers - reasonable, given the injuries that tech would have had to deal with. There were a number of small patches all over his body - both ones that could be removed immediately on exiting the tank and others that were working at dealing with some of the damage inflicted by the fae weapons.


    His HUD told him he¡¯d been out for less than an hour, which, right now, seemed like an eternity. He¡¯d been bleeding, hysterical, and of no use to anyone in the state he¡¯d been in¡­but being forced aside like this felt wrong. Felt like he¡¯d taken the easy way out.


    Someone needed to- He was the only one left who could tell the truth. Victor had run. Joel was- His hands were as clean as a newborn¡¯s, and he could still feel Joel¡¯s blood. And Vincent - he didn¡¯t even know what Vincent¡¯s condition was.


    He opened his Vox contact window to try and see the status of- An error message informed him he couldn¡¯t contact the service at this time and encouraged him to try again later. A standard error message when you were in a blackout zone and even border zones like the Marches. But it was a terrifying message to see in the middle of an Agency with full System strength.


    Behind the banal politeness, behind an error message that he was sure had never been designed to strike fear, was the inescapable fact that he was blocked from one of the most basic functions a HUD was capable of. Which could only mean bad things for him.


    He exhaled a deep breath and sank to the bottom of the tank. He set his feet flat on the glass floor and pushed up, where he broke into fresh, slightly chilled air a moment later.


    In the few previous occasions he¡¯d had to use the tank - Victor didn¡¯t tend - hadn¡¯t tended? He let himself sink back into the blue just enough to submerge his face and scream into the darkness. So much to process. So much. Too much. He should have been dead next to Joel. Should have gotten killed trying to stop Victor from running. Shouldn¡¯t still be here to deal with the fallout.


    He grabbed the side of the tank, drew himself towards it, and pressed his forehead against the glass, trusting it to hold him up, even if he had no inertia to do so for himself.


    He felt empty. Agents didn¡¯t have souls; that was what everyone always said. And it was easy enough to believe - there probably wasn¡¯t an ¡°add soul¡± feature in the agent generation program. But it felt like whatever he had instead of a soul was missing. That some cruel hand had grabbed an ice cream scoop and left him hollow.


    His hand slipped away from the glass, and he let himself fall. The bottom of the tank caught him like the errant trash he was, and he cried. Emotions too big to feel, from a heart he was never sure would feel right again, if it had ever felt good in the first place.


    The tank wasn¡¯t a place he¡¯d been often - Victor hadn¡¯t allowed him enough freedom or assigned the kind of missions with a lot of obvious risk to his person. Victor didn¡¯t like it when other people bruised his toys.


    He was not ready to face whatever awaited him outside the tank. With his contacts blocked, he didn¡¯t dare to try anything else within his HUD - not to try a shift, a requirement, or even to check his email.


    Quarantining him like this was sensible. Once the lockdown had cleared enough for his colleagues and external backup to start gathering any kind of information, they would have been met with puzzle pieces soaked in blood. Useless. Messy. Not the easiest thing to put together.


    So triage had been employed, obviously. Get the injured care. Send teams after the missing. Put the dead in cold storage. Do the basics, and hope that the world hadn¡¯t ended by the time someone was coherent enough to speak.


    No one had tried to read his mind. No matter what form of unconsciousness an agent was placed under, the pain of someone forcing themselves into your brain and rummaging your thoughts like it was some infinite funhouse always cut through. Fact, not speculation, from more firsthand experience than likely any other agent on the planet. Any other agent who had ever lived. Perhaps other than Victor¡¯s previous pets.


    They would ask for his side of things.


    The truth had never been a thing he¡¯d been allowed to partake in. All he knew were the lies he was allowed to tell, the emotions he was permitted to show.


    It was likely - probable - that Victor had built him in such a way that keeping him under control was easier. If he had been an agent running unaltered software, surely at any point over the last fifteen years, he could have-


    He hugged himself, the one little bit of comfort Victor hadn¡¯t been able to strip from him.


    Surely, he would have said something. Would have cried out for help. Would have¡­held onto any passing agent and screamed about his abuse.


    But he had been perfect. Smiling and nodding when expected. Only fighting when it pleased Victor that he do so. He had been made to be a tool. A complicit extra set of hands.


    And now, because of his weakness, Joel was- The one person he¡¯d thought of as a friend-


    If he¡¯d been stronger, he wouldn¡¯t still be able to feel the blood on his hands.


    There was movement outside the tank - people entering whatever lab he was being housed in. He pushed to the surface again and, this time, climbed the short ladder, dressed in the clothes provided.


    His Agency¡¯s Tech - Paulson - jogged up the stairs, tablet in hand, rattling off too many things to properly take in and hear. Results of tests and scans. How long he¡¯d need to keep going with specific treatments. All things that sounded generally positive and generally amounted to ¡°your life isn¡¯t in immediate danger¡±.


    The presence of Agent Jake the aide, and Regional Director Adams - though he insisted on being called Director Wraith - made him less sure that his life wasn¡¯t in immediate danger. Victor had been a monster, and he¡¯d been right there for every step - if they even had part of the story, it was surely enough to-


    Director Adams, on the younger side of the agents in the network, only clocking in at around sixty and wearing the face of a man half that, stepped forward, and Jonathan reflexively took a step back.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡®I would like to give you more time,¡¯ Director Adams said, ¡®but I¡¯ve extended all the leniency I can for now. We need to know what you know. Your Tech says you appear to be in good health, but I need you to tell me if there¡¯s any reason we should hold your debrief here and not in the Denver tower?¡¯


    It might have been an honest question, and it might have been a trap to see what he was willing to say, to judge how loyal he was to Victor. Or, perhaps, if they knew something of what had happened, if he was unwillingly loyal to Victor.


    Programming agents was a lot easier than programming humans. Still, this entire hideous affair had proved that programming humans was possible with the right lack of ethics.


    His insides twisted as he thought of Joel again.


    He shouldn¡¯t have been able to call a Solstice ¡°friend¡±. Shouldn¡¯t have looked forward to their lunch meetings, but he had.


    All the time, he¡¯d been under Victor¡¯s orders, leading him closer and closer to the lion¡¯s maw, and-


    ¡®Agent?¡¯


    Jonathan lifted his head, wiped away tears, and then tried to focus on the regional director, someone who he¡¯d rarely even been in the same room with. Adams was a long way up the chain, someone who wouldn¡¯t bother with just a Field agent unless something had gone wrong.


    Maybe, if he¡¯d lived a regular life, it might have been different. Maybe people who were more than a plaything got to interact with the rest of the Agency hierarchy, but those chances had never come his way.


    ¡®No.¡¯ He tried to focus, but everything was so hard. ¡®No. Sir. I mean, we should do it here. I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m a risk. I don¡¯t know how much of my code has been-¡¯ he sought for a neutral word, ¡®adulterated. Altered. I am not choosing to be a danger, but I do not know if I am one.¡¯


    Adams looked at Jake, and some silent conversation took place, both agents staring, eyes unfocused in a way that meant they were concentrating on their HUDS.


    He was safe for now. They had put him in a tank and healed him; therefore, they needed to know what he knew, so it wouldn¡¯t be an immediate march to the crystal chamber. His future, however, was far less certain.


    If things were just, he¡¯d be rendered into ash alongside Victor.


    Jake conferred with Paulson for a moment, then moved back to stand beside Adams.


    Paulson mumbled an excuse, then snapped a metal cuff around his left wrist. It was wide, about four inches, and felt artificially cool in the chill of the lab. Paulson tapped a few things on a tablet, and then a pattern of subdued blue dots and lines began to run across the surface of the metal.


    ¡®This will take a while,¡¯ Paulson said. ¡®I¡¯m going to start with high-level scans to look for anything obvious, then go deeper.¡¯ He pointed at the cuff. ¡®This is me tracking you and your System interactions in a safe, firewalled environment so we can additionally track what is actually happening in System transfers versus what is being recorded. You take in blue, you make a requirement, I¡¯m going to know what is really happening so we can compare the logs.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯ll be all for now,¡¯ Adams said and turned back to Jonathan. ¡®All of the recruits have been evacuated. Anyone I don¡¯t need right now has been remanded to quarters, and entire floors of this building are under quarantine. So, for now, we¡¯ll use the presidential suite unless you have a reason to think that may also be dangerous.


    ¡®That should be fine, Regional Director,¡¯ Jonathan said, his gaze falling to the ground. ¡®Victor didn¡¯t use it often. He preferred external meeting sites or to use a less opulent space.¡¯


    Adams snapped his fingers, and the floor he was staring at went from Tech Department linoleum to black marble tile.


    Every Agency had a place like this - a set of rooms that could be used for VIP meetings or accommodation - a place with a far richer taste than the corporate gray-and-red of the rest of the Agency.


    There were fae alcohols kept in stock by their liaison agent. Five-star menus from private fae chefs were a phone call away. And all the touches - the decor, the subtle scents in each room, even the angle at which the blinds hung - were designed to make you feel like a king for a day.


    So, of course, he felt even smaller.


    Adams - he couldn¡¯t give himself the familiarity or status needed to even think of the man by his preferred nickname - sat in a leather armchair with Jake standing over his shoulder like a slender gargoyle.


    ¡®You need to sit,¡¯ Adams said, ¡®you¡¯re giving a report, Agent, but we¡¯re not going to start this as antagonists.¡¯


    Jonathan sat and endeavored to take up the least room on the couch opposite Adams¡¯ chair.


    ¡®Start at the beginning.¡¯


    He wanted to start at the beginning of his life, of the moments even before that, to give an extensive list of every single one of Victor¡¯s crimes. Both those he¡¯d been a party to and a victim of, which in some sad cases had been one and the same.


    Instead, everything needed to be about this incident. The Regional Director could understand later how depraved Victor was. Still, even just this one incident would be enough to black-list him. Once death had been decided, more than that was really unnecessary.


    Agents were only people at the end of the day, and people weren¡¯t perfect. There were always stories of agents who had gone too far, of exacting revenge, of prolonged, inhumane torture of enemies, and those who had hurt family members and friends.


    Some descriptions rivaled the Remington tapes, which Victor had made him watch in their entirety multiple times. Something his Director had seen as a mild punishment since it was only harmful on the psychological and emotional levels.


    When it came to punishment, the Agency was - as it was in all things - efficient. Remove the problem agent, like excising a tumor, and move on.


    Depending on their crime, sometimes that meant recycling, where their useful parts would survive to potentially be used for a future good. Sometimes, when they had made their evil very apparent, they were destroyed outright so that no part of them could be passed on to future generations.


    ¡®Victor wanted a way around the issue of blue expiring in blackout zones.¡¯ No. That had been the wrong way to start. Phrasing it that way sounded magnanimous and buried the lede on what the project had actually been. ¡®Sorry. Please. Let me start again. I-¡¯


    Jake took a couple of long steps forward and placed a glass of water and a coaster on the table in front of him. ¡®We understand this is difficult. Try and help us understand.¡¯ He gave a wan smile, then stepped back, resuming his position as a gargoyle.


    ¡®An agent can only operate in a blackout zone for a limited time. We can¡¯t do long-term reconnaissance in either Faerie or within Solstice circles. Withdrawal or discovery, it doesn¡¯t work. Recruits can have their blue dropped to zero, but Victor never liked relying on humans. He wanted the reliability of a program without the chance of some blood test or stolen technology outing an operative.¡¯


    Adams folded his hands in his lap. It was a subtle movement, but everything about the tense posture told him that the regional director was running ahead of the story. Putting the pieces together and starting to understand the scope of what he would have to handle.


    ¡®Keep going,¡¯ Adams said, his voice cold.


    ¡®He experimented on Solstice.¡¯ He cast his eyes down. ¡®And a few recruits. Mainly Solstice. Small things at first. People who took plea deals that had been brought in for insignificant actions. Blue-borne coding that would change the brain and would last well past the point where it had turned to ash. Behaviors, triggers, missions that could run weeks after leaving System territory.¡¯


    ¡®Arcane mother and fucking Chaos,¡¯ Adams muttered. ¡®All right. Continue.¡¯


    ¡®He-¡¯ Jonathan stopped. ¡®We. We, Regional Director, we. I am complicit. I- Helped him. This was his work, but I helped him and-¡¯


    Adams held up two fingers. ¡®You are immaterial right now, Agent. For this moment, you are a vehicle for information. Talk.¡¯


    ¡®It started small. For the plea deals, there wasn¡¯t much room to act under the radar, as there are more people involved in the exit process, even though as Field agent, I was able to cover a lot more of his actions than if he were acting alone. One recruit, we got them to switch from coffee to tea. They haven¡¯t had coffee since.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯ll need their name,¡¯ Jake said. ¡®We¡¯ll need all the names.¡¯


    Jonathan nodded. ¡®Insignificant things along that line. Then it was moved to behaviors. One Solstice was programmed to smoke a cigarette every day at two-nineteen in the afternoon. One was programmed to display a physical tic at the sound of a bell. Escalation on and on.¡¯


    This was all information they needed. And none of it explained the blood on the floor of Victor¡¯s office, over his uniform, which was likely in evidence, or why an Agency director had fled for Faerie.


    ¡®Joel. Joel Rogers. He was the first test subject for a full program. And even that was incrementally adjusted, more added over time. Go in, get information, and bring it back. Or. Put in a good word about a prisoner to help an exchange in our favor. Delay a capture process so that one of our teams could intercept. A man on the inside, and they had no idea.¡¯ He clutched the water glass. ¡®Until they did. They must have found out. Because his failsafe programming was triggered. He¡¯s listed as CI in the drone monitoring program, so we generally know-¡¯


    Was in the monitoring program. Was. Everything about Joel was past tense now. Joel was dead, and it was his fault.


    ¡®We found him on the side of the highway, covered in blood. Victor brought him back here.¡¯


    He was leaving out parts of the story. Details that he would need to fill in later. Need to talk about the other recruits Victor had harmed. Need to detail the fight. To give the blow-by-blow of Victor and Vincent and Joel and himself. What he should have done. How he could have stopped Victor from fleeing. How he¡¯d been too cowardly and too frozen to do anything but weep for his only friend.


    And it was too much. Already it was too much.


    ¡®There was a fight. Joel¡¯s dead. I- Victor knew he- Knew this wasn¡¯t something that could be covered up. He always had plans. Contingencies. This was for the Agency, but he knew it might not be received favorably. I know he triggered some programming in the recruits he¡¯d infected.¡¯


    ¡®Two heart attacks. One massive organ failure. And one recruit with hysterical blindness that was triggered while she was already fighting for her life. At least two partial augments to deal with this and whatever happens with Vincent.¡¯


    ¡®What¡¯s his-¡¯


    ¡®Out of surgery. Brain scans do not look good. Victor. What happened to him?¡¯


    At least this answer was easy. ¡®Clap jacket,¡¯ Jonathan said. A good emergency out for when you needed to be anywhere but where you were. An expensive but over-the-counter item you could buy in Faerie, and an instant ticket away from Earth, away from System territory, and anyone who might pursue you.


    ¡®I¡¯ve always hated that name,¡¯ Jake said, then returned the bemused look Adams gave him. ¡®What? It¡¯s a terrible name.¡¯


    ¡®Any other day, I would engage with you on this.¡¯ Adams turned back to Jonathan. ¡®Specific location, or general?¡¯


    Jonathan shrugged, and he felt small. ¡®He never trusted me with any information that wasn¡¯t crucial to what I was doing, Regional Director.¡¯


    Jake stepped forward and placed a pad and pen next to the coaster. ¡®So share what he did trust you with. We know the recruits that were put into the infirmary because of his escape plan, but we need to know if there are others so that we¡¯re not caught unawares if more time bombs go off.¡¯


    Jonathan lifted the pen. ¡®I¡¯ll do what I can. But- Can I see Vincent first?¡¯


    Adams looked at Jake, then shook his head. ¡®No. I¡¯m sorry. As much as I want to, I need this information before extending you any favor. I can get you a feed of the infirmary, but right now, he¡¯s just an unmoving, unconscious patient. A visit would bring neither of you any comfort.¡¯


    ¡®Yes. Sorry, sir.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t ask for an apology, just understanding. An Agency director has just- These are¡­war crimes? Breach of statutes I didn¡¯t know existed until I started to research them during this conversation. There is likely a team in Central right now starting a committee for this epic pile of fuck that Victor has left behind.¡¯

 03 – A Softened Blow

    Phoenix Agency


    November 3rd


    Jonathan opened his eyes, and immediately looked for Victor. He¡¯d slept without permission, and so he should expect-


    The room was empty, and he was alone. And if any god listened to any prayer, he¡¯d never see Victor again, or at least¡­never be subject to his whims ever again. Never be in his control again.


    He sat up, pushed the thin comforter aside, pressed his back against the wall, and looked across his room and the few items it held.


    His space, but in name only. It barely contained the necessities for people to recognize it as a living space.


    It was two rooms, as most recruit quarters were - the main bedroom and living area, and the bathroom. Unlike default recruit rooms, there was no space sectioned off as a kitchenette - a tell in and of itself - Victor hadn¡¯t taken the easy route and attached a default room to his office. His Director had made the effort to find the floorplan of a smaller, more minimal space, to remind him of what he deserved, how little he had earned.


    The single bed he sat on was jammed in the room¡¯s far corner. To his right, and just past the foot of the bed, was the door to the bathroom, and on the other wall, directly opposite, the door into his office.


    There was no door out to the hall - which wasn¡¯t necessarily unusual, as it was an optional feature for agent rooms - but it was a deliberate move on Victor¡¯s part to make him feel contained.


    And it had worked. He¡¯d never pushed past what parameters Victor had set for him, never tried to get help, and had done nothing except be¡­obedient. Had been exactly what Victor had expected and nothing more. More could have led to pain, to a life even worse, and it hadn¡¯t been worth the risk.


    The room reflected that. The furnishings were of the same quality as elsewhere in the Agency. Still, in some intangible way, they¡¯d always felt lesser than what those around him had. Like they never shone as well, like their quality had been lowered in some way only perceptible to him.


    There was art on the walls, but they were generic three pieces from the suggested section of wall decorations in the room design software. A small wardrobe held generic required items. Nothing special. No pieces of fae-designed clothing. Nothing fancy, bought with some saved per diem, as many of his colleagues had.


    A bookcase likewise held mostly generic items. Enough to look like someone had chosen them, enough so that the room would pass with a quick glance, and no one had ever cared enough to look deeper than that.


    He had two treasures, both acquired in the last couple of months, and since placing them in the room, a heavy shoe had hung above his head as he¡¯d waited for Victor to punish him for hoarding such contraband.


    A quarter, dirty and a little marred, that Joel had given him - change from when he¡¯d handed the Solstice some money to buy a soda.


    It had been so utterly unexpected that he¡¯d had to keep it. A representation of a tiny moment, one of the first flashes that had taken Joel from ¡°skeptical, cautious Solstice¡± who fled their meetings early, crawling out bathroom windows or exiting via kitchens after dropping a flimsy excuse to¡­to something approaching a friend.


    One he had helped to murder.


    The quarter was hidden beneath the rocks of a fake plant that adorned the bookshelf - and he¡¯d been careful to change the plant¡¯s position and rearrange another couple of items so that there had been a plausible reason for the rocks to look even a little different if Victor had cast an eye over the things in his room¡­something that had happened far too often.


    Which is why keeping the contraband had been such a risk. Had probably been the beginning of something, even if he hadn¡¯t wanted to admit it.


    It was a moot point now that everything had changed. But maybe, maybe if things hadn¡¯t gone so catastrophically wrong, then maybe he would have been on a path to finally changing his life. To have Victor answer for all of his crimes.


    Or maybe he would have simply been a coward, as he had always been, and destroyed the coin and the wrapper, too afraid of what could happen if Victor were to turn the full force of his anger on him.


    The second treasure was even sadder, even more pathetic. A candy wrapper from a small piece of chocolate that Vincent had given him as they¡¯d met to discuss an assignment.


    Twenty-five years of life, and this was all he had to show for it. One dead friend. One colleague of unknown status - over the last couple of days of debriefing, the only thing Adams and Jake would share was that Vincent¡¯s status was ¡°not good¡±. He was breathing, he was alive, but¡­no one had been able to confirm more than that.


    Victor¡¯s programming had been devastating, even to the recruits subject to far fewer alterations. Of those whose programming Victor had activated as part of his escape plan, one had been partially and temporarily augmented, and another had quit the Agency - though was still being treated by Honeycutt.


    The recruits who had been only subject to the minor tests - like the tea drinker he¡¯d mentioned to Adams - were under supervision and had been offered counseling to deal with what had been done to them without their consent.


    Perhaps, if he was allowed to live and wasn¡¯t put up against the wall alongside Victor, they might extend the grace of giving him someone to talk to.


    For right now, he knew better than to push. He knew that the only reason he was being allowed the freedom of house arrest was that with Phoenix being on lockdown and his licenses limited, there was currently little difference between his Agency and a lower-security detention facility.


    And the rooms in the lower-security facilities were likely better appointed and better decorated than his current quarters.


    He hated the room, and if he had any choice in the matter, he¡¯d move to a different room, a different floor, a different Agency. Get as far away from his life as he could for some chance at a future.


    That likely wasn¡¯t in the cards.


    Jonathan rose from the bed, required himself into a new uniform, and noted the slight increase in activity in the cuff¡¯s constantly-moving dots of blue as the requirement processed.


    He¡¯d grown used to the monitoring cuff, which was just as well, as Paulson had warned that he¡¯d need to wear it for at least a week.


    Paulson¡¯s reports were going straight to Director Adams - well, more likely to Agent Jake, who would do an aide¡¯s job of filtering away the chaff - yet one more thing in his life that was about him but being done without his involvement.


    It made sense. They still didn¡¯t know whether to treat him like a threat or like unexploded ordnance. It would be unimaginable, truly, if Victor had not left some failsafe programming in him, one last punishment that could be set off remotely, or after his death.


    Even finally separated from his abuser, he wasn¡¯t safe. Might not ever be safe.


    He walked through his office - another place of generic art and no real signs that a full person occupied the space - and walked into the graveyard quiet of Field¡¯s empty halls.


    Jake had told him that - on the orders of Adams - all of Phoenix¡¯s recruits had been given the option of leave. Roughly half had accepted. The others would be operating out of the network¡¯s Outposts.


    Hopefully, Jake had continued, the Solstice would be cautious about their actions, at least for a few days. Whatever had happened, whatever had left Joel shuffling along the highway like a zombie, they surely would have seen as an attack.


    Whether or not they correctly attributed it to the Agency, which he felt they had, as the logical reason that Joel¡¯s failsafe had been activated was tampering by an outside force. And, as much as the Solstice hated magic and Agency technology with every breath, there were people in almost every cell who used it for their own ends.


    And, under torture - for torture was never a last resort for the Solstice - and with some bastardized blue or fairy magic, they could have blundered their way into turning a relatively innocent man into a killing machine.


    For the very cold war they waged, it would be enough to spook them into inaction, at least for a while. After a couple of days of reflection, though, it was sadly possible they¡¯d try and take it out on any recruits they saw, gunning for Agency personnel with even more fervor than usual.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Just one more thing Victor had to answer for. One more sin he¡¯d easily laugh off.


    One more thing Jonathan could have prevented if he hadn¡¯t been a coward since birth.


    He¡¯d always been alone, but the empty halls that usually thrummed with the energy of people living their lives all around him made him understand desolation.


    It felt like the world had ended.


    He walked faster, almost feeling the need to run, and made it to the lounge in under thirty seconds. This had been the heart of the Field floor and somewhere he¡¯d never felt comfortable.


    The space was large, providing both relaxation space and ample tables and benches for recruits to have small meetings or to sip coffee and work on reports.


    And its best feature was the glass-walled balcony that jutted out a dozen feet from the rest of the Agency, allowing you to get some warmth or to lie in a lounge chair and count clouds.


    Beyond the bullet-proof glass, the world hadn¡¯t ended. He fumbled with the catch on the concertina windows and flung a section open, the panels neatly folding in on each other as they rolled away, letting the noise and smell of downtown Phoenix into the tomb that the Agency had become.


    He rested his forearms on the ledge, looked down at the street below, and wished it would do anything if he jumped.


    An hour passed.


    A pigeon landed to his right, cooed, fluttered down to the floor, and began to look for food.


    He stood stiffly and slowly and scattered some required birdseed, silently apologizing to Paulson for the extra work reconciling the requirement log would make.


    The pigeon pecked at the seed, and he walked back into the lounge proper, sat at the bench usually occupied by recruits with laptops, and stared at the fruit bowl, wondering if there was any point in eating.


    He didn¡¯t need to eat, and unlike a lot - most, really - agents, he hadn¡¯t developed the habit of regularly eating. Food was mainly - as was everything in his life - something he had interacted with at Victor¡¯s behest.


    He would eat when ordered to or partake in group dinners, and like everything else, it had never been for his enjoyment.


    It was why Vincent¡¯s candy wrapper had meant so much. It had been a gift of food, given freely, given without the expectation that it bought good behavior or silence.


    He picked up an apple. He picked up an orange. He slowly emptied the fruit bowl, laying each piece out in an orderly row, sorted by size.


    It had been out for days and was still as fresh as when it had been required - and would remain so unless the Agency lapsed out of System territory. Farm fresh, perfect produce, with no one to enjoy it.


    To his right, a few more pigeons joined the first, and he added some more seed to the floor.


    Fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar act, he peeled a mandarin, then slowly separated each perfect, self-contained segment and laid them in a crescent on the polished wood of the bench.


    No seeds pressed against the thin membrane of the segments - many required fruits skipped the seeds, as they were just waste that would be discarded later.


    Piece by piece, he ate the mandarin and tried to enjoy the novelty. Tried to be proud that he hadn¡¯t taken the obvious choice of either the apple or orange.


    Another hour passed. Then another.


    The peel had dismissed itself long ago, tidying subroutines keeping the room in order, even if there was only one person to take care of, and not the usual troop of recruits.


    He was sure that the sounds of the world outside were the only thing helping him cling to sanity.


    Two more hours, and the last of the pigeon holdouts had left, long since satisfied and full of all the seed and crumbs they could eat.


    His HUD, which had gone into a reduced and minimized mode from lack of use - as well as his reduced permissions - resumed its normal layout, and a message notification appeared in the lower right of his workspace.


    Honeycutt. A notification that he was finally allowed to go see Vincent.


    A shift would have added more data for Paulson to sort through, and he was sure he had already burned through whatever goodwill he had with the man thanks to the multiple birdseed requirements.


    And as much as he wanted to see Vincent, to at least know what state the man was in, he had just as much fear at seeing him.


    Jonathan stood and pushed the chair back under the bench, and headed towards the elevator, his pace a lot slower leaving the lounge than when he had fled towards it.


    Every single possibility was bad.


    Vincent could be brain-dead. With the severity of some of the other program triggers, it was more than possible. Destroying a mind, after all, was even easier than making the switch to tea.


    The programming could have made him a different man, could have twisted pieces of his personality, leaving him as someone unrecognizable.


    He could have been left with damage that would take partial or full augmentation to deal with. If it could be dealt with at all. As advanced as Agency technology was, even their doctors and techs had limits.


    Sometimes, a person was just gone, and nothing short of a wish could bring them back, and even then, as Victor had once told him, most wishes rarely gave what the person wanted.


    It was better to deal with reality as it was than chance something worse.


    He rode the elevator up to Medical, something he was sure vanishingly few people in the Agency ever did - all major floors had an entrance to the infirmary - so something this manual, so inefficient, was nonsensical.


    The main hallway of Medical¡¯s primary floor - in truth, all of the medical floors - were far wider than those of the other floors of the Agency. They¡¯d been designed to account for two gurneys to be able to pass each other, surrounded by attendants, without impeding either one.


    The wide sliding doors opened as he neared, and Honeycutt stepped out and motioned for him to stop.


    The Medical Agent was of a height with him, but more ¡°handsome¡±, whereas he knew Victor had designed him to be far more delicate, more breakable.


    Honeycutt¡¯s name extended to his golden hair - a choice the agent had apparently made early in life, despite originally being generated with dark brown hair - and maintained a tidy mustache and beard.


    And Honeycutt had a confidence, an ease, that Jonathan would have killed for.


    He tried to meet Honeycutt¡¯s eyes but failed.


    ¡®It¡¯s not good news,¡¯ Honeycutt said, the words full of his decades of flawless bedside manner. ¡®So I wanted to bring you up to speed before you saw him. Physically, he¡¯s fine, but when it comes to his mind, it¡¯s another matter.¡¯


    He hadn¡¯t expected good news, and the world wasn¡¯t kind enough to subvert his expectations. Jonathan nodded and waited for the bad news.


    ¡®First, his semantic memory seems to be intact. He¡¯s got no problems recalling basic facts. When he realized I was testing him, he seemed to take great amusement in asking me if he was right about certain terms for certain body parts. Which were all accurate.¡¯


    There were reasons that people spoke the way they did. Structured sentences or reports. Which facts were presented first.


    Sometimes, it was efficiency.


    Sometimes, it was to soften a blow.


    The fact that Vincent¡¯s factual recall was intact was good. It meant that - whatever Victor had done - the worst-case scenario hadn¡¯t come to pass.


    ¡®And his episodic memory?¡¯ he asked, still unable to meet Honeycutt¡¯s eyes.


    Honeycutt opened and closed his mouth a few times, then just shook his head.


    ¡®What does he remember?¡¯ Jonathan pushed as the medical agent lapsed into silence.


    ¡®Like I said, semantic is fine. Anything ¡°personal¡±,¡¯ Honeycutt hooked his fingers to make air quotes, ¡®is just gone.¡¯ Honeycutt looked down at the chart in his hands, at the hall, then sighed again. ¡®He¡¯s like a newborn. There¡¯s¡­personality but no memory. For what it¡¯s worth, he¡¯s taking it seemingly in stride, but that¡¯s probably down to the drugs and the blue. He¡¯s going to need time to process it.¡¯


    ¡®Is there-¡¯ The world wasn¡¯t kind, but he needed to ask. ¡®Any chance of recovery? Of any kind of memory? Or has-¡¯


    ¡®We will have to understand Victor¡¯s coding, his processes, and precisely what it does to the mind before we can even begin to answer that. Right now, he¡¯s got a double dose of blue running around mapping everything. I¡¯ve tried the mildest of¡­what you might call nudging techniques. The Agency¡¯s over a century old, this isn¡¯t the first recruit with amnesia, but he¡¯s been immune to them. And I loathe the idea of doing anything more intense until we understand.¡¯


    He nodded. Honeycutt was being responsible. But it left the faintest chance for hope, and he felt himself cleave to it, a life ring in the open ocean.


    ¡®I have to ask,¡¯ Honeycutt said. He pulled the chart to his chest. ¡®Well. So many things, Jonathan. For right now, how involved was Vincent in what¡¯s going on? We understand Joel was a victim, but Vincent-¡¯


    ¡®Innocent,¡¯ he said truthfully. ¡®Anything he did was in line with the values and standards of the Agency. He followed orders, but his part never to do anything wrong. As innocent as a recruit is, I suppose, is the best way to think of him.¡¯


    Honeycutt¡¯s thousand other questions wrote themselves clearly on his face, and Jonathan looked down at the floor again. ¡®Can I see him, please, Agent Honeycutt?¡¯


    Ten hollow seconds of silence passed, then Honeycutt turned and walked into the infirmary.


    He wanted to follow.


    He wanted to run.


    The doors began to slide shut, and if they closed, he knew he wouldn¡¯t be brave enough to try again. He quickly stepped forward, and they opened again, allowing him passage to the one place he needed - and dreaded - to go.


    Honeycutt was standing in front of a bed at the far end of the spacious room, talking to the only occupant. Step after step, he approached, keeping his eyes on the doctor rather than Vincent.


    ¡®This is Agent Jonathan,¡¯ Honeycutt said. ¡®He¡¯d like to talk to you for a while.¡¯


    Jonathan pulled on whatever courage he had and looked at Vincent.


    He looked the same, and somehow, this was almost a surprise. Tall and thin, blond, grey eyes. Vincent was smiling, but it was¡­off, a little left of center from where it should have been. And the eyes¡­there was no recognition there. Once again, he was looking at a stranger.


    ¡®Hi,¡¯ the familiar voice said. He reached a hand past stacked pudding cups. ¡®I¡¯m told I¡¯m Vincent. It¡¯s nice to meet you.¡¯

 04 – Fight, Flight and Flop

    Phoenix Agency


    Halloween


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    It was a small sound. A fingernail against plastic. A hand touched his arm, and-


    Injection. Potential attack.


    He yanked his left arm back, away from whoever was trying to attack him, thrust out his right arm, and aimed for - based on the position the attacker had to be in - the position of his opponent¡¯s throat.


    Contact. He wrapped his hand around the throat and held firm, not tight. He had no actionable intelligence yet. No knowing if this was an enemy or ally or-


    Shouts. His opponent struggled. Hands grabbing at him on his right side, trying to pull his hand away.


    More shouting. Words he couldn¡¯t make out.


    The sound of a safety being released. Words that were obviously a threat.


    He tried to see, but everything was a blur. Words were starting to make sense. ¡°Stop¡± came through a few times.


    He couldn¡¯t stop. Not until he knew the situation.


    Shouting from whoever was at his right. ¡®Let go, or I¡¯ll break your arm!¡¯


    He struggled away, drew his legs up underneath him - dimly aware of the strange, cushiony surface beneath his bare feet - and launched himself forward.


    His jump had been angled to tackle the man in whose throat he held, providing cover - it was a safe assumption that they wouldn¡¯t shoot their ally - and to either provide some stabilization if he managed to stay upright or a softer landing surface if he didn¡¯t.


    The owner of the throat - his vision was finally starting to clear, and he saw blond hair - had good balance, and they both stayed upright. The floor was smooth and cold under his feet, a well-maintained facility, not some Solstice-


    More threats in his direction.


    He yanked the blonde man to him and shifted his grip to a headlock as he looked for a weapon.


    ¡®Recruit!¡¯


    He focused on the voice that had threatened to break his arm. A tall man. A tall agent. A combat agent. A combat agent backed up by recruits. Agency facility.


    Safe. That meant he was safe.


    He loosened his grip on the blond, and one of the recruits stepped forward to pull him away. Another agent. Lab coat. Doctor.


    He looked around and saw that he¡¯d come from a bed. He¡¯d been under that doctor¡¯s care and-


    The doctor shook the recruit¡¯s hand off. ¡®Are you with us?¡¯ he asked.


    He looked around further. The doctor. The combat squad. A gurney with blood on it. Evidence of multiple injuries.


    He looked down at himself and saw that, in the scuffle, his hospital gown had come open and that his dick was hanging out for all to see.


    He started to laugh.


    ¡®Recruit?¡¯ the doctor asked.


    ¡®I¡¯m gonna-¡¯


    The floor was nowhere near as soft as the bed had been.


    Phoenix Agency


    November 1st


    There had been noise, but not enough to wake him. Nothing had sounded dangerous. And the last memory he had was of being in the Agency. Safe. So that meant that until he had orders-


    ¡®Are you awake?¡¯


    ¡®Five more minutes,¡¯ he said automatically.


    He tried to roll over, became aware of a cannula in his left arm, and resumed the previous position.


    ¡®I¡­beg your pardon?¡¯


    He opened his eyes and saw a blond doctor looking down at him. Stitched into the man¡¯s lab coat, beneath the gray-and-red Medical logo, was the name ¡°Honeycutt¡±.


    ¡®Tired,¡¯ he said, wiggled his head against the stiff infirmary pillow, and closed his eyes again.


    ¡®Recruit.¡¯


    He looked at Honeycutt. ¡®Yes?¡¯


    Honeycutt pointed, and he followed the doctor¡¯s finger to see an agent sitting in a chair beside his bed, a novel in one hand while the other held a gun in his lap, ready to be lifted and shot at a moment¡¯s notice. The intense, frowning Combat agent appraised him, then turned to the next page in his book.


    ¡®It¡¯s just a precaution. You were- Uh- Touchy. The last time you woke up. As a show of good faith, you¡¯re not restrained.¡¯


    He blinked and remembered taking Honeycutt hostage and the threats from the combat agent.


    ¡®Sorry,¡¯ he said, his cheeks burning. ¡®I was-¡¯ It had been nothing but confusion. He¡¯d woken up somewhere strange, not knowing who was friend, who was foe, and who-


    He-


    There was an empty space where thoughts should have been. Where information should have been.


    He was in the infirmary. There were bandages on his body, a cannula in his arm, and clear signs he was undergoing some pretty significant treatment program. The infirmary was usually a revolving door. Recruits walked in, injured and bleeding, then walked out minutes later, healed enough to go on. If it was bad, there¡¯d be surgery and maybe an overnight stay. But something about the machines around his bed - and the other bits of information he knew he was absorbing but not consciously able to point to - indicated he was going to be a much longer-term guest than most people who booked into Hotel Infimary-ia.


    Slowly, in a way he hoped wouldn¡¯t spook the Combat agent and give Honeycutt another wound to deal with, he sat up, sat cross-legged, and shook his head, trying to clear whatever fuzz was there from the presumed cocktail of meds and magic in his system.


    The Combat agent noticed his change in position but just kept reading his book.


    ¡®How are you feeling?¡¯ Honeycutt asked and twiddled with a penlight before moving forward to check his pupils.


    He- His brain was a car with a broken starter. He knew Honeycutt¡¯s name from the helpful embroidery. The bald Combat agent¡¯s name eluded him. He didn¡¯t know where he was.


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    He¡­didn¡¯t know who he was.


    ¡®Fuck,¡¯ he said, his voice sounding a little brittle. ¡®I guess you¡¯ve got me on the good shit. How injured was I?¡¯


    The red-and-gray of Honeycutt¡¯s Medical emblem indicated a US Agency. That seemed right - the accents lined up, and it¡­sat right when he thought about it. He was a recruit. They¡¯d called him such, and presumably, this was his Agency; it was strange to receive extended medical care somewhere that wasn¡¯t your home base unless something had gone catastrophically wrong where he was from.


    Which, all things considered, was a possibility.


    It might be okay not to know Honeycutt or the cue ball, but this wasn¡¯t his first time meeting himself. There should have been¡­something there when he searched for his name, not the emptiness of a DVD screensaver pinging around his brain.


    ¡®Recruit, how are you feeling?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m feeling stupid. I¡¯d be better if I knew my own name. Or anything, really.¡¯


    Honeycutt gave him a sad smile but didn¡¯t look surprised. ¡®Some methods suggest trying to prompt you before handing out information, but we¡¯ve got a lot of ground to cover. So, Recruit, it¡¯s Vincent. Vincent Kendall. Does that sound familiar?¡¯


    ¡®Other than the fact it sounds like ¡°Ken doll¡±, not at all.¡¯ And with what he¡¯d seen when his robe had flown open, it was likely unrelated. ¡®Vincent.¡¯ He tried to inject the name into the empty space, but it was eaten by the slowly-pinging DVD screensaver and returned no memories.


    ¡®Do you know where you are?¡¯


    ¡®Agency,¡¯ he said promptly. ¡®I¡¯m not sure which one,¡¯ he said, a little slower.


    ¡®Phoenix,¡¯ Honeycutt said. ¡®I¡¯m Honeycutt,¡¯ he said, pointing to the name on his labcoat, ¡®and that¡¯s Williams.¡¯


    Williams lifted his head in acknowledgment, then went back to reading. Williams¡¯ left hand still held his gun, and he knew immediately that this was unusual. All agents were ambidextrous but defaulted to right-handed use. Even though it wasn¡¯t unusual for humans to shoot with their off-hand, to lessen the chance of damaging their primary hand, agents didn¡¯t usually-


    Oh, I know that, and I don¡¯t know my own name or age. Very useful.


    Williams noticed him staring, and for a brief moment, he allowed a smile to break through his guard-dog expression. ¡®It¡¯s a quirk of my template,¡¯ he said. ¡®Everyone in my line prefers to shoot with their left hand. Don¡¯t make me demonstrate.¡¯


    ¡®What can you tell me?¡¯ Honeycutt asked, and he turned back to the doctor. ¡®Anything. Doesn¡¯t matter how small.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve seen me naked already. It¡¯s not that small.¡¯


    Honeycutt stared, and Williams coughed. After a moment, Honeycutt lifted his hand and made a ¡°go on¡± gesture.


    He - and he was trying to associate the name ¡°Vincent¡± with himself, but it wasn¡¯t sticking yet - tried to think, but it was difficult. It was asking a question without asking a question.


    Technically, ¡°anything¡± could involve opening his mouth and listing every word he knew. He had a working knowledge of English, probably as his first language, since nothing else was coming to mind. He had an understanding of where he was, what the Agency was, and what agents were.


    However, Honeycutt seemed to have inferred all that, so was asking for more meaningful information.


    ¡®What were you doing before you woke up here?¡¯ Honeycutt prompted. ¡®Can you tell me who your lead agent is? Who recruited you?¡¯


    ¡®Sleeping. No. And no.¡¯


    Honeycutt grabbed a table and swiveled it over the bed, then laid a piece of paper and a pen on its white surface. A list of names, mostly single names, some surnames, some first names, some that could be both, were printed in a boring font that some corner of his mind supplied as ¡°default report body text font¡±.


    ¡®Do you recognize any of these names?¡¯ The doctor paused and furrowed his brow. ¡®Specifically, do you know anyone with these names? I¡¯m not asking if you¡¯re aware that the name ¡°Robert¡± exists.¡¯


    ¡°Robert¡± was the first name on the list and, therefore, probably had some importance.


    Or it¡¯s misdirection to make you think it¡¯s important.


    ¡®You¡¯re on here,¡¯ he said, pointing to Honeycutt¡¯s name halfway down the list. ¡®And so is he,¡¯ he jerked a thumb at Williams.


    Many of the names were very¡­agenty, which would logically mean that the other names were other local agents, either from Phoenix or its surrounding network.


    None of the names meant anything to him, though. No faces were conjured in his mind. Where there should have been a lifetime of memories, there was space for rent, dust, and cobwebs.


    ¡®I¡¯m guessing I should know these people?¡¯


    ¡®At least some of them,¡¯ Honeycutt said. ¡®All right, let¡¯s do some more tests.¡¯


    Phoenix Agency


    November 2nd


    ¡®So I can just do it?¡¯


    Honeycutt nodded. ¡®It was deactivated for security purposes, but I¡¯ve gotten the go-ahead from Wraith to at least give you some basic licenses.¡¯


    ¡®Who the fuck-¡¯


    ¡®The regional director,¡¯ the doctor supplied. ¡®When you command the power he does, you can call yourself anything you want.¡¯


    ¡®Just don¡¯t call me late for lunch.¡¯


    ¡®Lunch is on you, then. Go ahead and test.¡¯ Honeycutt smiled. ¡®Please. This is actually important for your progress chart.¡¯


    Requiring. Something he was, in theory, used to. This was recruit day one stuff. ¡°Here¡¯s your uniform, here¡¯s your gun, here¡¯s your phenomenal cosmic powers¡±.


    But with no memory of his time as a recruit, this was his first time, all over again.


    ¡®What counts as a basic license?¡¯


    ¡®Anything that won¡¯t make Williams look up from his book.¡¯


    He looked across the infirmary to the new spot Williams had taken up in a comfy chair against the far wall. Distant enough to show that he was being given a greater deal of trust than his first couple of days, but still at close enough range that - left-handed or not - Williams could put two quick rounds in him if needed.


    It was simply a precaution, Honeycutt had assured him, but explained that the event that had deleted all of his memories might cause some erratic behavior.


    Erratic behavior like taking the medical agent hostage.


    With more and more of Honeycutt¡¯s tests, though, the doctor was openly becoming more sure that the one throat-grabby moment had been more of an adrenaline high and a heightened state of confusion rather than an indication he was primed to go into Terminator mode without provocation.


    In fact, if he managed to get through the afternoon without attacking anyone, Williams would be swapped out with a recruit, meaning his threat level had gone way down.


    Until then, Williams seemed happy - or as happy as the man seemed to get while on Duty - to sit and read. Newspapers in the morning, novels during the day, and lighter material at night.


    He was pretty sure the agent wasn¡¯t sleeping.


    Honeycutt, too, was probably carrying around a sleep debt and a flock of uncounted sheep.


    He slept a lot, sometimes by choice, sometimes thanks to one of Honeycutt¡¯s little needles, when he needed to be unconscious for some scan or test. And whenever he woke up, at least one of the agents was present and awake.


    Maybe Honeycutt was getting catnaps in his office. Maybe Williams was sleeping with his eyes open.


    Either way, it wasn¡¯t good for their mental health. Even with a memory that wasn¡¯t so much Swiss cheese as stolen cheese, he knew that - machine or not - agents did need some measure of sleep. Just like you had to turn a PC off every once in a while or run a defrag, there were things that required an agent to be in a low-power, low-activity state.


    Honeycutt tapped the overbed table. ¡®Recruit?¡¯


    Everything was ridiculous, and he¡¯d known that since realizing there was a good chance he¡¯d never really know who he was, who he¡¯d been.


    There were two paths in front of him. One, where he fully internalized the armed guard waiting for him to breathe wrong, the enormity of losing every memory since a doctor had slapped his ass and announced to his mother that she had a healthy baby boy, and that as comfortable as his life was going to be, whether or not it was going to be ¡°good¡± or even ¡°safe¡± were other questions.


    The other path was following the bliss of the few times since he¡¯d woken up that the tension in the room had been broken. The moments where he¡¯d cracked a joke so bad or made a pun so horrendous it warranted immediate execution.


    Small, stupid moments where Williams had stopped reading, or Honeycutt had looked like his hands weren¡¯t big enough for the facepalm the moment deserved.


    It was an old bit of Agency law that said that a recruit¡¯s first requirement was a good indication of their personality, of the life they would lead in a suit.


    He wasn¡¯t interested in choosing misery.


    He looked over to Williams, gave a little preemptive ¡°calm down¡± wave, and lifted his hand slowly towards Honeycutt.


    The requirement processed, and there was a slight fuzz against his fingers before the feel of cheap rubber solidified, and his fingers gripped the yellow neck.


    He squeezed.


    An indescribable wail filled the infirmary.


    He chuckled as Honeycutt retreated from the noise, then turned the rubber chicken to face him, and he tried to mirror its horrified, bug-eyed expression.


    ¡®I have to agree with his sentiment. That¡¯s absolutely the mood of the day.¡¯


    In his hand, the chicken limply nodded in agreement.


    Vincent smiled as Honeycutt stared, dumbfounded and just the slightest bit annoyed, at the toy and knew, without a doubt, he¡¯d made the right choice.

 05 – The Self and the Certainty

    Phoenix Agency


    3rd November


    Vincent looked through the sliding doors of the infirmary. He could just see that Honeycutt was talking to someone without seeing who the other party was. Not unusual; over the past few days, there had been a lot of conversations about him that hadn¡¯t included him.


    With Honeycutt in conversation outside and the guard recruit in the bathroom, it was the first time he¡¯d been alone since he¡¯d awoken and throttled the doctor.


    He suspected - with good reason - that there was likely someone watching the security feeds of the infirmary, just in case his fight-or-well-actually-just-fight instincts kicked in again.


    With no further incidents, everyone was relaxing more and more and assured him that if the next couple of days went well, he¡¯d no longer need a guard.


    It lined up well with the fact that if things continued to go as they had, he¡¯d likely be released from living in the infirmary and allowed to return to a regular recruit room.


    Not his room, but a new one, Honeycutt had explained. The extent of the damage and changes to his mind hadn¡¯t been discovered yet, so they wanted to avoid him seeing any of his old possessions in case there were trigger objects hidden amongst them.


    Even something as innocent as a teddy or a dildo could flip some unknown switch and activate something hidden beneath the amnesia.


    It wasn¡¯t especially likely, but it was a sensible precaution.


    He hadn¡¯t been the only one to suffer during what Honeycutt and Williams had taken to calling ¡°the hacking incident¡±, and each of the other affected recruits had only had one curse inflicted on them.


    Blindness. Organs that noped out and stopped working. And him with total amnesia.


    The blind girl hadn¡¯t also suddenly turned into a ninja every time she heard the word ¡°penguin¡±, nor had the other hacking victims had any secondary effects.


    So security was finally starting to relax around him.


    Honeycutt walked back in, and Vincent looked to the door again, expecting to see nothing but an empty hall, as there usually was after the doctor stepped out for one of his mysterious chats.


    Instead, a brown-haired twink stood between the sliding doors with an expression that might have been confusion on his slim face.


    He didn¡¯t have any memories, but sometimes he could concentrate on an aspect, personality trait, or concept and see if he vibed with it. Learning about himself by feeling his way through the dark.


    One thing he was pretty sure about was that he¡¯d been an observant recruit, and that skill was doing far more than its share now that he had nothing else to rely on.


    So he dug deep and tried to learn what he could before the agent spoke.


    Agent. He¡¯d known that instinctively. It wasn¡¯t any one thing that gave agents away. After all, they looked like humans unless you went over them with a fine-tooth comb. It wasn¡¯t necessarily behaviors either - they could be just as imperfect as anyone else. He¡¯d seen Honeycutt get food in his mustache and observed Williams getting antsy and unable to concentrate on whatever he was reading.


    Whatever it was, the man in front of him blared ¡°agent¡± in neon, and with nothing else to trust, he trusted his gut.


    ¡®This is Agent Jonathan,¡¯ Honeycutt said, following his eyeline. ¡®He¡¯d like to talk to you for a while.¡¯


    He gave some imaginary points to his gut and tried to figure out what else he could tell about the man before he spoke.


    He was a local, relatively speaking, anyway. His red tie indicated a US agent, and the name had been on Honeycutt¡¯s big ¡°do you know any of these people?¡± list, so he likely belonged to this network.


    Unfortunately, the rest of the clues could lead in several directions. Black blazer, one of the standard uniform options available to anyone who wanted to rep the Agency in formal wear. No cufflinks or a tie clip with a department insignia.


    However, he¡¯d met the Phoenix Medical, Combat, and Tech agents, so that left the very strong possibility that the newcomer was the Field agent.


    He wished he¡¯d had a moment to tidy his space - his overbed table was full of pudding cups, which he¡¯d been requiring and dismissing for the last couple of hours, to kill some of the boredom between Hunnicut¡¯s tests.


    ¡®Hi. I¡¯m told I¡¯m Vincent. It¡¯s nice to meet you.¡¯


    ¡®Jonathan. Do you mind if I sit?¡¯


    Vincent gestured to the empty chair that had previously been occupied by Williams. As he did, he saw that Recruit Miller, back from the bathroom, was watching with an intensity that hadn¡¯t come from any of his guards since Williams on his first, non-throat-grabby day.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to attack an agent,¡¯ he said, giving his best, broad, innocent smile. Honeycutt coughed, and he deflated a little. ¡®Not on purpose,¡¯ he clarified.


    Jonathan sat, though Miller remained on guard.


    Is it me or Jonathan generating threat right now?


    ¡®I- I¡¯m not sure how much you¡¯ve- How are you, Vincent?¡¯


    The question came from somewhere genuine, different from the perfunctory check-in Honeycutt seemed to do eighteen times a day. This was ¡°are you okay?¡± not ¡°scale of one to ten for your chart¡±.


    ¡®So you know me,¡¯ he ventured.


    ¡®You don¡¯t remember?¡¯


    ¡®I remember Jack and Shit. Honestly, I would prefer remembering taking a shit at any point in my life to what I have now. One time I blocked the toilet would be a hundred percent more than I have now.¡¯


    Jonathan seemed to process this, then, surprisingly, smiled a little. ¡®Well, your personality is still there. That might not bring you much comfort, but-¡¯


    He leaned forward and grabbed the agent¡¯s tie. ¡®So I¡¯ve always been a smartass?¡¯


    ¡®Irreverent,¡¯ Jonathan said, slowly extracting his tie from Vincent¡¯s grip. ¡®Is a more polite word. This is not the first conversation involving bowel movements that we¡¯ve had.¡¯


    ¡®Well, shit,¡¯ Vincent replied, maintaining the child-level topic of conversation.


    It was a relief that he hadn¡¯t known he was looking for, to know that even missing memories, something of his self remained and that he wasn¡¯t entering the world as an entirely new person.


    ¡®You¡¯ve probably been kept in the dark longer than you prefer, and while I don¡¯t promise I can answer everything, maybe there are some small things I can clear up.¡¯


    ¡®Who are you? Who am I? Why is a raven like a writing desk? What¡¯s the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow? Why do I actually know the answer to that last one? Who shot J.R.? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? If Jimmy cracks corn, and nobody cares, why does he keep doing it? Whose line is it anyway? Did I leave the oven on?¡¯


    ¡®Vincent.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, just answer the first one. Who are you to me?¡¯


    ¡®I was your lead agent. You¡¯re a Field recruit.¡¯


    One word stuck out in Jonathan¡¯s response. ¡®¡°Was¡±?¡¯ he repeated.


    Jonathan looked a little surprised, then recovered. ¡®Uh- Both of our futures are a little uncertain. This incident has,¡¯ he paused, ¡®disrupted things, and there are decisions to be made well above my head as to what will happen to all of us. A lot of transfers are likely.¡¯


    He looked at Jonathan. There was probably a list of sensible questions to ask upon realizing you know literally shit all about your own life, but following through on that was probably harder in practice for both the mind-wipee and the mind-wipee¡¯s friends.


    ¡®Do I have a-¡¯ This was a really weird sensation. Figuring out what was ¡°knowledge¡± versus ¡°memory¡± versus ¡°instinct¡±. What he could understand about himself from vibes alone. The question had been formed as ¡°do I have a girlfriend?¡± and before the word had come out of his mouth, some instinct had held it back.


    He tried to focus on the concept of a hot girl and was rewarded with...memories? Pseudo-memories? Knowledge? Bikinis and watermelon-crushing thighs. Actors and famous people. And he felt himself nod.


    Next, he switched the mental track to ¡°hot guys¡±. Sleek men in suits - some not too dissimilar to Jonathan. Himbos with smiles made of sunshine and shoulder muscles in direct counter-balance with intellect. Another nod.


    Right now, Jonathan was- Watching as he mentally scrolled through his spank bank. Though that probably wouldn¡¯t be the strangest thing that happened this week.


    Well, I know the word ¡°himbo¡±, so that¡¯s something, I guess?


    Another set of thoughts. Fashionistas kicking the gender box with thousand-dollar boots. People with eyes of steel and aesthetics of ¡°void¡±. More nods.


    ¡®Well, I¡¯m definitely bi,¡¯ he said, then met Jonathan¡¯s gaze. ¡®So, do I have a partner?¡¯ Pause. ¡®Well, I guess that¡¯s two questions, in either in the romantic or work senses?¡¯


    Jonathan slowly raised an eyebrow. It seemed he was processing a response.


    ¡®More than one partner? A m¨¦nage-a-trois? A harem?¡¯


    Jonathan¡¯s eyebrow returned to normal as his entire face slowly lowered into his palm.


    ¡®No romantic entanglements,¡¯ Jonathan said after taking a moment to reset. ¡®No recruit partner either, mostly you worked with me.¡¯


    Vincent looked at the agent for a moment, then shuffled a little closer. ¡®If you knew me, know me, whatever. If you¡¯re my friend. Tell me the things I¡¯m not thinking to ask. Tell me the obvious shit that I¡¯m missing.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t have a manual for this situation either,¡¯ Jonathan said. ¡®For everything that has happened this week, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re alive. Even missing your memories, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re alive.¡¯


    Jonathan leaned back in the chair, but there was a certain resignation to the movement. ¡®When an Agency director goes bad, it¡¯s very rare that their Agency stays intact afterward. And this isn¡¯t falling, or simple corruption, or anything¡­normal, for that given value of normal. Right now, we don¡¯t even know how many people he infected with smaller hacks. You and the others that were activated were clearly just for the spectacle, for the distraction. If I were to speculate, I would assume that a new team will take over this Agency, and it will be initially staffed with unattached agents, Academy students, and spare personnel. You¡¯ll likely have the option to become inactive, though quitting entirely won¡¯t be on the books. Which is good, as both Medical and Tech will continue to work on trying to restore some of what you¡¯ve lost.¡¯ He paused. ¡®It may also help us detect others that have been hacked, so your cooperation will be appreciated.¡¯


    Vincent nodded. It was a reasonable enough request. ¡®So where will I end up?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not up to me,¡¯ Jonathan said. ¡®Would you like to stretch your legs for a while?¡¯


    He looked over to Miller, then back at Jonathan. ¡®Am I allowed?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m happy to take responsibility for a few minutes. You must be sick of looking at these four walls.¡¯


    ¡®More than you can believe.¡¯


    Jonathan stood and picked up one of the pudding cups. ¡®I can see what you¡¯re doing to pass the time, so I have little trouble believing it.¡¯


    He looked down at the cannula. ¡®Can someone disconnect this, then? And would you mind if I put on pants?¡¯


    ¡®Please. Please put on pants, Vincent.¡¯

 06 – Carving out the Self

    Phoenix Agency


    November 4th


    A piece of buttered toast. A piece of toast with jam.


    An attempt to make his mornings different from how they had been with Victor. He still woke afraid, woke expecting another day of pain, of being used and treated like an object.


    He ate the buttered toast, and the pigeons arrived.


    He ate the jam toast, and non-bird company arrived.


    Agent Jake, flanked by two security officers who seemed to be almost in grayscale compared to the aide-agent.


    Twin agents - the first twins he¡¯d ever encountered, as there were none within the Phoenix network - with silver hair, not the graying hair that people often referred to as silver, but deliberately colored, metallic sheen silver.


    Silver hair matched their silver ties, marking them as operatives of Central. This dearth of color, along with standard black blazers and white shirts, made them seem strange compared to the relative brightness of Jake with his blond hair and Southwest red pops of color.


    ¡®Thank you for your cooperation,¡¯ Jake said as he stepped into the room, the security officers at his heel.


    Jonathan nodded, letting Jake know he wasn¡¯t going to fight. He¡¯d known this was coming, had been waiting for it since the moment he¡¯d woken up in Paulson¡¯s tank.


    The security officers were for show, really. It would take just a couple of commands from anyone acting on the Regional Director¡¯s behalf to incapacitate him.


    Necessary or not, they were good social engineering and were sure to take the last wisps of fight out of those teetering on the edge of combating the inevitable.


    He deserved all the pain that was coming, and no amount of fighting, wishing, or praying could do anything to minimize what was coming his way.


    Jonathan dismissed his plate, turned to the pigeons, spread one last layer of premium bird seed, then stood, walked over to Jake, and nodded his consent to the senior agent¡¯s authority.


    The shift was immediate, and the location that appeared was as stark and sterile as he¡¯d expected.


    A white room far too large for the furniture it contained, lit by unnecessarily harsh lights. All subtle touches to turn your stomach, to know that this was a place without honor and that it was only the lucky ones that would leave here without the specter of execution hanging over their results.


    Of all the nightmare futures that Victor had proposed as ways his Jonathan¡¯s life might end, interrogation had rarely featured. Part of it was surely to do with the fact that Victor had almost always imagined a personal hand in his future, in what would happen to him if he misbehaved.


    What had happened hadn¡¯t been in Victor¡¯s plans.  As far as Jonathan knew, Victor had always planned on¡­being the victor. Of outsmarting the Agency he was supposedly serving, of proving his methods too useful to be criminalized.


    Victor had spun threats of selling him on the black market, trading him for Solstice prisoners, or stripping out chunks of his operating system and placing him as a voiceless doll in Duty or Duty Bound.


    Whatever the Agency would do to him couldn¡¯t even measure up to the mildest of Victor¡¯s threats. Or the punishments already enacted over the years.


    In the center of the room was a low bed, at the head of which was a strange-looking but fit-for-purpose chair.


    Jake put a hand on his shoulder and asked kindly if he would lie on the bed.


    He nodded and moved towards the bed. Surely, taking these steps himself would count for something, that he was willingly accepting what was going to happen rather than being wrestled into place by the silent twins.


    It had to count for something.


    Jonathan had held a hand to his heart for a moment. He felt the coin and the candy wrapper, the two treasures he¡¯d taken to carrying, in case they had decided to skip this step and take him straight to the crystal chamber for execution.


    One of the walls of the white room was mirrored, hiding any number of observers in an observation gallery, and he hoped there weren¡¯t that many here to observe his . . . questioning.


    He lay on the bed, and a moment later, sections extended and shot soft, padded restraints across his body at seven different points.


    It was sensible, some part of his mind said. It would stop him from flailing, from hurting himself or the interrogating agent.


    Jake came to stand at his shoulder, beside the chair where the Regional Director would sit, and explained the situation to the few agents in the room and whoever was in the gallery.


    Somewhere just out of his field of view, the doors swung open, and the near-silent footsteps of the man who had named himself after a ghost crossed the floor.


    Director Adams loomed over him, stared at him for a moment, but said nothing.


    ¡°Sorry¡± wasn¡¯t a word to be used in this situation, and it would have been hollow if Adams had used it. This was being done because there was no other choice. Whatever chance of a kinder outcome had been decided against long ago when their forefathers had designed the original agents.


    Adams settled into the strange chair, one designed to allow the man to lean forward without tipping and to be braced for the duration of the questioning, making the situation as comfortable as possible for the interrogator.


    Jonathan tensed his chest and held onto the sensation of a coin and a little bit of trash as Adams rested his arms and positioned his hands against Jonathan¡¯s temples.


    Once again appropriate to his name, intangible, ghostly copies of Wraith¡¯s fingers pressed into his mind, reaching deeper than his physical fingers, extensions of his blue, seeking the connection that-


    The white room ceased to be.


    Jonathan woke to the taste of blood.


    Warm blood poured down his throat like one of the many times his nose had been broken.


    Sometimes, Victor wanted to remind him that Jonathan¡¯s good looks were there to please Victor alone and that they could be taken away at a whim.


    Sometimes, Victor just liked to bruise him and make him sit in the corner, a still life in shades of purple.


    If that¡¯s what was happening, then- But Victor was-


    The flow of blood suddenly stopped and was replaced with a headache.


    If he didn¡¯t get up, didn¡¯t get out of the way, didn¡¯t find-


    Time passed.


    Jonathan forced open his eyes and wasn¡¯t sure what he was looking at.


    There was¡­something above his head. Something that was equal parts sky and ceiling, but in a way that shifted and changed every second.


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    The sound of a door opening, then slamming shut, shook the ¡°roof¡± and it settled into an ordinary patch of ceiling like was all over the Phoenix Agency.


    He sat up and-


    Once, he had been witness to a conversation between Victor and some of Victor¡¯s acquaintances where a fairy man had recounted a tale of dying, of going to Limbo and walking through the forest there.


    What had stood out the most, the fairy had said, was that the trees seemed copied and pasted, that once you left the arrival clearing, it was endless, regimented rows of identical trees. Something so alien it would even fail to appeal to most perfectionists.


    Some of the trees, though, changed when you approached them, seeming to be nothing but clones of their brethren until you were within a few feet. Others were identical until you touched them. Some always remained the same, part of an indivisible crowd.


    He now knew what that must have felt like.


    He was sitting on his bed in his little, soulless room. But rather than walls, on every side, there was simply another copy of his room, and beside those copies, more copies, on and on, until even his better-than-human vision failed him.


    Jonathan stood and looked down at his shirt, expecting blood. He¡¯d felt blood, and he¡¯d been bleeding, but¡­his uniform was clean and pressed, definitely not clothes that had been slept in.


    Not that he would have slept here because here was a nonsense place, a-


    Far closer than should have been possible, a door opened, then slammed.


    He looked around. There were no doors anywhere, no walls, nothing but endless copies of- They weren¡¯t identical. Not quite.


    Ahead and to his left, many rows over, there was a change. The position of the plant on his display shelf. When he¡¯d moved it and hidden the coin beneath its rocks.


    Automatically, his hand went to his chest, where he¡¯d put Joel¡¯s coin and-


    His arms curled around himself as he understood where he was and what was going on.


    Blood pooled in his mouth, then turned to ash, then nothingness as it spilled from his lips and onto the sub-standard linen of his bed.


    Jonathan stood and began to walk through the copies of his room, seemingly one for every day of his life.


    Occasionally, an unseen door would open and close.


    Sometimes, he would hear voices.


    Every minute or so, some new pain would wrack his body, doubling him over to throw up black bile and blood, or his heart would try and rip itself from his chest, or he would feel something in his back crack and repair.


    Some days were identifiable, like the moment he¡¯d moved the plant. Still, most of the rooms were the same, a shameful reflection of how boring and empty his life had been.


    The rows of rooms, like Limbo, went forever, far beyond even the thousands of days of his life. Maybe it looped infinitely, locking him in, keeping him away from wherever the opening and closing doors were.


    The inner space of every agent was different, But often there was a theme of doors and hallways. Memories apparently neatly organized, a metaphor made somewhat real, somewhat manageable for the interrogating agent.


    It was possible to pull memories like video files, and that would often suffice when entering things into evidence for lesser crimes.


    The problem with even footage ripped straight from the mind was that it only displayed what had happened, and not why.


    And when a Director had gone rogue after inventing new crimes, the why would hold a lot of weight.


    Any memory that Adams touched, any information he sought out, he could live that moment as Jonathan had done, could feel and rethink everything that Jonathan had.


    He hoped for pity. He feared disgust.


    A few rooms ahead, he saw disturbed sheets and dried blood. One of the mornings that- One of the too many mornings.


    Jonathan backed away, looked at where the door to his office should have been, closed his eyes, and walked forward.


    There was the faint echo of wood grain as he passed through something that hadn¡¯t been there.


    The quality of the air changed, felt more contained, and things no longer felt endless on all sides.


    ¡®Please,¡¯ he whispered under his breath and opened his eyes.


    His office, every boring inch of it, had replaced the infinite limbo of bedrooms.


    Jonathan stepped forward, and- The room- He quickly stepped back, feeling like he was doing something against the rules, and he had a lifetime of understanding when he was doing something against the rules.


    He leaned his head forward a little, and the room shuddered again in a way he could barely comprehend. Unlike all of his bedrooms spread out over a space seemingly the size of the Earth-


    Here, every tiny movement of his head seemed to reveal a slightly different version of his office, like a hundred lenticular layers all on top of each other, every slight angle revealing another day.


    In some, he could see versions of himself, frozen in time, memories waiting for exploration.


    In some, he-


    There was a weight in his stomach, and he doubled over to vomit. More blood. Bile of every hue. His beating heart.


    He fell to his knees, unable to take his eyes off his heart as it continued to beat, bleed, and function on the bile-splattered carpet.


    Victor¡¯s hands were on his cheeks, and-


    The darkness was welcome this time.


    A labyrinth of hallways floated above his head, and he fought to breathe in the blue surging over him like ocean waves, unable to find peace. His heart had been replaced with the sound of a door slamming. All he could feel was pain in every nerve ending, with no respite or relief, no matter how much he screamed or wished.


    Somewhere to his right, coming ever closer, were the inevitable footsteps of Victor.


    To his left, pieces of the restaurant where he had first met Joel tumbled like broken, disconnected video game assets, free from gravity, freer than he would ever be.


    He drowned in blood, in blue, and in misery.


    Hands on his temples, and the feel of ghostly fingers leaving his head.


    The bright lights of the interrogation room and freedom from his own mind.


    Director Adams, shaken, pale as a Wraith, came into his red-tinged field of vision.


    ¡®You won¡¯t,¡¯ Adams said slowly as Jake steadied his boss, ¡®be punished for his crimes. You¡¯re dismissed.¡¯ Adams looked up at Jake. ¡®See, he¡¯s taken care of.¡¯


    The twins appeared, walking in perfect synchronicity, and led Adams away, even as Jake helped Jonathan sit up.


    ¡®Sleep off the pain,¡¯ Jake said, ¡®it¡¯s the only thing you can do.¡¯


    Jonathan coughed blood onto the other agent and flinched, waiting to be hit, to be punished, to be-


    The world rolled a little as Jake shifted them away from Central.


    The firm, perfunctory cushioning of the bed he¡¯d been lying on for- It had seemed like hours and forever, but he knew there was a great degree of time dilation when this type of questioning was carried out.


    It was too stressful for an interrogating agent to be under for too long, and that was always held as a concern, even if the pain of the¡­interviewee was always far worse.


    Jonathan looked to his HUD, and tried to focus, even as all the pain in his body begged for relief. Twenty-five minutes. Long for a session like that, but not the endless hours it had felt like for him.


    Jake moved to adjust the pillows under his head, and he tried to work out where he was. Phoenix, for sure, he was sure of that, but he couldn¡¯t string the thoughts together to open his map and-


    There was a lamp next to the soft bed he lay on, and the rich design brought him the truth, the guest suite, the one reserved for deserving people, not for-


    Jake put a hand on his forehead, as he had done the day this started. ¡®Sleep.¡¯


    And he had never been more glad of rest.


    Phoenix Agency


    November 11th


    The pigeons pecked at their morning feed, and Jonathan watched, an uneaten bagel on the bench beside him.


    The Agency was still a ghost town, though daily visits with Vincent made it a little less lonely but worse in other ways.


    It was strange. Any given sentence out of Vincent¡¯s mouth sounded like the man he¡¯d known. Then, like a video missing frames due to bad buffering, there¡¯d be gaps where in-jokes or old references would go.


    Vincent was at least no longer under guard and had been allowed as much freedom as reasonable, which wasn¡¯t much. However, Agent Jake had assured him that they were rolling restrictions and would lessen as each day passed.


    It just wasn¡¯t feasible to allow an amnesiac to roam the streets, especially when he didn¡¯t know all the dangers to him.


    All of Vincent¡¯s operational information was intact, so there had been no awkward reintroduction to the world as it was, no need to go over who the Agency were, why they were fighting the Solstice, or how to act around civilians.


    And as proved in the infirmary, Vincent hadn¡¯t lost his ability to fight. However, there was a current order to have him go through the recruitment tests to establish a baseline.


    Overall, the Regional Director¡¯s office was leaning toward treating Vincent like any other recruit who had undergone a similar trauma.


    The fact that they were doing that, that they were going to be kind to the one actually innocent person involved in Victor¡¯s schemes, had made his testimony worth it.


    He fed the birds, he ate the bagel, and he imagined what it was like to have hope.

 07 – Future Proofing

    Phoenix Agency


    19th November


    It was astonishing how well requirements helped with setting up pranks. It wasn¡¯t just a matter of being able to place objects where you couldn¡¯t easily reach, it was that required objects would - to a reasonable degree - balance themselves and automatically decide optimal placement.


    Vincent had tried climbing a stepladder to place a bucket of water, once, then after that, had left it all up to a single requirement. It could handle a heavier bucket than he could easily hoist, and didn¡¯t spill any drops that would alert any half-decent recruit who was wary that something might be up.


    And it was mostly recruits who were taking the brunt of his boredom. Honeycutt had wised up after the first day. Jonathan took the pranks almost too much in stride, surely suffering some pratfalls on purpose.


    Williams was using it as a training exercise.


    He was no longer under regular guard, but he had to check in with Combat a couple of times a day, just so that they were sure he wasn¡¯t randomly hulking out, and Williams was happy to send a recruit to do the check-in, as it tended to double a little chore for whoever had done the worst that day in whatever scenarios they¡¯d run, whoever had run the slowest mile, or missed the most targets.


    So every day, he was meeting a couple of new recruits, and so far, they were all transfers from the Academy or recruits who specialized in temporary assignments.


    Some of the Phoenix recruits were set to return, and it had been decided that at least the agents uninvolved with Victor and the Hacking incident would be keeping their positions.


    So Honeycutt, Williams, and Paulson were safe, along with a few general staff he hadn¡¯t met, but Jonathan¡¯s future was still uncertain.


    As was his.


    The office of the Regional Director did plan on making a decision soon, and what Jake had indicated during one of their brief conversations was that it would be easiest to transfer Jonathan and Vincent, then allow operations in Phoenix to resume as close to normal as was possible. Minus, temporarily, one director and one Field agent.


    Vincent had simply nodded, and made some comment of agreement, a ¡°sure, of course¡± or ¡°whatever¡¯s best¡±.


    Logically, he should want to stay, should want to be somewhere where there was at least a chance his memory might get jogged, that something might finally trigger some flash from his childhood, or some cringey moment from his teen years.


    Phoenix should have felt like home, even with no memory, and it didn¡¯t, so it was no great loss if he had to transfer somewhere where he¡¯d be less of a problem.


    He looked up to the clock - five minutes until Jonathan was due, and five minutes to do a couple of last-minute adjustments on the prank he¡¯d been perfecting for several days.


    He¡¯d been moving all of his furniture slightly to the side over the course of the past few days. Manually, so as to not create a requirement log where someone could easily notice the prank. In addition to that, anyone that required the room to it¡¯s default state would move all the furniture back to where it had started, which, by this point, was a leap of at least a foot.


    He just finished moving the desk when he heard motion outside his door, followed by Jonathan¡¯s usual knock of perfectly timed beats.


    Vincent pushed the thought that Jonathan could have been an incredible drummer in another life out of his mind, and back to the current plan.


    ¡°Speak, friend, and enter!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Jonathan.¡±


    Vincent gave the door a dirty look. ¡°That¡¯s not how that works.¡±


    Jonathan entered, and as always, his hand went for the side table next to the door, but missed entirely.  The other Agent behind him, however, did not miss and leaned casually against the side table, like he¡¯d lived in the adjusted room for years.


    And for what was at least the tenth time, the game of ¡°is this a person I should know¡± began as he looked the new agent up and down.


    Agent. Another snap decision, but so far he¡¯d had a one hundred percent hit rating on that, so that was an area where he could probably trust his gut.


    Blazer. Red pocket square. Local.


    It was a uniform that anyone from any department could wear. Suits were the primary uniform for Field, of course, but anyone wanting to fancy it up could Bond, James Bond themselves for a meeting, or just because it fit their personal style.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    And maybe there was some extra starch in his uniform, or the agent had sunk all of his talent points into ¡°Authority¡± but something made Vincent rethink his approach.


    Now was not the time to ask ¡°who the fuck are you?¡±. Not this time. Not with this agent.


    Jonathan stepped around the side table, and slowly walked down the length of the long table to the seat he usually took, and Vincent smiled as his friend reached for the chair just an instant too early, expecting it to be closer than it was.


    The new agent stayed at the front of the room, seeming to return the appraising look that Vincent was giving him, and after a moment, the stranger smiled. ¡®Good morning, Vincent.¡¯


    ¡®If I¡¯ve forgotten you, I apologize,¡¯ Vincent said, the greeting coming out flat, having almost become a rote recitation at this point.


    ¡®No, no,¡¯ the man said. ¡®We¡¯ve never met. Regional directors rarely get to hobnob with recruits, CIs or really anyone whose title is less than ¡°Director¡±.¡¯


    Vincent didn¡¯t turn to look at Jonathan, he very deliberately didn¡¯t turn to look at Jonathan, but flagged it in his mind to see how the agent was doing after the meeting. Anytime anyone mentioned, even in passing, the former Phoenix director, it seemed to set Jonathan on edge.


    And while he had no idea what Victor had done to cause that strong of a reaction in an agent, in someone programmatically capable of hiding all emotions with ease, he did know that if he ever met the man, he was going to put his fist through the monster¡¯s face first, and ask questions¡­twenty-fifth, or whenever he¡¯d exposed the at least three of his knucklebones to air.


    ¡®Regional Director,¡¯ he repeated, and part of him - albeit a small part - regretted the prank-pulling.


    Then again, acting like a fool, taking every opportunity to joke and choose absurdity rather than misery, seemed to put everyone at ease. As if it was some proof that, missing memory or not, part of him had survived.


    Or at least, if he was joking, maybe they saw him as less likely to choke-tackle the doctor again.


    ¡®Nice to meet you,¡¯ Vincent finished. ¡®Or, how can I help? You¡¯re probably not just passing through.¡¯


    ¡®Have a seat, Vincent,¡¯ Jonathan said.


    ¡®I have one, thanks,¡¯ Vincent replied, gesturing towards his rear end.


    Not even a flicker of reaction from the Regional Director. Someone he still didn¡¯t have a name for. That had to be a power move.


    He tried to think about Honeycutt¡¯s list, of the names on there, he¡¯d met half a dozen or so, and he knew some names had been thrown on there as a test of his memory.


    Maybe this was Roberts - Regional Director Roberts - and that was why that name had been so far up the list. Or-


    ¡®I didn¡¯t catch your name, sir,¡¯ he said, sitting opposite Jonathan, a little-too-bright smile on his face to keep the imminent tension away for just another few seconds.


    ¡®Wraith,¡¯ the Regional Director said, and Vincent expected a crash of thunder or¡­something to accompany something that was at once badass and ridiculous. ¡®You can call me Director Adams.¡¯


    This was absolutely not someone to fuck with, and he was very glad that he hadn¡¯t gotten around to hiding the bucket of paint above the loose ceiling tile.


    ¡®We¡¯ve been discussing your future,¡¯ Jonathan said, ¡®and it¡¯s finally time to loop you in on the conversation. To see¡­what you want to do moving forward?¡¯


    It was a conversation Jonathan had been having in gentle ways over the last couple of weeks, especially now that more and more recruits were making Phoenix their new home.


    It had always been a limited time window before he had to shit or get off the pot, and Vincent wasn¡¯t even sure what shitting was in this analogy.


    Regional Director ¡°your clearance level isn¡¯t high enough to use my nickname¡± Adams probably saw one of those options as Vincent asking to leave the Agency.


    But¡­leaving had never really seemed like an option. Every path forward that Vincent had wondered about while failing to fall asleep, or spacing out during one of Honeycutt¡¯s potential trigger tests, had involved staying with the Agency.


    The tests were particularly good for spacing out. Slideshows of hundreds of random images and short videos, were sold to him as necessary, as a precaution for everyone, another way of making sure that he was safe.


    After fifteen or so hours in the last couple of weeks, he was beginning to believe there wasn¡¯t a bird or fish species left that could flip some switch and turn him into killing machine, or whatever their worst-case scenario was.


    Staying, even if it was in a different capacity to the recruit he¡¯d been before, had been the only path in his mind. Hopefully as a recruit, as that seemed to be the only thing he was really good at.


    It was a very weird kind of - patriotism was the wrong word, but the vibe was right - loyalty, for Victor¡¯s hack, a hack that had been initiated as a smoke screen so the ass could run from the Agency, had still left him able to function as a recruit.


    It married up well with what Jonathan had explained, how despite everything, Victor had been doing all this surely-a-warcrime research for the Agency, for the good of the System.


    They¡¯d lost a Director, but they hadn¡¯t lost a random recruit, making him truly the fucking consolation prize of the entire situation.


    Vincent raised his head a little and met Jonathan¡¯s gaze, it had really only been in the last few days that the man had stopped walking around like he was expecting the gallows, so that probably meant that Director ¡°Wraith is also definitely my Twitch handle¡± Adams had likely had some conversation with Jonathan regarding his future already. And the fact that he had one.


    ¡®I want to remain a recruit,¡¯ Vincent said, and there was just the tiniest shift in Wraith¡¯s posture that he took as approval. ¡®And I think it makes sense for me to stick with Jonathan. Where he goes, I go.¡¯


    A small, real smile from Jonathan told him that he¡¯d given the right answer. This situation had rendered them both outcasts, and it just made sense for them to stick together.

 08 – Movement

    ¡®Usually,¡¯ Jonathan said, tilting his head to look up at Vincent, ¡®there¡¯s just-¡¯


    ¡®Dodge!¡¯ Vincent called out as his sunglasses slipped from his jacket pocket, along with his phone and the little Agent Mulder leather ID folder with his recently reinstated ID.


    Jonathan neatly stepped aside, the casualness of the reflex making Vincent wonder exactly how much of Jonathan¡¯s walking-into-furniture pratfalling had been willingly participating in the prank and how much he¡¯d-


    The suction cup on his knee popped loudly as he adjusted his position, crawled further along the ceiling, and considered his options.


    Right now, he was extremely safe, as this section of the multipurpose room was only about ten feet high. If he moved further out, it would suddenly open up, like a reverse drop-off past a beach, with a ceiling well above the thirty-foot-tall brick wall that was the target of the test he was supposed to be taking.


    He trusted the suction cups at ten feet. He wasn¡¯t sure about fifty.


    But it might be fun to try.


    ¡®I really do need you to come down,¡¯ Jonathan said. ¡®I have all day, but Williams is-¡¯


    ¡®I have a book,¡¯ Williams said from the far corner of the mostly-empty room. ¡®But don¡¯t take all day, Recruit.¡¯


    Vincent looked down at Jonathan again, made sure he was no longer directly over the agent, then popped all of the suction cups until he was hanging by the two he held in his hands, then grinned to no one and dropped to the floor.


    Jonathan helped him remove the velcro straps around his wrists that stopped the climber from losing their gear and shook his head slightly. ¡®This,¡¯ Jonathan said, looking for a train of thought that had seemingly tried to leave the station without him, ¡®is why testing existing recruits needs special care. And not just three of the standard tests.¡¯


    ¡®You still nerfed me,¡¯ Vincent said, feeling weirdly naked with requirements temporarily switched off. Even for a power he¡¯d only had for a couple of weeks, he¡¯d grown accustomed to using it in every facet of his life.


    Breakfast. Required. Hotcakes that had become cold cakes due to getting distracted with some test or job were reheated faster than a microwave with one thought from his head. Bizarre products in weird ads were in his hands in seconds, filling his time with weird, precious joy.


    Food competition masterpieces became dinner without the wave of a magic wand. Clothes always fit. Razors were always sharp and perfect, giving his face baby-bum smooth skin when he remembered to shave.


    Less than a month, and it was already integrated into every hour of every day.


    But, in fairness to himself, with his brain the way it was, this was also his entire life, so maybe there was some slack to be cut.


    The thirty-foot tall brick wall that stood without support was a common first test for recruits. Like all the tests, how you approached the challenge was just as crucial in determining a final score as your actual performance.


    Skill could be taught, attitude was harder to adjust. Though it was something Victor could probably manage, some dark part of his brain added.


    Unless you were really into fitness or came from some kind of military background, scaling a sheer wall didn¡¯t come naturally, so it was a good first obstacle to put in front of a potential recruit.


    Tables of equipment were supplied, giving the test taker dozens of options, from a simple grappling hook to something, upon questioning Jonathan, was some kind of Agency construction tool that could cut a perfect hole in the brick.


    The spider-climb-suction-cups had been too tempting not to try, even more so than the- Well, he assumed the construction tool was some kind of laser.


    And that choice vindicated the point Jonathan was trying to make.


    Pulling a random person off the street, introducing them to magic, and then throwing them at a brick wall was one thing. You would get a pretty accurate read on their base personality and abilities.


    Throw a recruit at that same brick wall, even if it wasn¡¯t a test they¡¯d done before - and, because of how they were filtering information about his recruit career, he wasn¡¯t sure if this had been one of his tests -  and you were going to get a recruit¡¯s response.


    It necessitated multiple tests for each department so that their scores could be averaged to see if there was any real change from a previous assessment.


    Yet another reason that this was the least popular way for recruit scores to be updated, with most agents preferring just to naturally increase a recruit¡¯s score through actual performance.


    But, sometimes, you had an amnesiac working on the world record of individually-required rubber chickens, and everyone had to find a spare hour to facilitate the tests.


    Vincent walked out to the wall, feeling the difference in the air around him as he stepped out from the normal-height ceiling to the warehouse-height ceiling above the bricks, and marveled how this was just¡­normal.


    The Agency bent space like it was nothing, like it was so normal that it wasn¡¯t worth remarking on, and there was something¡­fucking cool about that.


    And he was enjoying learning this all again, for the first time.


    ¡®I¡¯ll call this a pass,¡¯ Jonathan said, ¡®please move on to Willaims.¡¯


    The wall disappeared, opening up the space and revealing the four large crash mats Williams had set up for his test.


    The Combat agent, in his Combat uniform for once - as he truly did seem to prefer the formal suity uniform, put his book down on the out-of-place cafe-style table next to some sort of complicated coffee press, stood, and nodded.


    ¡®I thought a rematch of sorts,¡¯ Williams said as he stood and worked out the muscles in his arms as he walked to the center of the red mats. ¡®Just come at me, Recruit, and let¡¯s see what you can do.¡¯


    Vincent turned to Jonathan. ¡®Can you dress me for the occasion?¡¯


    His suit rippled and became a set of dull red BDUs, the Field logo stitched into his jacket, just above his heart. Normally, the jacket would be a good idea, as it provided protection. Still, a little more freedom of movement would serve him better than a little more defense.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Especially when Williams wouldn¡¯t - probably wouldn¡¯t - be looking to come at him with small-bladed weapons or the other sharp tools that the fabric of the BDUs was good at deflecting.


    Fighting was an inevitable part of Agency life. He¡¯d begun his New Game Plus by tackling an agent and being threatened by the man squaring up across from him now. It was a daily - or at least weekly (but certainly not weakly) - reality for Combat recruits, but Field followed at a close second.


    It was most often Field getting in over their heads that necessitated pulling out the big guns, after all.


    So between sessions of ¡°Will this image of a frog trigger any latent programming¡±, and finding the boundaries of things he needed to relearn and things that he knew but didn¡¯t know that he knew, time in the gym had run as a close second priority.


    And between scenario sims and instructor sims, it had become readily apparent that he wasn¡¯t half-bad at his job.


    Which made sense, given what little he knew about his former life. As corrupt and vile as Victor was, the man hadn¡¯t been an idiot and had chosen someone who could look after themselves.


    Probably not the best recruit Field had ever had, that would have made his absence too obvious, but definitely somewhere in the upper end of the herd.


    Disappointed that Tech wasn¡¯t actually able to download kung-fu into his brain - despite standing in front of Paulson and gesticulating wildly at both a VHS copy of The Matrix and the bevy of advanced technology in the main


    Paulson had just stated, ¡°You aren¡¯t enough of an augment to do that¡± and then glazed over, going into HUD mode to ignore him.


    He¡¯d left only after drawing a mustache on the tech with a blueberry-scented marker.


    So, unable to cheat his way to picking a specialty, he¡¯d started doing little five-minute taste-testing sessions with an Instructor Bob, who would take him through a basic move set of a martial art while he took the time to see if he vibed with it.


    Some agents fighting-autopilot that would put their conscious brain and decision-making ability, strap it into a mental baby seat and keep them alive until all their enemies were dead or incapacitated.


    And as Bob had made his way through the martial arts alphabet, he felt a little of what agents with autopilot must experience as every so often, he¡¯d start to follow a move set, and something would just click, and his arms and legs would know what to do while his brain watched from a corner.


    Muscle memory, his sad mantra had repeated, that he had no memory of making.


    Not too far into the asskick-alphabet, he¡¯d been tempted to change into a yellow¡­ speed suit, jumpsuit, whatever it was called, and put on some Bruce Lee movies on the gym projector screens.


    He could throw a punch and got preprogrammed nods of approval from Bob about his form, but like Lee, his power and skill points seemed to be largely concentrated in his legs.


    Jujitsu had come naturally, as had¡­


    He sprang forward, hands finding purchase on the red mat as he tilted up into a handstand and kicked Williams in the face.


    Capoeira.


    He swung his legs and brought himself right-side up for a moment, then cartwheeled around the agent, who looked more amused than annoyed at the unexpected form of attack.


    Williams deflected the next couple of attacks, then kept at a distance, distance Vincent used to show off a couple of nice moves, as this wasn¡¯t so much a test of ¡®beating the shit out of a department head¡¯ as it was ¡®impress for a good grade¡¯.


    It always felt good to be in his body, focused on the flow of movements, and feel himself trusting himself, even when it might not have been a good idea.


    Five minutes of running around on his hands while seeing how much weight he could bear on legs curled above his head was easier than five minutes of staring at a wall, knowing he¡¯d lost everything.


    A grounding of actual martial arts, real fighting techniques, and proper discipline¡­with a sprinkle of circus arts, made it easy to actively choose joy each day.


    And all the practice was worth it as flip after flip and lunges and dodges, he kept just out of reach of most of Williams¡¯ attacks, at least for a few minutes.


    His luck ran out, or Williams dialed up his effort-o-meter, and a solid - but not painful - kick had him gasping for air on the mat.


    ¡®Good enough for me,¡¯ Williams said, offering a hand down.


    ¡®I¡¯ll, uh, stay here for a moment,¡¯ Vincent said, knowing Williams had restrained himself but still feeling the effect of a size eleven combat boot to the gut.


    The tension on the mat changed a little as a weight was lifted, and without the sound of footsteps, he assumed Williams had shifted away, his job done for now.


    At least one more test fell under Combat¡¯s control, but that was a scenario sim Williams had already stated would be graded by Aide Campbell later in the day.


    Jonathan sat on the mat beside him, looking vaguely uncomfortable as he always did when he was asked to be even the slightest bit casual. ¡®Not bad, Vincent.¡¯


    ¡®Some bits do work better with the clown costume,¡¯ he admitted, then took the sports drink that Jonathan offered. ¡®But I thought that might not be professional.¡¯


    ¡®Perhaps not. Are you ready to progress?¡¯


    ***


    ¡®I fully believe you did that intentionally.¡¯


    ¡®Did what intentionally?¡¯


    An Agent¡¯s poker face was the absolute pinnacle of perfect poker faces. It was one of the perks of having a face that could be fully controlled by command lines and pre-written code. Of course, that poker face meant that Vincent had no idea if Jonathan was genuinely oblivious or exacting sarcastic revenge on the past week of pranks.


    ¡®You should be very familiar with my sense of humor by now, so I¡¯m sure you saw the opportunity to pull the rug out from under me.¡¯


    ¡®I really must ask you to clarify. I really don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡¯


    Vincent was sure that his glare was starting to burn a hole in the folder Jonathan was holding. The folder containing the full results of his placement scoring. The folder that had the single most frustrating number he¡¯d ever seen. The folder documenting his field score.


    A score of six point eight.


    ¡®Six point eight!¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a perfectly serviceable score, You only need a four to be able to enter the Field, and you¡¯ve exceeded that by more than fifty-¡¯


    ¡®You know damn well exactly what I¡¯m talking about.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t-¡¯


    ¡®Five agents will score the same recruit five different ways, right? That¡¯s the party line, right? Means that the scores are relative and not absolute?¡¯


    Jonathan nodded.


    ¡®So you¡¯re allowed a little flexibility in how you-¡¯


    ¡®Given our positions, I tried to score on the more conservative side of things,¡¯ Jonathan said. ¡®If you were to retake the tests in six months, I¡¯m sure-¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s not the point!¡¯


    ¡®Then the point is...?¡¯


    ¡®One fraction of a point higher. One-tenth. That¡¯s all I ask.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m going to have to deny that request, recruit.¡¯


    ¡®Why the the fucking hell would-¡¯


    ¡®Because I know how badly you want it, how you¡¯d talk about it constantly, how you¡¯d come up with all sorts of ways to bring it into the conversation.¡¯


    ¡®I knew you had me figured out.¡¯


    ¡®And because I think it¡¯s so much more funny if I refuse to give you the satisfaction.¡¯


    Vincent took a deep breath and tried to muster as perfect a poker face as Jonathan always had. He leaned closer to Jonathan, staring him down to the best of his abilities. ¡®You. Bastard.¡¯


    He required a pen as violently as one can summon a cheap-looking pen out of thin air, stabbed his signature into the box, and watched the paper vanish into whatever the hell space the System used for filing.


    Jonathan had released his poker face, and looked like a normal human who had just told the best joke of his life.


    ¡®And I equally value our friendship, Vincent.¡¯

 09 – Punchline

    Vincent stared at the selection of soda from his seat on the convenience store floor. Colas of varying caffeinated strengths. Energy drinks with various additives. Drinks that claimed to be fruit flavors of a rainbow of artificial colors.


    Just pick a soda.


    It should have been an easy task, but like every meal, every beverage he¡¯d had since waking up - the second time - in the infirmary, he waited for the universe to tell him something about himself.


    He¡¯d definitely been on Earth - and Faerie - long enough to develop a couple of preferences, but he wished there was something more than vibes he could rely on.


    But, like the dateless, vibes were all he had for now.


    He hooked his foot under the door of the refrigerated case and popped it open, the chill leaking through the patent leather of his Agency-issued shoes.


    He sighed, let the door fall closed again, then shifted his weight and contemplated the caffeine content in a cherry cola and if the grape soda had any significant difference in sugar content.


    Maybe if he numbed his brain enough, a memory of running into a 7-11 on a hot summer¡¯s day would break through the white noise that existed where his childhood should have been.


    The store was an unplanned stop on Jonathan¡¯s latest fruitless attempt to jog memories and familiarize him with the areas that the Phoenix hub covered and where it intersected with the outpost agencies in their network.


    The memories hadn¡¯t come, but at least he was getting an idea of where the demarcation points were between the various pieces of their Agency.


    And it would be useful if they got Wraith¡¯s go-ahead to join - or rejoin - the almost-functional-again Field Operations team.


    After each location, they¡¯d traded driving duties to also re-acclimatize him with that - as some real-world driving had been recommended along with the sims.


    He enjoyed the sims, though, as their reality could be warped anywhere from ¡°so gentle, it wouldn¡¯t disturb grandma on the way to church¡± to ¡°this should be submitted to every dashcam YouTube channel¡±.


    Cars caught fire so easily.


    And sometimes, it was fun to roast marshmallows amongst the chaos.


    Driving was another one of those things, like his surprising talents with leg-based martial arts and jackassery that he was a natural at.


    Even if his foot was a little more leaden than was advisable.


    Even if they¡¯d been pulled over by the cops twice already, both incidents solved with a flash of red-and-gray ID.


    Jonathan had given the standard rebuke, but there had been little annoyance in his voice ¨C truth be told, he¡¯d caught the agent smiling whenever he¡¯d done something that skirted the bounds of what a good and model recruit was probably supposed to do.


    The convenience store¡¯s doors opened, and he winced as he¡¯d done the past half-dozen times. Where it should have been a nice, clean whoosh, there was something far more like the screech of an annoyed crow with a sore throat.


    Require: fix whatever the fuck is wrong with that door.


    Halfway through the closing grind-and-screech, the sound changed as magic performed long-neglected maintenance.


    No comment from either the sleepy cashier or whoever had entered, likely Jonathan coming to get him.


    Soda, after all, could be required, and he¡¯d spent more than enough time proverbially sitting on his ass, avoiding work.


    A half look towards the now-fixed door revealed three- His mind automatically parsed them as ¡°tourists¡± for some reason. That wasn¡¯t entirely unreasonable - this store was close enough to the highway to be a detour for snacks.


    Something else had him shifting his weight again, flexing his muscles, and looking for exits.


    But something Jonathan had stressed to him was that it was far too easy for recruits to get paranoid, to suspect everyone not wearing a uniform of being against them.


    It was smart to be aware, to be cognizant of your surroundings. Still, you couldn¡¯t act without information or without a reason.


    And three men giving slightly off vibes that could have just as easily been explained away as being tired from hours of driving or something equally mundane didn¡¯t warrant whipping his Agency ID out and demanding that they kiss the dirty tiles.


    But he allowed his guard to stay up and watched them in the reflection of the soda display case.


    Tourist Number One, in the next aisle over, picked up a package of donuts.


    Number Two, at the coffee machine, picked up a paper cup.


    Number Three, by the magazine rack, pretended to be interested in the latest news about some celebrity Vincent had never heard of.


    All would have been innocuous if their eyes didn¡¯t keep darting up whenever they thought they wouldn¡¯t be seen.


    One, maybe two, men randomly staring at him could be excused. Maybe one wanted to fuck, maybe one was just spoiling for a brawl in a parking lot. Three wasn¡¯t just a coincidence.


    He took out a bottle of water and started looking for a sandwich. The tourists all stopped their furtive glances.


    Donut had the largest blind spot, so getting behind and knocking him out would be easy.


    Magazine tourist had gotten too into character as being interested in celebrity gossip.


    He made a couple of requirements and casually browsed towards the front of the store, closer to the exit but still far enough that they couldn¡¯t immediately reach him.


    Donut moved quicker, threw his selections down on the counter, and paid for them with crumpled bills.


    Huh.


    Magazine followed him out without making a purchase, and Coffee followed quickly after.


    Maybe they had just been tired, grumpy guys with weird vibes. Maybe they hadn¡¯t been-


    Something touched his foot.


    Vincent looked down and, for a moment, thought he¡¯d dropped a can of soda.


    Fuck.


    He was running, his feet acting on instinct before he¡¯d really taken in what he¡¯d seen. Something small, metallic, and glowing faintly green.


    Time stretched like pulled taffy, his breath, his brain still catching up as he launched over the counter, clotheslining the attendant down as the world went white.


    Not for long enough. Never for long enough.


    And that thought almost seemed like a memory.


    There was a loud noise, and the store windows rattled, a couple shattering as another grenade went off.


    The first moments after an explosion sucked far more than could ever really be conveyed. Sometimes, movies made it seem like a video game respawn, that you just woke up, covered in an aesthetically-pleasing level of grime that you could shake off before fighting the boss.


    The real first moments after an explosion - even as mild as this one - had you looking to see if your brain was still intact, figuring out if you were going to get a stamp on your Frequent Concussion card, and fighting to think clearly before the enemy got the drop on you.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Vincent licked his bleeding lip, and shook his head, feeling the cracked plaster behind him.


    Require: gun.


    Nothing.


    Blackout bomb, annoying, but the reason he wasn¡¯t dead. The ones like he¡¯d seen at his foot were really just flashbangs-with-a-bit-more-bang.


    ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    Beside him, the cashier - now fully awake - stared saucer-eyed at him, a bag of chips held to his chest with one hand like the world¡¯s worst bulletproof shield.


    His other hand was extended and was holding down the silent alarm.


    Under normal circumstances, it was the right thing to do. Under Agency vs. Solstice circumstances, civilian authorities would only make things more difficult.


    ¡®Stay quiet,¡¯ he ordered the cashier. ¡®They aren¡¯t after you.¡¯


    The guy, probably earning minimum wage at best, nodded and crawled under a deeper section of counter that had previously been occupied by a bin and a yellowed printer.


    ¡®Heyuh,¡¯ the cashier said, voice shaking so badly that it wasn¡¯t really words. ¡®He- Here.¡¯ He took one hand off the bag of chips, fumbled near the footwell under the cash register, and threw Vincent a piece of pipe. ¡®Night shift guys. Protection. Yaknow.¡¯ His arm wrapped back over the chips, and he fumbled with a phone.


    Phone. Communications. Good idea.


    Vincent slipped a hand into an inside jacket pocket, felt for his earpiece, and slipped it over his ear, then tapped it into active mode.


    System territory or not, regular human, civilian communications means existed and functioned as a backup.


    No one was actively talking, and with the gunshots outside, he wasn¡¯t about to bother Jonathan. Still, at least he¡¯d know when backup arrived.


    Gun. Two spare magazines in his pocket. Iron bar tucked up into his jacket sleeve. Unknown number of enemies.


    Easy.


    They hadn¡¯t expected trouble, but Jonathan had insisted he go armed. And muscle memory, along with the time he¡¯d put in with the range in the empty Field gym, assured him he had some skill with a gun.


    He nimbly vaulted back over the counter and quietly stepped through the store. Coffee, Donut, and Magazine had vacated before the explosion. Still, there¡¯d been enough time while his ears rang for someone to return.


    And the open door, partially off its tracks, did look like someone had shoved their way back in.


    The wall of windows that looked out onto the parking lot was a mess - some of the windows were broken, others were missing large sections, a couple of had spiderwebbed but not broken and-


    Another shattered as a bullet came through, exploding a bag of cat food a few feet ahead of him.


    The soda fridge, full of sugar and potential existential crises, hung open, sad, lightless, and full of leaking cans and bottles.


    The staff backdoor was open, which hadn¡¯t been the case earlier, so-


    Vincent spun at the sound of crunching glass and ducked, peering through the candy rack at the two men who had entered.


    The one in front fired without hesitation, and candy made for a poor shield.


    Something wet splashed his leg, and he hoped it was just another soda killed before its time.


    There were a lot of Solstice who were good with a gun. Many more relied on uneven odds and an inflated sense of perverted justice to do the job of proper training.


    He had hours upon hours of training that he could remember and far more that he couldn¡¯t.


    Vincent smiled.


    Draw. Finger off trigger. Check safety. Aim. Safety off. Fire.


    One went down.


    Duck. Dodge. Return fire.


    The other took a round in the shoulder and sank to the floor, screaming instructions at the three new Solstice making their way through the door.


    Vincent ducked low as a spray of machine gun fire, pressing flat to the floor as snacks exploded into confetti above him.


    At least one round ripped through a peaked fold in his jacket, and he exhaled, trying to enflatten himself even more.


    Between bursts, he heard steps as at least one of the Solstice tried to get an angle to come at him directly.


    ¡®Go team will be en route in sixty seconds,¡¯ a voice he didn¡¯t recognize in his earpiece. Good. A little slower than optimal, but-


    Movement. In the small gap under the shelf, he saw the boot of the moving Solstice a few aisles over.


    Awkwardly, he tucked his arm to his chest, then extended it under the shelf beside him, angled his gun, and fired three shots at the boot.


    The man went down screaming a salty selection of curses.


    Something exploded in the parking lot, a full, fiery whumpf of a car becoming spare parts, and Vincent took the moment to scramble through the open back door.


    Open air, turn to the left, and-


    A man waiting, a gun levelled.


    ¡®Drop the gun.¡¯


    Three words that strangely made him feel, at the same moment, better but confused, and he tried to figure that reaction out as he slowly raised his arms - in a way that didn¡¯t slow his sleeve stiff with the lead pipe - and played for a couple of precious seconds.


    If they had wanted him dead, he wouldn¡¯t be having any thoughts at all. The gun pointed at his head would have done its job. That meant a capture mission. Not unusual when Solstice interacted with recruits, who they so often saw as far worse than agents.


    Agents, after all, had no choice in how they were born. From a Solstice point of view, recruits had deliberately turned their back on humanity.


    So a good ol¡¯ recruit torture was a fun way to spend a Friday night. And the tapes could be sold to help pay for the Christmas party and the retirement fund, where-


    Focus. He had to focus.


    A white transit van was just to the side, with a faded electrician¡¯s logo half-visible even with the sliding door open. A common getaway vehicle, easy to throw hostages into. Another point that it was a kidnapping.


    But the men in the store hadn¡¯t been shooting with care. That said execution.


    Maybe there were two teams, maybe one had different quotas to hit, maybe-


    ¡®Drop it!¡¯


    He dropped his gun, then raised his arms higher as someone came up behind him and gave the most cursory pat of his jacket and pants, only finding the spare magazines but not bothering to remove his phone or wallet or anything else that could have been hiding tools or little bits of Agency tech.


    ¡®Thirty seconds,¡¯ his earpiece said, which prompted the patter-downer to rip the earpiece from his ear and toss it aside.


    Vincent dropped his arms, his hand curled just a little to catch the bar from falling too far.


    ¡®Do I get a last request?¡¯


    ¡®Shut up.¡¯


    ¡®Come on, man, I just want to tell a joke.¡¯ He smiled at the confusion on the gun wielder¡¯s face as he heard the patter-downer fumbling with handcuffs.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take your hesitation as a yes. So, these six Solstice walk into a bar¡­¡±


    He tilted his hand, let the bar slide from his sleeve, and struck.


    The first blow knocked the man¡¯s head to an obscene Dutch-Angle tilt. The second came down on top of his skull, crunching like cereal.


    The look of confusion stayed frozen on the man¡¯s face as he went down,


    Vincent swore as he was kicked from behind but didn¡¯t lose his footing, instead turning sharply, his feet doing exactly what he wanted to do, his arms locked as he spun and brought the bar across the side of the man¡¯s face.


    Messy. But effective.


    There was some noise from his headset. Presumably, the thirty second count was done, and the go team were beginning to appear.


    Two Solstice rushed him from the van, holding a gloriously impractical baseball bat wrapped in wire, the other stalking forward, firing shots from a revolver.


    A shot grazed his arm, and he ducked back into the store.


    A gloved hand grabbed him and pulled him to the side as two riot-gear-covered recruits rushed out into the sunshine.


    The glove grabbed his shoulder, spun him, then directed him out of the store and through the parking-lot-slash-warzone.


    Only once he had been shoved into the back of a van - this one black, unmarked, and containing a Jonathan with mussed hair - did the gloved hand fully release him.


    Jonathan grabbed his arm - in the exact spot where the revolver round had grazed him - and Vincent tried not to scream.


    ¡®Are you alright?¡¯ Jonathan asked, then wrenched his hand back and went pale. ¡®I¡¯m- Sorry. Sorry. Recruit?¡¯ he called to someone in the van, and an unfamiliar face, in a lab coat came, first aid kit in hand.


    Vincent waved them off with his good arm. ¡®I can wait for Honeycutt. You good?¡¯


    Jonathan pointed down, and Vincent saw that the Agent¡¯s pants had been torn open over the knee and the site drenched in blue. ¡®Not bad, considering.¡¯ Jonathan pointed. ¡®You¡¯ll need to get Honeycutt to see to that too.¡¯


    Vincent looked down at his own leg, at where the splash had been - definitely not soda - and he finally felt the adrenaline-dulled pain that heralded a lot more unless he saw Medical soon.


    Still, for the number of Solstice, for the¡­


    ¡®Jonathan?¡¯


    ¡®Yes?¡¯


    It wasn¡¯t the kind of question you were supposed to ask. It was the kind of thing that would jinx a good situation. It was Threepio telling you the odds. It was-


    ¡®Was this too easy?¡¯


    Part of him wished he hadn¡¯t been looking at Jonathan¡¯s face as the question had emptied his lungs.


    It was slight, the shadow of a reaction before some casual agent face emote took over Jonathan¡¯s face, but it had been there.


    ¡®Maybe a little,¡¯ Jonathan said after a moment, the words seeming to hurt to say. ¡®But I don¡¯t know what that means. Sometimes, they get cocky. I was in the car; they only saw a recruit by themselves. The tactics were a little strange if they had intended on just grabbing you-¡¯


    ¡®They did have a van out the back.¡¯


    Jonathan pointed through the gathered Combat recruits. ¡®And another here.¡¯ A long pause. ¡®It was flashy and in broad daylight. The Liaison office will be earning their proverbial paycheck with this incident. But. Things like this do happen, Vincent. We are good at our jobs, and though the remedies are easy, we didn¡¯t escape unscathed.¡¯


    ¡®So we take the win but keep our guard up?¡¯


    Jonathan smiled weakly. ¡®Something like that, Joker, something like that.¡¯

 10 – Messenger

This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

 11 - Deliverance

    If pressed, he wouldn¡¯t even have been able to name the city he was in. The architecture and time of day allowed him the probable answer that he was somewhere in Fairyland, but beyond that¡­nothing.


    Just one more area of ignorance. One more subject in which he was deficient.


    The fairy woman shot over the last ring of suburbs approaching the city.


    Jonathan tried to apologize for bleeding on her, but rushing air ate his words, so he kept silent.


    She banked to the right, dipped a little, and their destination became obvious - a transit center - one set on the edge of a lake, both busses and watercraft arriving and departing as they descended.


    Her speed slowed a little as the traffic in the air around them grew more dense, but some combination of the look of an injured man and the hard set of her face kept most of the other flyers out of their path.


    As they got closer to the ground, he began to see signs for the fairy stairs, but she seemed to ignore their directional arrows, flying over the tops of the shelters and long-distance coaches.


    He stirred in her arms. He¡¯d asked for Earth, for the stairs, and-


    ¡®Chipchip,¡¯ she said, their flight slow enough now to allow some words to be heard. ¡®I know where I¡¯m going.¡¯


    As little as he knew of the fairy language, he was vaguely aware this was something in the area of ¡°there, there¡± or ¡°hush¡±. Gentle. Reassuring. Not Victor slapping him and demanding silence.


    After the final row of rain shelters, there was a wide plaza of pale stone, filled with a mixture of people running for transport and those taking a more leisurely approach.


    The smell of street food, warm, sweet, comfort that had always been seemingly beyond his reach, filled his senses for a moment before chiller air replaced the warmth of the open sky.


    They¡¯d entered a large enclosed space. A garage. Suddenly, ignoring the stairs made sense.


    Though many were, most fairy stairs weren¡¯t strictly staircases - most had some form of elevator or escalator to account for accessibility and convenience. That did, however, especially in areas like this, lead to bottlenecking.


    An elevator at a transit center could mean waiting for long minutes on end in a queue.


    This garage was a way to skip it.


    Ahead of them, there were two lines to access the vehicle and flight transport tunnels, and while the car line moved steadily but slowly, there was - and he sent gratitude to the gods - no line for the flight tunnel.


    A curtain of water halted their progress, one which coalesced into a nymph wearing a security jacket, who stared at his injured form, eyes wide. ¡®Do you need help?¡¯


    ¡®The agent needs their people, not ours.¡¯ The fairy woman pressed her watch against the terminal, which beeped green, and the security guard waved them through, muttering words Jonathan couldn¡¯t hear over the rush of air.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    After a few seconds of slow flying, they reached a vertical shaft the circumference of a grain silo, with both strip lighting and informational boards running the height of the space.


    The woman adjusted her grip on him, then they shot up. Now that they were inside, there were no natural currents or thermals to help with the flight, and there was nothing but the sound of her wings working to send them skyward.


    The bright artificial lights and clean shopping mall aesthetic of a local court greeted them as they emerged from the shaft.


    ¡®How¡¯s your signal strength?¡¯ she asked as they landed, and she rested him on an empty table.


    Jonathan stared into his HUD. Like the Marches, Local Courts had some System connection, but it varied depending on your exact position. Here, the indicators told him that he could require, but it would take a moment to process, and that shifting was absolutely not recommended.


    And as he had to take a fae with him in the shift, the low signal strength wouldn¡¯t work.


    He laid his hands in his lap, and could still feel Victor¡¯s hands on him.


    ¡®Concentrate,¡¯ he muttered to himself and stared at his hands.


    The requirement processed, slowly enough so that for a moment, it was semi-transparent and weightless, a packet of tracking blue appeared.


    ¡®Drink this,¡¯ he said, handing what Vincent had called a ¡°Capri-Blue¡± to the woman, who tore it open and messily downed the contents. ¡®And. Outside would be best. If you can.¡¯


    The fairy¡¯s handsome face was kind. ¡®Arellya covers a few more meters, Agent.¡¯ Again, she lifted him like he weighed nothing, and flew down the wide concourse of the Local Court.


    Signage with gray circles pointed them out into a garden and play area, where, hidden amongst the sculptures was what amounted to a signal repeater, something that brought his System connection back up to full.


    ¡®I¡¯ll be shifting us now,¡¯ he said, targeting Paulson¡¯s lab, and the world - in a much more gentle way than the clap bracelet - folded and reformed.


    ¡®Can I- Here, bring him over here!¡¯ Paulson said, and the fairy carried him a few more steps, before gently depositing him onto a bench.


    A shift override appeared in his HUD, and he sank into a tank of blue.


    Jonathan immediately opened his contacts and looked for Vincent. Safe. In the gym. He set a lock on Vincent¡¯s location, something that would alarm if he tried to leave the building, or if someone tried to shift him out or otherwise abscond with him.


    [Vincent.]


    His HUD indicated there was no active comms, and that the automatic command to require a headset into Vincent¡¯s hand was underway.


    A slightly out-of-breath voice answered. [Ken Doll here.]


    By default, the voice you projected from your HUD was your default, it took on your emotions easily, but it tended to stray towards neutrality, just a little. A little modulation to ensure clear communication, and to avoid sounding peeved at your colleagues unless you really meant it.


    [Vincent,] he said, and he knew the recruit would hear all the relief and terror that his soul had to offer. [Stay inside. Don¡¯t leave the building. Don¡¯t go onto a balcony. Don¡¯t go on the roof. Stay inside.]


    Silence.


    [Vincent?]


    Ten more horrible seconds of silence. [Where is he? I¡¯m going to kill him. I was already going to kill him, but now I¡¯m going to skip balloon animals out of his entrails and jump straight to burning his corpse and pissing on the ashes.]


    Tears floated up, strange pockets of clear amongst the haze of blue.


    Agents were supposed to protect recruits, even if in reality that wasn¡¯t always how it played out.


    Joel hadn¡¯t been a recruit, but he had been someone who had trusted Jonathan, and that had led to his death.


    He couldn¡¯t let the same happen to Vincent.


    [Director,] he sent to Wraith, the text appearing in the Vox window, [I need a favor.]

 12 - Support and Communication

    The eight days she had been an agent were surely some kind of microcosm of what the rest of her life would look like.


    Breakfast in the morning, at a time too early for pale hackers to be awake. Mostly it was Curt, greeting her with a coffee and his stupid, bright, morning-person fresh face.


    He¡¯d knock. She¡¯d groan like a zombie. She¡¯d reach out from under the covers and accept the coffee - and at least the coffee was to her specification - and he¡¯d sit on the end of her bed, and ¡°accidentally¡± drop piles of paperwork on her quilt-covered legs until she sat up and paid attention.


    One morning, she¡¯d gone to breakfast with Ryan, and done the mail run, but mostly he liked to sleep during this part of the day, especially now that he had an aide.


    After breakfast, Curt would usually disappear to do aide stuff, and she¡¯d be left on her own to figure out what to do for a couple of hours.


    One morning, she¡¯d rolled under the bed, buried her head into a plush and played music through headphones at volumes that would make human ears bleed, and begged for the anxiety to go away.


    A couple of times, she¡¯d sat and worked on more distance-learning catch-up stuff, things that baby agents really ought to know.


    And a few mornings, she¡¯d gone and sat in different spots of the Tech Department, because suit or not, her father¡¯s daughter or not, in most alternate realities, she was surely a Tech recruit.


    It just felt more natural watching Alfie reprogram drone paths or to see the multi-step process Raz went through to fully archive a crime scene than it did to¡­run three steps behind Curt cosplaying as a Man in Black.


    She¡¯d gotten used to - well, was getting used to - parental love and the concept of having a friend, so it was likely she¡¯d find her feet as a Field agent as well.


    Hopefully. Probably.


    Even with Jonesy¡¯s full consent and an open invitation to sit in with any of his recruits at any time, she still felt like she was sneaking as she walked down the corridor towards the call centre.


    Stef slowed her pace as she approached the wide set of sliding doors, she didn¡¯t want to peek and retreat, just in case someone saw her, because that would be an embarrassment that would surely be the third time she died.


    Third? It would be third, right?


    Yes. Don¡¯t walk into the wall.


    She angled her shoulder so that it just brushed the white wall, then took a step towards the middle of the hall, and tried to make sure she didn¡¯t drift again.


    Most agents could probably walk in a straight line without even thinking about it, but her stupid brain was too powerful, even for the impossibly advanced tech that she was made of.


    She flexed her hands a couple of times as she reached the final few feet before someone in the call centre would be able to see her, and tried to-


    She never knew what to do with her face.


    It was easy around Ryan, who was still the person it was easiest to be herself around. Maybe it was all the points he¡¯d specced into his Dad build, maybe it was that agents had different expectations of what faces were supposed to do, maybe it was both, but¡­He would inquire when she looked obviously sad, or some conversation was going on in her head too long, but he didn¡¯t berate her for blank looks, for not having big reactions to news, or to the ¡°low energy mopey¡± expression that was pretty much her default face look.


    Masking up around people, being like a person, still took so much energy. Was still something she was so out of practice with.


    And it wasn¡¯t even just ¡°out of practice¡± it was¡­entirely new in its own way.


    She had years of practice of being Stephanie around people, of knowing how Stephanie should be in group situations, exactly how much of an emotion she was allowed to show given a situation, but-


    Stef was another matter entirely.


    Milla, the blessed saint who had shown her the joy of emotes, of being able to execute a command or hit a HUD button and being able to snap her face into whatever mask she chose, had warned against using it in every situation.


    Her - and there was still hesitation when she thought the word - friend had as much brain weirdness as she did, though different flavours, and understood the gift that /serious and the other commands were, which was the exact reason Milla had shared them in the first place.


    Overuse though, Milla had warned, would give people a false baseline. She¡¯d used the analogy of wearing makeup, that if you wore it every day, people adjusted to that being your normal face, and when you skipped it, rather than it being one step down from ¡°pretty to normal¡± it was instead ¡°normal to sickly¡±.


    So /serious was a weapon to be wielded carefully, which probably, unfortunately, didn¡¯t mean at eight AM just sitting around in the call centre.


    Sometimes, she felt like she was falling down a hill, and that somehow, she¡¯d managed to avoid the worst of the jagged rocks and drops into crevices. It was momentum, gearing up to kick her so hard she¡¯d never want to get up again.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    It should have been impossible to have this many good days, to actually be doing something with her life.


    Or maybe it was what she¡¯d actually been capable of all along, and twenty years without support or love had just¡­lied to her.


    Three more steps and she¡¯d either have to shift to Canada or interact with people who didn¡¯t hate having her around.


    ¡®Good morning,¡¯ Sacha said from behind her. ¡®Here to see me?¡¯ He stopped in front of her, a smoothie in a cup bearing the logo of that day¡¯s fae coffee cart in his hand. ¡®On a mission or just observation?¡¯


    ¡®Observing,¡¯ she said, ¡®if that¡¯s okay.¡¯


    Sacha was probably the prettiest person in Queen Street, and there was some fairly decent competition, even as far as her non-existent, not-attracted-to-people brain could tell.


    People could be pretty, even if she didn¡¯t want to do¡­messy, squishy things with that information.


    Mags never failed to turn Stef¡¯s head whenever she entered a room. The magpie girl was stunning, whether she was in a basic combat outfit, or some fluffy - and often blood-speckled - black and white dress.


    The gender glorious German in front of her though, was positively elven sometimes. Perfectly done makeup, usually with touches of gold or metallic that complimented his dark skin so well, and outfits that were elaborate without being impractical.


    And like Curt, he was another morning person.


    Sacha nodded his head, and she followed him to the shift supervisor¡¯s desk in the open-plan call centre.


    ¡®I¡¯m a little late,¡¯ he admitted as he sat down. ¡®I had overnight company, and spent a while saying goodbye.¡¯ He tapped his ID against a small reader that sat under the main monitor and the desk layout rippled and changed.


    She loved this trick, it was hot desking without the compromise. Where the Agency could, people had static workstations, whether it was a regular office space, lab, or whatnot, but some spaces required people to share.


    So when shared resources were used, one click could save the layout, ready to be retrieved wherever in the world you went.


    No more readjusting mouse and keyboard positions to get them right, no more looking for a wrist rest or your drinking-bird toy. One tap and everything was as you liked it.


    ¡®Get yourself a chair, Agent. I just need to check a few things.¡¯


    She nodded, and retrieved a chair from one of the unused stations, taking a moment to remember to people properly and nod good morning to the other recruits.


    It was all about systems and routines. Peopling was very possible if she had enough practice, time and brain energy. Saying good morning was easy enough to incorporate into a routine.


    She¡¯d done a good job. Definitely worth a cookie for later.


    She brought up her HUD notes and flicked through until she found the green one that noted how many ¡°good girl cookies¡± she owed herself and added one to the total.


    By the time she rolled the chair into place, Sacha seemed to be done with looking at the schedule, and turned to her, a brighter-than-usual smile on his face. ¡®I found something,¡¯ he said, a little more of his accent lilting through his excitement. ¡®I met your parents. Your human parents,¡¯ he clarified after a moment.


    During the first conversation she¡¯d had with the Techs as a group, it had taken her and Sacha barely a minute to figure out that their families ran in some of the same circles, and that they could probably both say some very, very weird rich kid stuff that would leave the rest of the group making weird faces or Bruce Wayne comparisons.


    Like the asshole she¡¯d previously had to call ¡°father¡±, Sacha¡¯s family was also ¡°new money¡±, though compared to her mother¡¯s family - who could probably trace their money back to the Norman invasion - most people were ¡°new money¡±.


    Sacha¡¯s family ran Prachtvoll Sailing, a company that made very expensive toys for the very rich, and her parents, throwing around some of her mother¡¯s old, old money, had bought a yacht from Prachtvoll.


    ¡°Yacht¡± was the understatement of the millennium to describe the floating hotel she¡¯d only had the pleasure of boarding a few times. It was the kind of yacht that came with a support yacht so that they could off-board as many of the below-stairs people at a time as possible, out of sight, out of mind.


    When the revolution came, she¡¯d gladly shove James up against the wall.


    A stack of photos appeared next to Sacha¡¯s green smoothie, a scan revealing it to be green chocolate, rather than something kale-inspired, and he began to flip through them.


    ¡®It¡¯s always an event when my parents hand over a new boat. Fully catered, finest champagne, and a discreet photographer to make memories for the day.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®It¡¯s all hidden in the fee structure, usually as part of the carpeting, no one skips on the carpeting.¡¯


    The photos showed a tasteful event, the kind of understated opulence where there was only one ice sculpture and one harpist.


    Christ, we live in a different world to everyone else.


    The photographer was good, snapping a mix of good candids and more posed pieces. She recognised a good number of her cousins, people with whom her actual relationship would probably require a flowchart and a d20 to work out, and a lot of both her parents and Sacha¡¯s parents.


    It was clear where he got his looks from, both of his parents were stunning, his father in a suitably expensive suit, and his mother in a dress that was artful, without being ridiculous.


    ¡®And¡­here,¡¯ he said, flipping to the next photo. A posed group shot, both sets of parents, and one adorable little Sacha, somewhere around ten or twelve, shaking hands with her mother.


    ¡®It¡¯s so strange,¡¯ she said. ¡®And I am taking a copy of this.¡¯


    He snapped his fingers, and an email notification appeared in her HUD. ¡®I was just waiting for your consent to send them.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t- They¡¯re not my favourite people,¡¯ she said. ¡®But this is too weird not to at least share with a couple of people.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re quite a bit younger than me,¡¯ he said and drank some of his smoothie. ¡®I tried looking for a pram at the edges of the party, or someone taking care of a child, but I couldn¡¯t spot you.¡¯


    She shuffled back through the photos to one that had part of the contract in view and looked at the date. ¡®This was a couple of years before I was born,¡¯ she said. ¡®E-¡¯


    -ven if I¡¯d been around, they wouldn¡¯t have brought me.


    She looked at the tiny Sacha in the photo, surrounded by the absurd wealth they¡¯d both come from, then to the sensible, longest-serving recruit in the Brisbane network. ¡®Do you miss it?¡¯


    His smile slipped from genial, sunshine-brightness to something a lot more real. ¡®Not for a minute, you?¡¯


    ¡®Never.¡¯


    He lifted his smoothie in salute. ¡®Then, ma¡¯am, I¡¯ve got some saved sample calls you might want to listen to.¡¯

 13 - Trash and Flotsam

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

 14 - Niche

    The cover story for the trashmaids was weirdly similar to the reality, but rather than it being a magical colony microbe, the video that played on Curt¡¯s phone showed a story of an extremely weird fish species.


    The fictional fish apparently used corpses as a nursery of sorts, laying eggs in whatever unlucky John Doe had sunk to the bottom of the river, and as the fish hatched, they¡¯d slowly worm their way into the body, eating their way through it as they grew larger.


    And all these little fish wiggling about inside a body could, of course, make it seem like a dead body was moving.


    A perfectly viable cover story for three of the men, and the one who suspected something more was going on had seemed happy enough to propagate the nice, non-magical white lie.


    And compared to what some actual animals did, it wasn¡¯t even the strangest thing that existed in nature.


    ¡®Thoughts?¡¯ Curt asked as he took his phone back.


    ¡®Two. You had like six notifications from an app called Rose-¡¯ Stef pushed his drink towards him as he choked. ¡®And that there¡¯s, I think it¡¯s cladistically speaking, no such thing as a fish, because-¡¯


    Curt thumped his chest, and she stopped talking as he got his choking under control. ¡®About the mission, Newbie, about the mission.¡¯


    She looked down at the tray of food between them and picked an aole chip out of the shared packet. ¡®I¡¯m just waiting for you to tell me what I did wrong so I can do better next time.¡¯


    ¡®Stop,¡¯ he cautioned.


    She wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and dug her nails into the skin. ¡®But-¡¯


    ¡®Stop.¡¯


    ¡®Then just tell me so I know.¡¯


    ¡®You didn¡¯t do anything wrong, Newbie. There are things you¡¯ll do better as we go along, but you didn¡¯t do anything wrong. You noticed how squirrely that guy was, he was obvious, but you still said something, which is good. You helped to calm down a civilian using simple language, and things he can go look up later to further set himself at ease. And you didn¡¯t react poorly when someone indicated that they had just a hint of knowledge about the real world. People like that can be difficult, if they¡¯ve got something established as part of their worldview, and you just confirm it, tell them that it¡¯s nothing they need to change, they can go on, no problems, just as they had been. If you suddenly try and introduce more to them, then things can go sideways.¡¯


    ¡®I mean, your problem isn¡¯t really ever going to be me talking too much to strangers. I¡¯ve got too much ¡°children should be seen and not heard¡± pounded into my brain for that to happen.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re also an asset with the Techs, so that¡¯s always going to make interfacing with Age-¡¯


    She held up a hand. ¡®Come on.¡¯


    If it was one thing she was going to do with her immortal life, it was going to be to stop Curt from calling every agent by their title in every conversation.


    It was something he managed just fine with when it came to the doctor. Even Parker-2, who most people tended to refer to with a title, just out of some lopsided combination of fear and respect.


    He sighed, took a moment to type something on his phone, then set it aside. ¡®Interfacing with Jones¡¯ recruits.¡¯


    ¡®So I did good?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, you did good, Newbie.¡¯ He scrunched his burger wrapper and placed it on the corner of the tray. ¡®Want an extra credit assignment while we¡¯re here?¡¯


    She nodded and grabbed another aole chip.


    ¡®Go chat with administration, see if they¡¯ve got any Agency mail sitting around that needs delivery, then meet me near the lolly shop.¡¯ He passed over a red fairy ten-dollar note. ¡®Don¡¯t get too sugar high.¡¯


    She nodded. ¡®What are you going to do?¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s a CI who works in the chemist I want to have a quick chat with, but he only likes dealing with one recruit at a time, so divide and conquer?¡¯


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    She nodded and waved as he headed off towards the north end of the Local Court, tapping away at his phone.


    ¡®I did good,¡¯ she whispered to herself, and hugged herself, happy for the small, but significant achievement.


    ¡®This is¡­quite a bit more than expected,¡¯ Ryan said as she hefted the Fairyland post office crate onto his desk. His eyes unfocus a little as he probably checked something in his HUD. ¡®I¡¯ve got indications of recruits checking in at least a couple of times a week for the past few months. This is-¡¯ He lifted the first stack out. ¡®This is surely six full months'' worth of correspondence.¡¯


    Stef nodded and felt the odd, wonderful release of tension that came whenever she realised that being in her dad¡¯s office was so very different to being in her father¡¯s office.


    Standing in front of James had never been a happy occasion, and if he were somehow transplanted into Ryan¡¯s position right now, she would have been begging for the carpet to eat her, to try and figure out how to keep from flinching as he blamed her for something that was demonstrably not her fault.


    Ryan was confused, and likely calculating how much of a problem the pile of envelopes and small packages might cause. With this much of a backlog, there was surely some invite that was seen as spurned, some request that hadn¡¯t been honoured. Small politicking things that would need smoothing out, but that were probably easy fixes.


    James would have used the opportunity to make her feel even more worthless. Ryan was probably going to take it as a learning opportunity to tell her little facts about each of the senders.


    ¡®Six months or more,¡¯ she said. ¡®They were really apologetic, but they¡¯ve been through a few admins and somehow this box got shoved under a desk and forgotten about. So what you¡¯ve been getting should be all the up-to-date stuff, whereas this will mostly be out of date.¡¯


    He pulled an orange envelope out from the middle of the stack. ¡®Well, I know for a fact that this event has been and gone. We¡¯ll still need to open it, and make sure there¡¯s a thank you note on record.¡¯


    ¡®Is that what, um, Clarke is for?¡¯


    ¡®I try to give that man as little work as possible,¡¯ Ryan said, looking extremely tired. ¡®The more we can handle in-house, the better.¡¯


    She nodded. Clarke was a weird element of their Agency - technically, he worked for Ryan as much as Jonesy or Taylor did, he was rarely in the building, instead operating almost autonomously to do whatever a liaison agent did.


    ¡®Curt already went through the original pile,¡¯ she said. ¡®Took out the general unaddressed stuff, the obvious junk mail, and anything that didn¡¯t have that little stamp on it,¡¯ she said and immediately felt stupid for pointing at the red stamp that he¡¯d surely been seeing for decades. ¡®It, um¡­¡¯


    ¡®Indicates the recipient wishes it to be seen by the office of the director only. Curt was right in what he did, as he¡¯s technically aide to Field Operations, not to the directorial position.¡¯


    ¡®So are you going to clone him and him Curt-2 the Director¡¯s aide?¡¯


    His expression said ¡°sigh¡±, even without an exhalation of air.


    ¡®Just an idea,¡¯ she said, and poked out the very end of her tongue.


    ¡®I could teach you what to do,¡¯ he said. ¡®And since you¡¯re an agent, there¡¯d be no sense that any particular piece of correspondence wasn¡¯t received by someone with the proper authority.¡¯


    ¡®I can do that. I. Um. Was going to offer to regularly collect it, so you don¡¯t have to rely on someone just happening to go by the Local Court whenever they¡¯ve got something in the area. They probably won¡¯t lose another bucket of mail, but- Would that be useful?¡¯ She tried to look up at him and hoped it would be something he approved of.


    His smile was all she needed to see, and warm fuzzies bounced around her chest.


    ¡®How about Wednesdays and Saturdays?¡¯ he said. ¡®I tend to have some time mid-afternoon, and I can action whatever is brought to me.¡¯


    She nodded, and added the To Do note to both days, along with scheduling in a tentative time of eleven AM, though it was likely to change each day the job popped up, depending on what else was happening, and what other emergencies took priority.


    Over the course of the next hour, they dissected the crate.


    Ryan started by taking all of the piles she¡¯d created with Curt and stacking them across the width of his desk, leaving just enough space for Frankie on her side, and a little spot for him to open letters on his.


    Then, they re-sorted the piles, and he pointed out markings and logos on each envelope, brands or Fairyland government departments.


    Then, wielding a letter opener engraved with the Field logo, he started with the things he felt were lowest-priority, things that could likely be dealt with quickly, and that would be easiest for her to deal with as she learned the communication logging system.


    For each piece, she had to create a new record and then scan in the letter by looking at it. The System would extract all the relevant details for the metadata, then ask if the original should be kept, or just a requirable copy kept on file.


    Whichever archival option was selected, it disappeared from her hand - physical copies being transferred to Queen Street¡¯s storage in Central, and if the original wasn¡¯t to be kept, it was just dismissed off into the void.


    So many things scared her about the future. If she was going to be of any actual use, or if Ryan keeping her around was more like adopting a pet, or giving their Agency a weird-looking mascot.


    This was something she could do. It was simple, systematic, endlessly repeatable, and since very few pieces of actually important communication were sent this way, the odds of her screwing up something really badly were quite low.


    One niche job found. Now, she just had to find a dozen more, and it might start to feel like she was earning her keep. That she was worth all the pride he had in her, and hope her had for her.

 15 - Bronze Medal

    It wasn¡¯t something that one tended to notice on a day-to-day basis, but within the Agency, colour was very important.


    It was something you could know, objectively, but largely forget about until you were brought face-to-face with it.


    Each continent had their feature colour, and there were shades within each region so that, with either practised eyes or a HUD, you could get a pretty good idea of where someone was from, just with a glance at their uniform.


    There were also the distinctions made within an individual Agency, that when inter-department schedules were made, there was a handy system to know - again, at a glance - who was involved.


    Red for Combat, green for Tech, and¡­blue for Field, once again reinforcing the idea that Field was the System¡¯s favourite discipline. The ¡°favoured son¡±, as some like to put it.


    Those colours were everyday, and invisible.


    Stationery and the like tended to be cool tones, blacks, whites, silvers, blues and greys. Boring. Corporate. Nothing to really stand out or draw the eye of a civilian who might happen to see some Agency paperwork.


    Colours meant things. You wore your region¡¯s feature colour. Prisoners wore grey, a dull reflection of Central¡¯s silver.


    Bronze wasn¡¯t used as any Agency¡¯s feature colour. Bronze was¡­special.


    And a bronze folder sat on Director Wraith¡¯s desk, the dull metallics in the cardboard catching the sun that came in through the artificial window.


    If it was¡­anything that belonged within a bronze folder, the situation was far more complicated than Clarke had led him to believe. And Wraith, despite being half his age, was still too old and sensible to accidentally leave such a meaningful colour on display.


    Ryan finished his walk across the office and shook Wraith¡¯s extended hand.


    ¡®Welcome,¡¯ Wraith said, ¡®please, sit.¡¯ Wraith lifted the bronze folder as Ryan said, and smiled a small, pained smile. ¡®Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m not going to let the elephant go unaddressed. Can I get you anything first, before this becomes serious?¡¯


    ¡®If, whatever that is, exists,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®I would imagine that time has passed.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a writ of dismissal,¡¯ Wraith said. ¡®And it¡¯s here so that¡­I¡¯ll say that you¡¯re not the only person I¡¯m speaking with today, Director. So while I¡¯m taking your application seriously, do not feel obligated to take on this responsibility. And just so you¡¯re aware, what was sent out was the mild version of the story, all the applicants today are going to be blindsided, just as I¡¯ve done with you.¡¯


    ¡®You wanted to pare down to serious applicants before even beginning the process, I take it?¡¯


    ¡®This is a shitstorm very few people want to be associated with. So, brave, stupid, or generous, which are you, Director?¡¯


    The hierarchy within the Agency was sometimes a strange thing. Rank meant a lot, but seniority could mean more, that was why, although she held the rank, he¡¯d cautioned Stef not to make too many waves, lest it cause issues with recruits whose term of service outweighed hers ten, twenty or fifty times over.


    Wraith wasn¡¯t in his chain of command, but held a higher rank. He had six decades of seniority on the regional director. Realistically, it put them on rather equal footing, so it was likely a bad idea to read insult into the word ¡°stupid¡±, rather than efficacy of speech.


    Perhaps, like his daughter, sometimes he could put too much thought into something simple.


    ¡®Pragmatic?¡¯ he offered. ¡®It is never a bad thing to be owed a favour.¡¯


    ¡®I appreciate the upfront answer,¡¯ Wraith said. ¡®And I assume that attitude is why your Agency seems to be home to a lot of misfit toys? Honestly, Director, it¡¯s why I¡¯m speaking to you first. Aside from the accent, one recruit with memory issues won¡¯t stand out, especially in comparison to¡­¡¯ He reached for a folder and lifted its cover slightly, surely just for the unnecessary dramatic effect. ¡®The child of a demon, a mirror case, a full basement full of freaks, a dreaming saviour of the world, and an agent so old he should be in a museum, to name just the top billing stars of your organisation. I¡¯d make some joke about it being a ¡°bane¡±, but I¡¯ve recently been told that¡¯s not how it¡¯s pronounced.¡¯


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡®Closer to ¡°bin¡± than ¡°bane¡±, Regional Director,¡¯ Ryan confirmed.


    ¡®To be frank, I was tempted to throw all of Phoenix into a bin,¡¯ Wraith said, then leaned forward, a bottle of green sports drink, almost the same electric green as Jones¡¯ eyes, appearing in his hand as he did so.


    Wraith poured the drink into a glass, then pitched the plastic bottle into a trash can a few feet away, the rim of which lit up and chimed as the bottle passed through it, and a score counter on the wall went up by one.


    ¡®I find it easy enough to believe that the general staff and the recruits were distanced enough from Victor to not be able to get a read on his behaviours. But¡­for three of the four agents there, I¡¯ve got to consider willful blindness, willful negligence, to not have some idea of what¡¯s been going on under that roof¡­I will get to them in time. But I am not happy, and people have been recycled for less.¡¯


    Ryan felt his eyes drift to the bronze folder again. ¡®And that¡¯s for the fourth, I take it?¡¯


    ¡®Jonathan,¡¯ Wraith clarified. ¡®You know about it before he does, I- He¡¯s- He deserves this. Some kindness. But, on the chance he makes use of it immediately, I cannot give him that option yet, there are still matters that I need his cooperation with, but at the end of it, the choice will be his.¡¯


    Writs of dismissal were beyond rare, in his years, he¡¯d seen, or heard about second-hand, around a dozen, and he knew that was on the higher end of things, skewed by his relatively high position as Director.


    To most agents, writs like this were near-mythological, something you knew about third-hand, or were aware of due to a distant friend¡¯s friend receiving one.


    The Agency, being an agent, was something you were born into, and something you died doing. It was a job for life, in every literal and metaphorical sense.


    Some agents deserted the System though, crossing over into Faerie, and chancing death by withdrawal for the chance to live free. And once fallen, once ¡°free¡±, they had to live the rest of their lives, looking over their shoulders for former colleagues who were Duty-bound to shoot on sight.


    A writ of dismissal granted freedom, gave an agent who had performed some great service or undergone some great trauma that the best way the Agency could thank them, or hospice them, was to grant them a mortal life, free from Duty and battle.


    Director Victor¡¯s desertion, and a writ for someone as young as Jonathan, spoke of a grim situation.


    ¡®What my liaison officer relayed to me,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®was that what you needed of a host Agency was simply to take on board your Recruit Kendall? Is there more to that than meets the eye?¡¯


    Wraith hummed a tune under his breath, then met Ryan¡¯s gaze. ¡®Mostly, it is what was conveyed to the liaisons. A partially-augmented recruit with a total loss of episodic memory. To the best that both Phoenix Medical and Tech can find, there¡¯s no other trigger program waiting to go off. However, as we still do not fully understand Victor¡¯s methods, it¡¯s not something I can, in good faith, promise.¡¯


    ¡®Are you comfortable sending him so far away?¡¯ Ryan asked. ¡®Are you sure he wouldn¡¯t be better off, closer to home?¡¯


    ¡®The further away, the better. The closest I¡¯m considering is Honolulu. I have no reasonable belief that Victor will come after him again, but hiding the young man halfway around the world keeps him out of sight, out of mind, and should keep him a little safer.¡¯


    A few months ago, this would have been something he would have agreed to without really thinking about it. Another favour to be done at Clarke¡¯s urging, something to buy them a little more reputation as being ¡°helpful¡± to balance out their relatively low scores that often came with outside assessments.


    Clarke would have done some base-level threat assessment, and the fact that the transfer was being done without an intermediary from Central meant that he wasn¡¯t being handed an openly ticking timebomb.


    But.


    Things had changed. He was no longer simply going through the motions, fulfilling his position without any real personal involvement. Far closer to the Solstice idea of an agent-as-automaton than he¡¯d realised until he¡¯d been given reason to examine his life. To understand what it was like to enjoy living again, to have someone he wanted to protect again.


    So the gain in reputation, in favours to be claimed later, had to be weighed against the potential danger he was bringing into his home, that he was exposing Stef to.


    What Wraith had said though also had merit. Largely without guidance, his Agency had become home to¡­people who had needed homes.


    And, for the most part, all of the misfits and strays had found a niche for themselves, had found a place where they could exist in a way that made them happier.


    Merlin had been rescued from a hell hidden beneath a suburban home, and found a parent as soon as Jones had held the malnourished and abused child.


    Magnolia - someone who had spent a lot of her formative years in an Agency, but who had abandoned that for her own reasons - had become first a reluctant recruit, and then the reason he had a truly functional Combat division.


    And it was slowly becoming easier to think of Curt as ¡°aide¡± without instinctively prefacing the young man¡¯s entire existence with ¡°ex-Solstice¡±.


    On and on. As mediocre as his Agency was, it was something far more important than remarkable, it was somewhere people belonged.


    They had room for one more.


    ¡®I¡¯ll look after him,¡¯ he said, trying to find the tone that Stef often called out as ¡°dad voice¡±. ¡®If you send him to us, he¡¯ll have a place.¡¯


    Wraith stood and extended a hand. ¡®I do want to speak with the others first, but you¡¯ve made it to the short-list.¡¯

 16 - Assignment: Australia

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

 17 - Beyond the Obvious

    [Do you want to see something cool?]


    Stef focussed on her HUD, and let her body continue to run through the better-get-used-to-autopilot ballet program. It was definitely getting easier to cede control, to work with the automation, and to find the limits of where she could still make choices and decisions, even when autopilot was running.


    In a way, it was like IRL quick-time events.


    And she wasn¡¯t sure if that made the whole process better or worse.


    Her arms lifted and flowed in time with the music, in a way that was literally unnaturally graceful, pushing her body into forms so perfect that not even Madame Cousteau would be able to find fault with them.


    Andrea¡¯s Vox message sat on the right side of her HUD, and, feeling somewhat like she was accepting a quest, sent [Yes] in return.


    A shift link was dropped into the chat, a location on the Tech science floor, the wonderful labyrinth of CSI labs, chemical research, and other things done with beakers and test tubes. It wasn¡¯t where Jonesy usually hung out, so it didn¡¯t take a genius to figure out that it was probably related to the trashmaid, given it had been the CSI recruits that had bagged and tagged the body.


    Look presentable first.


    ¡®Right,¡¯ she said, then chided herself for talking out loud.


    She skipped along in front of the mirror, thinking again, for the hundredth time that it was unfair that nothing weird happened around regular mirrors for her. That, despite what was in her chest, mirror were just¡­normal.


    From what she¡¯d read of the other mirror-affected people, and the discussions she¡¯d watched Agent Ditto¡¯s Group Chat for Gifted Youngsters - a name that the agent with the cat fursona avatar apparently refused to change - there were pros and cons to having ¡°active¡± versus ¡°passive¡± powers.


    And so far, her passive power was ¡°continue living¡±, so it might have been the strangest, least fun power out of all the ones she¡¯d read about.


    After one more jump, something her body did flawlessly when her brain wasn¡¯t in the way, she exited from the training program, then closed her eyes and wiggled all of her extremities, making sure that she was in full control of her body again.


    Satisfied that the forced dissociation had been successfully terminated, she gave a flourish with her arms, and watched in the mirror as her Agency-blue leotard and black slippers were replaced with her uniform.


    Hair that had been held back with a sweatband refreshed and fell neatly into place, and her skin refreshed, clearing away any traces of sweat and stink.


    Happy that she was at a normal, acceptable level of tidy, she clicked the shift link and disappeared from the ballet studio sim.


    ¡®Shh,¡¯ Andrea said as soon as she reintegrated. ¡®Be very, very quiet.¡¯


    Stef nodded, let her eyes adjust to the dimly-lit lab, and then wondered if time had rewound itself and she was back in Top Secret world.


    For so many days of her agentification, she¡¯d slept in a huge tank of blue, surrounded by the comforting lights of machines, and every morning, she¡¯d woken up with the lights dim, until the motion sensors slowly brought them up to normal.


    She was in a lab, and there was a weirdly-shaped girl in a tank. But¡­the tank was full of less-than-clean water, and the girl was at least a little deader than she was.


    And unlike her lab, there were recruits around - visible through the tank was Razillia¡¯s fluffy pink hair, and off to the side, Alfie sat on a bench, a fish swimming through the air in front of them.


    Ooh, fishie drone.


    Andrea touched her shoulder, and Stef walked forward, slowly, so as to not spook the-


    She selected Andrea¡¯s chat and opened the voice channel not trusting herself to keep to a reasonable volume. [How is it alive?]


    [Only parts of the colony had died off,] Andrea said, [most of it had simply gone dormant. It wasn¡¯t out of the water long enough to totally die. A little bit of love, some dirty water, and she¡¯s ready to be released back into the river.]


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    [Cool,] she said and pressed her hand up against the cool glass wall of the tank.


    Part of her hoped that the trashmaid would reach a hand out, to make contact like it was the monster from an eighties movie, but it continued to float around the tank, occasionally moving to interact with a bit of debris that floated past.


    Not a monster, a girl. A dead girl in a tank. A dead girl that-


    The thought derailed as Jones walked past her, climbed the metal stairs beside the tank, and scattered the contents of her wastepaper basket into it, including what seemed to be several crayon drawings of fishes.


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ Andrea said, and pulled the last fish drawing from the bottom of the bin to toss it in and smiled, ¡®Merlin wanted to make sure that she was fed.¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy, it¡¯s seeing in black and white again,¡¯ Alfie called. ¡®Come have a look.¡¯


    ¡®Check the integration of the imported modules,¡¯ Andrea said, climbed back down the stairs, handed Stef the bin, and went over to examine Alfie¡¯s fish.


    Razillia slowly sidestepped around the tank until they had shuffled to Stef¡¯s side, a conspiratorial look on their face. ¡®Did she ask you yet?¡¯


    ¡®Jonesy?¡¯ Stef asked, to which Razillia nodded. ¡®Ask me what?¡¯


    ¡®Nothing,¡¯ Razillia said, and pointed to the trashmaid, who was slowly chewing on one of the crayon fish drawings.


    A drawing which, through some trick of the light, almost seemed to have scales for a moment.


    ¡®Ask me what, Recruit?¡¯ she said, trying to put some measure of Ryan¡¯s authority into her voice.


    ¡®Shoo, and I¡¯ll ask,¡¯ Andrea said, and Razillia retreated to the far side of the tank, where they were playing with the guts of some weird piece of lab equipment.


    Stef looked up at the ceiling, then at Andrea. ¡®Jonesy, how many shoes are waiting to fall on my head?¡¯


    ¡®The number and size of the shoes is entirely up to you, Spyder.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, so ask.¡¯


    Andrea pointed at the tank. ¡®Other than the obvious, tell me what you see.¡¯


    The thought that had spiralled into the background came back, this time with some actual shape and definition. ¡®A dead girl,¡¯ she said. ¡®And every time people seem to talk about the trashmaids, they talk about the magic half, the trashmaid half of the equation like it¡¯s the whole, but there¡¯s also a person there, or, yanno, what used to be a person.¡¯


    On the other side of the tank, Razillia nodded.


    ¡®It¡¯s something we¡¯ve always known,¡¯ Andrea said, her voice full of equal measures sadness and resignation, ¡®it¡¯s a basic fact of what they are, but there¡¯s never been any concentrated effort to do a tag-and-release program and identify all the dead so that their families can get some kind of closure.¡¯


    ¡®Because we¡¯re an under-resourced gremlin of an Agency?¡¯


    Andrea nodded.


    Stef pointed over her head. ¡®Still waiting for the shoes, Jonesy.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t tell you why Reynolds never did anything about it, and Field has been understaffed for almost as long as you¡¯ve been alive. We¡¯ve just Curt onboard as aide, and while that does create more capability, it¡¯s not necessarily something I want to dump in his lap.¡¯


    ¡®But my lap looks pretty good?¡¯


    ¡®Phrasing aside, yes. It¡¯s a project you could head up, and ideally,¡¯ she gestured around the lab, ¡®there¡¯d be a fair degree of interface with me and my kids, and we speak the same language. Your access would also mean fewer roadblocks than if Curt was heading it up.¡¯ Jones¡¯ electric green eyes sparkled. ¡®Agent authority is very useful.¡¯


    Go for it, Spyder.


    ¡®I accept,¡¯ the words were out before she¡¯d really had a chance to consider them, but they felt right, and the smile - as weird as the sensation still was - felt just as good. ¡®Um. I¡¯ll have to check with Ryan. And- I need some better idea of what I¡¯d be doing, but-¡¯


    If it was a project with defined parameters, being overseen by someone who knew what they were doing, then maybe- Then it was something she could do.


    Fetching and sorting the Local Court mail was one thing, it was one tiny thing that wouldn¡¯t mean much to her overall contribution, even if it was a stepping stone, and enough to get her hair ruffled by a dad ready to praise her.


    But this- This felt¡­agenty. Like something actually worth Ryan¡¯s pride and encouragement.


    ¡®Bloop.¡¯


    She tried to pull herself from her brain, looked to what had made the strange noise, and found herself face-to-face with Alfie¡¯s flying fish.


    ¡®Bloop,¡¯ it said again, circled her head, and flew back to the desk to circle its programmer.


    ¡®Got the colour working?¡¯ Andrea asked.


    ¡®Yeah, it was exactly what you said,¡¯ Alfie said. ¡®I¡¯ve made some comments so they can fix it in the next release.¡¯ They stood, and the fish settled onto their shoulder. ¡®So are we doing this now?¡¯


    Stef looked up at Andrea, who smiled, held up a hand, required a child-sized slipper and lightly bapped her on the head with it. ¡®So¡­I figured you would say yes,¡¯ Andrea said as the recruits headed towards the back of the lab. ¡®So I made sure my kids were ready to have a team meeting.¡¯


    She looked through the tank, following Andrea¡¯s gaze, and saw the recruits walk through a door into what, through the distortion of the tank, was probably a meeting room, one that already had other people in it.


    Jones tapped her with the slipper again and smiled. ¡®Coming, Spyder?¡¯


    With no urge to shift to Canada, she nodded and followed Andrea into the meeting room.

 18 - Active, Passive and Changing

    Rising into his field of view like a dark star, Magnolia settled herself on his stomach, thick thighs gripping his side, one hand lightly tapping against the T-shirt that always stayed on, no matter how intimate they got.


    ¡®O¡¯Connor-¡¯


    Curt smiled up at her. ¡®I know your feelings on the subject, but the afterglow is allowed to last more than a few seconds, Mags.¡¯


    Strong fingers that had been wrapped around his cock just a few minutes ago tapped his stomach. ¡®Not when there¡¯s work to do. We just get to move forward with our moods elevated.¡¯ She shifted one of her legs and slipped her hand under the hem of his shirt, just high enough to touch the trailing ends of one of his tattoos. ¡®When the fuck are you going to get rid of these?¡¯ Her voice was quiet, but the tone was steel, not a question she was going to let him wriggle out of, no matter how much fun wriggling might be right now.


    He wanted to touch her hand, to curl his fingers around hers, or to pull it away, but as close as they got, he tried to avoid small gestures like that. Everything he did with her was calculated to make sure that she didn¡¯t feel like he was being too familiar, to let her remember that he remembered his place.


    Even as he laid there, looking up at her, equally appreciative of her breasts filling her cami and the muscles on her arms, he was sure she didn¡¯t see it like that, that she¡¯d long ago stopped seeing him as a danger, as just a pathetic participant in the Agency¡¯s enemy-rehabilitation program.


    But¡­But so much in his life still felt so fragile - might always feel fragile - that he didn¡¯t want anyone around him to feel like he was taking them for granted.


    He didn¡¯t treat Carmichel like a bank, no matter how much his friend lavished him with presents and favours and offered more. He showed up with ice cream and sympathy when Raz broke up with one of his boyfriends. And he wanted to convey with every breath and action that he was glad that the warrior princess sitting on him was benevolent enough to look in his direction with friendship, and occasionally, a libido in need.


    ¡®Not yet,¡¯ he said. ¡®I get enough lectures from Two on it, so let him fight that good fight, and tell me what you need from me.¡¯


    ¡®I would like to fuck you with your shirt off again,¡¯ she said. ¡®And I would prefer not to drag you somewhere dangerous to do it.¡¯


    ¡®Mags.¡¯


    She pouted, sighed and let her weight settle onto him a little more. ¡®Are you going to be sticking around-¡¯ She pushed a finger to his lips to keep him quiet. ¡®Not now. I know you¡¯re sticking around for the moment, I haven¡¯t dismissed you yet, Recruit.¡¯ She scraped her fingers along his chin, then sat back. ¡®You¡¯ve got the aide job, but I know you- I know you¡¯ve got complicated feelings about the Agency.¡¯


    He lifted his hips, needing space from her body if they were going to have this calibre of serious conversation.


    She slipped off and moved to lie beside him, head propped up against the pile of three pillows on her side of the bed. ¡®And it¡¯s probably not fair for me to ask you while your dick¡¯s out, but I need to know. Our jobs, being what they are, nothing is guaranteed, either one of us could have a bullet in our heads by the end of the day, and I think Mimosa has probably sucked up all the get-another-life luck we¡¯re going to have around here for a long time.¡¯


    Maybe. Maybe not. Newbie¡¯s ¡°luck¡± and its ongoing status was going to be¡­complicated going forward.


    There was an odd tendency to¡­almost meme Taylor. Something about how so seemingly primal and simple he was allowed recruits - especially those that didn¡¯t interact with him a lot - to treat him like a cartoon character. You could take any hypothetical ¡°Superman vs. Goku¡±-style argument and people would argue that their resident ginger agent would come out on top.


    It was equal parts hero worship and fear, and well-earned, even if he still did get taken aback by the occasional use of chibi Taylor emotes and stickers in certain Tech chats he¡¯d seen.


    And if you followed that line of thinking, of making Taylor a caricature of himself, it was easy enough to imagine him walking up to Stef, pushing his hand into her chest, and ripping out enough mirror to wish his partner back to life.


    Mags and Taylor were a unit, that was something that had been clear from his earliest days as a recruit here. They worked together almost as well, almost as seamlessly, as the twins, and the twins were so far into each others¡¯ heads that sometimes they ended up ¡°pole switching¡± and temporarily swapping what body they inhabited.


    But in the year and a half he¡¯d been there, it had been a purely¡­he wasn¡¯t sure ¡°professional¡± was the word as they were too entrenched in each other¡¯s lives for that. Even being in the circle of awareness and intimacy that he was with Mags, which was close to her inner circle - and she¡¯d made it clear that there was a door open to that space, but he had to be the one to step through it, but¡­he couldn¡¯t yet, couldn¡¯t feel that comfortable, couldn¡¯t forgive himself enough to-


    Even from his position, he knew her Duty - the kind of capital-D Duty that agents spoke of - was to Taylor, not to the Agency itself, and that there likely wasn¡¯t a request of his she wouldn¡¯t kill or die for.


    And to that, in the last few days, they¡¯d¡­added romance. As new as it was, it was something only a few people knew about, and he¡¯d been included in that group.


    If he¡¯d had to lay a bet, he would have been sure that just-colleagues Taylor would have heart-ripped for Mags; now that love was in the air, he was doubly sure of it.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    So with the presence of mirror, it was going to be very interesting the first time something bad happened, and how Newbie was going to react to that.


    In a way that probably meant that therapy would be a good idea - not that he was anyone to make that call - Newbie had, a few nights before, dropped some information he was still processing. It had made sense, it did make sense, but her attitude towards it, and her method of conveying it was¡­just pure Steffishness.


    Amongst paperwork, and after failing to bargain for her break to last another five minutes so she could play some more Pokemon, she¡¯d told him that she was a failsafe for the end of the world. That part of the reason the Agency allowed people like her - those recruits, aides and agents with extant mirror - were emergency ¡°avoid the apocalypse¡± buttons.


    That as soon as the right situation arose, some algorithm would pick whoever seemingly had the right amount of mirror, and they¡¯d be shifted for some director, enforcer, or someone higher up the ¡°corporate¡± ladder of the Agency would crack them open and wish for the safety of the world, with barely enough time to apologise, and-slash-or thank them for their sacrifice.


    She had then stolen the last aole chip, told him the legend of the ¡°hidden Mew under the truck¡±, and gone back to her paperwork, ending the five-minute microcosm of what it was like to spend any significant amount of time with her.


    The end of the world might be an okay trade for Newbie¡¯s life, anything less than that¡­and he¡¯d gladly offer to play bouncer for anyone who tried to Mortal Kombat her heart out of her chest.


    ¡®It is complicated,¡¯ he said, saying words that still felt blasphemous and even dangerous to say within the walls of the Agency, ¡®but I¡¯m also not going anywhere anytime soon, excepting some time where the twins can¡¯t sew me back together.¡¯


    There was empathy in her eyes. ¡®You¡¯ve got your shit, I¡¯ve got mine, and there is a lot rotten in this organisation,¡¯ the word ¡°rotten¡± somehow managing to carry the vehemency of an entire string of cuss words, ¡®from fundamental aspects of the organisation to individuals who I would set on fire if I could. But- That¡¯s not my worry, that¡¯s not my concern, this Agency is, these people are. Do I even give a shit about the state directors? No. Have I, or will I, ever be in a room with the continent staff? No, and why the fuck would I care to be? My life is going well when I see that things are calm enough for Taylor to follow his daily routines and that Jones has time to slip out and get a stupid bougie coffee. Ryan, well, and up until this point didn¡¯t seem to have a hobby other than ¡°staring out the window¡±, but now I guess it¡¯s parenting that cute little gremlin thing who technically has authority over me.¡¯


    ¡®Not that she¡¯d ever use it,¡¯ he said.


    Mags blessed him with a rare, relaxed smile. ¡®I know, she said to my face multiple times during her testing phase that absolutely does not feel comfortable with the concept that she could give orders to me. I said she had sub energy, she asked what teaching had to do with anything.¡¯


    He smiled, then hissed in a breath as her nails ran in teasing lines over his hip. ¡®I think I¡¯m pretty much on board with you there? I care about these four walls and not much outside of them. So what are you actually asking?¡¯


    ¡®The better we are as an Agency, as a network, the safer we are. We¡¯re nowhere near the bottom of the barrel, but we are thoroughly mediocre, I would like to pull us up to average, and I think for the first time in decades, there is actually a chance we can do that, and I¡¯m hoping you can help me with that.¡¯


    ¡®You know how recent this promotion is for me, and you¡¯ve probably taken that into account, so yeah, I¡¯ll do what I can, but we¡¯re still missing a lot of elements if you truly want to do something about it. Tech needs an aide, the - and I am picking my words carefully here - director needs an aide, the twins need nurses, and-¡¯ He shook his. ¡®You know all this. I just want you to know I¡¯m aware it¡¯s a hell of a job.¡¯


    ¡®It at least feels like change is possible now,¡¯ she said, leaning in to lay a gentle kiss on his cheek, then lightly shoved his chest. ¡®Now fuck off and take a shower.¡¯


    He let his hand brush over the one on her chest, nodded, and smirked. ¡®Yes, ma¡¯am.¡¯


    When he walked out of the bathroom, his hair a calculated amount of still-damp, as there was something about the just-showered look that Mags seemed to appreciate, he stopped short and wondered if the door had glitched, or-


    Mags walked past him, just in her cami, though now also wearing a pair of boy shorts, smiled and waved. ¡®Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯re not going crazy, I¡¯m just¡­making some changes myself.¡¯


    Everything, except the bathroom behind him had changed.


    When he¡¯d stepped in for a shower, it had been the room he¡¯d been used to - a slight variant to the usual recruit room that had the bed hidden by a half-wall to separate it a little from the living space.


    Now, a long room extended from where he stood on the threshold of the bathroom, probably five or six metres long, her bed at the far end, haloed by strings of fairy lights and instant photos pegged to the wires.


    Her dressmaking dummies and supplies for outfit creation now had their own little area to his right, and a desk sat next to the new sliding door in the centre of the room, leading off to the left.


    ¡®Sleeping in the gym every night isn¡¯t a viable, long-term solution,¡¯ she said and slid the Japanese-style door of black framing and paper squares back to reveal the rest of the same. ¡®I suggested we have a space together, and honestly, I¡¯ve always been a little jealous of Sacha¡¯s space, but have never had reason to do something so elaborate.¡¯ She looked away from him. ¡®Not until- I know I¡¯m here until I die now.¡¯ She looked back. ¡®So I¡¯m having a little fun.¡¯


    The space beyond her door was a little strange, not a layout of a house or apartment he¡¯d ever seen - though something that was apparently easy enough to create with the Agency software and the tablet in her hand.


    Lots of elements were still placeholders - to the point where some sections had spraypainted notes on the floor, representing the handwritten notes she¡¯d made in the modelling software, but after looking through the space a couple of times, everything clicked.


    Five¡­not rooms, as only the bedrooms - one for Mags, one for Taylor, so they could each have their own space, and fuck other people when the mood struck - had doors, but five sections, of equal size.


    The bedrooms were on the far sides of the space. Down two steps from each side was¡­almost a mezzanine level. On Mags¡¯ side, it was a dining table, and an empty display cabinet, on Taylor¡¯s side, the spray-painted notes indicated it would be some kind of weapons gallery.


    The central section, another two steps down, meaning the whole place had a very shallow v-shape to it, was a huge sectional couch, a dining table, and a wall for projecting movies.


    ¡®This is only version one,¡¯ she said, ¡®you¡¯ll just have to keep visiting to watch it evolve. And not just for when I want to make good use of your hands and mouth, you need to agree to hang out with my friends more, I¡¯m going to scrape away this loner bullshit, even if it hurts a little.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s hard, Mags.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s easier when you let people help.¡¯


    An alarm on his Agency phone rang. ¡®Ryan. Meeting. Domesticate me later?¡¯


    ¡®Sure, I can collar you whenever you want.¡¯


    He looked around, then slowly back at her. ¡®Mags?¡¯


    ¡®O¡¯Connor, we can-¡¯


    ¡®Mags, where¡¯s the door gone?¡¯


    A flash of embarrassment, so cute that it was an image he would take to his deathbed, crossed her face before she pointed at the bare wall behind the couch, where a door materialised a moment later. ¡®There, it¡¯ll go through Taylor¡¯s gym. He¡¯s out, so don¡¯t worry.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ he said and knew that she would understand it was for far more than just the exit.

 19 - Incoming

    ¡®There¡¯s one rather significant piece of new business I¡¯d like to start with,¡¯ Ryan said. ¡®If you¡¯re fine to start there.¡¯


    Curt settled his folders, laid his Agency phone within easy grasp of his right hand, and then nodded.


    Even working from a still-limited experience pool, it wasn¡¯t unusual for Ryan to start a meeting with something that hadn¡¯t been on the anticipated schedule - though mostly it was usually just chatter from the Outposts, which made it something that essentially passed as their version of ¡°casual¡± conversation, as being anything other than one-hundred-and-ten per cent professional in Ryan¡¯s presence was still a mammoth task.


    Chatter from the rest of the network though, usually didn¡¯t come with the designation of ¡°significant¡±.


    A lot of what they covered in these meetings was becoming close to rote, which was a good sign for their agent-agent working relationship. A good agent shouldn¡¯t spring too many curveballs on their aide, and in turn, their aide should be adaptable enough to deal with whatever arose.


    Ryan looked slightly awkward for a moment, an expression he seemed to be allowing himself to show around Curt more often. And he had to take it as a good sign, it meant Ryan was becoming more comfortable around him, which had to mean he was doing a good job.


    He still couldn¡¯t look at the- At the man without feeling his head going through plaster, but¡­it felt like perhaps it would fade, and that Petersen would go back to being the only boogeyman that haunted the edges of his mind.


    He¡¯d forgiven, but it was hard to make his instincts forget.


    ¡®This isn¡¯t anything you don¡¯t know,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®and I¡¯m sure at least you¡¯ve had indications that it¡¯s why you yourself have a place here-¡¯


    ¡®Agent Clarke makes you take in waifs and strays to bolster our reputation as helpful, and for favours to be claimed later.¡¯


    ¡®Encourages, not ¡°makes¡±,¡¯ Ryan corrected mildly, ¡®but otherwise, entirely correct.¡¯


    Transfers and new recruits in and of themselves weren¡¯t usually ¡°start of meeting¡± important business unless it was a quiet week.


    Someone, to use Ryan¡¯s word, ¡°significant¡± enough to be brought up at the start of a meeting indicated that this probably wasn¡¯t just taking on someone with some behavioural issues, or a less-than-stellar track record that needed a new job.


    ¡®Ex-Solstice?¡¯ he ventured.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®and while Recruit Kendall has had dealings with them, they¡¯re far from the reason for his move.¡¯


    ¡®All right, sir, tell me.¡¯


    Stymied by the occasional ¡°unfortunately, that¡¯s above your security clearance¡± and apologies for not being able to give more detail on certain aspects, Ryan wove a sad story of a recruit who had run afoul of a rogue director, and was now living as an amnesiac.


    ¡®But he¡¯s still functional as a recruit?¡¯ he asked. ¡®I know people who lose their memories don¡¯t necessarily lose language and-¡¯


    A nod from Ryan. ¡®There are various types of memory, in Kendall¡¯s case, essentially he¡¯s retained¡­information, but lost memories. He could recall the plot of a film, not remember watching it. He knows his recruit procedures, even if doesn¡¯t remember being taught them.¡¯


    ¡®Is it too early to ask for a file? I¡¯d like a leg-up on getting to know him before he arrives.¡¯


    Ryan pulled a rather slim folder from his pile, and with all the redacted information, slim made sense.


    ¡®How¡¯s his field score?¡¯ Curt asked as he flipped open the file, his eyes immediately going to the picture of the grey-eyed recruit at the top of the file.


    ¡®A tenth of a per cent higher than yours, Aide.¡¯


    Immediately, he wanted to make himself smaller for the rebuke, and- As he moved, he saw the light shine on the pen Stef had given him to celebrate his official appointment as aide and-


    And it wasn¡¯t a rebuke. The tone was light, almost playful.


    He grabbed the pen, and pressed his finger into the slide, into the spot where the engraving had become a long series of question marks, meaning that Stef likely had something on her mind that he¡¯d have to deal with later.


    He met Ryan¡¯s gaze and, a little shakily, returned the director¡¯s smile.


    ¡®His Combat score is also pretty high, are you sure Mags isn¡¯t going to snipe him away from us?¡¯


    ¡®If you could, as I know you two get along well, could you try and discourage her from officially stealing him away? The Regional Director has put Kendall''s welfare in my hands, so it would be ideal if he¡¯s under my direct authority, at least for his first few months here.¡¯


    Considering where his face had been earlier that day, ¡°well¡¯ was somewhat of an understatement.


    Combat was in a decent position at the moment, second only to Tech in how well-staffed they were, so Magnolia didn¡¯t have a pressing need to necessarily steal transfers and new recruits, but she had engaged in bidding wars before when talented people had joined Queen Street.


    Hewitt was the example that always came to mind, even though it had been before his time. A transfer, like the incoming Kendall, Hewitt had scored almost evenly in both Tech and Combat, both areas he¡¯d worked in before, so it had become a contest between Mags and Jones as to who would claim the recruit.


    Mags had eventually won, though Jones had reserved - and exercised - the right to borrow Hewitt on occasion when a project or mission needed some Combat power.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    His next question stalled, as it wasn¡¯t a situation that he¡¯d ever had to deal with before. And while it was almost a wonderful problem to have, it still needed to be voiced.


    His first few weeks in Brisbane had been a blur. Farnshaw¡¯s memory meddling had given him a small helping hand in processing - or not processing - Petersen¡¯s hospitality. Two¡¯s meds had taken that helping hand, and bumped it along a little with drugs that let him sleep, even if they didn¡¯t take the nightmares away.


    And after he¡¯d finally come out of¡­what could generously be called ¡°fight or flight¡± if you accepted that fight, flight, or freeze, Petersen had always gotten his way, he¡¯d turned all his conscious thoughts and will towards being the best, most competent, most indispensable recruit Ryan had ever seen.


    If only so he¡¯d live another day. Be able to breathe another hour. Go one more minute without-


    He made himself put down the pen and folded his hands in his lap so that Ryan didn¡¯t see where he¡¯d embossed Stef¡¯s message-via-engraving into his skin.


    And Ryan, even early in those early days, had noticed his eagerness, his willingness to go the extra mile that other recruits wouldn¡¯t, take on the shit jobs, the unwanted extra work, and to volunteer for anything and everything.


    So, relatively quickly, just a few months in, he¡¯d become Ryan¡¯s go-to for taking newbies through their first few days of their Agency career. In any other Agency, it wouldn¡¯t be something that would have been allowed to fly, as most other Agencies wouldn¡¯t want a recruit¡¯s first impression to be largely handled by someone who had started on the other side of the war.


    It had been something he¡¯d been absolutely and keenly aware of, so had perfected his bright-and-shiny eager recruit act, and gotten the first few days down to a relatively repeatable act, one that got new recruits through the things they absolutely needed to be aware of as they took their first steps, while throwing in maybe a fun thing or two that most other recruits wouldn¡¯t have been able to offer.


    Most other recruits had little to no fairy currency, as it wasn¡¯t something that the Agency gave away without reason. If you had to do a job in Faerie, you could usually get a per diem, which was usually about enough to grab a coffee and lunch at Famous Fry¡¯s, so maybe you¡¯d bring home some small change to throw in a drawer, which would slowly accumulate over time into¡­enough to buy another coffee or meal at Fry¡¯s.


    Often that was enough for recruits, as not everyone was interested in doing a lot in Faerie, and were more than happy enough to explore what functionally endless required cash - and requiring itself - could do, as well as exploring the limitless opportunities of the sim rooms.


    Some recruits spent all their free time exploring theme parks or attractions in the real world, wanting the authentic experience. Others were happy to take the sim room version, as it meant being able to skip all the lines or ride a dirtbike past mascot characters without gaining the ire of the security guards.


    Some recruits did try and build up a functional amount of fae currency, and techs were really good at doing this, as Jones - from Raz had told him - basically had a jobs board of random tasks that needed to be done that were largely outside the exact job requirements of any of his recruits, or were long-ignored boring tasks that did need to eventually get done, so was happy to bribe his recruits with nominal sums.


    Most recruits didn¡¯t have a Carmichael, and therefore, most recruits didn¡¯t have thousands in fae currencies in their bank account.


    He was always sure never to be too ostentatious with how he flaunted this other-planar wealth, with the most expensive thing that recruits saw him with on any sort of regular basis being a flagship Genie phone, but most wouldn¡¯t have been able to recognise that on sight, and he didn¡¯t tend to pull it out unless he was relatively comfortable or felt sure that he wasn¡¯t being observed too carefully.


    A trip to breakfast, or a cheap food court lunch, however, didn¡¯t ever raise any eyebrows. The new recruits were new enough not to grasp the economic situation, and by the time they got around to realising that a lot of recruits didn¡¯t have much fae money, they would easily be able to rationalise it away as being something he¡¯d built up over time.


    It also, usually, gave him time to slip away and go to a Rose Room hookup while they explored the Local Court, under the guise of having to do some paperwork, or chat with the Court administration.


    All of this led back to the issue that he¡¯d never had before.


    Pretty much universally, his Field partners would ditch him after a week or so, after chatting to the other recruits and being given the baseless impression that he wasn¡¯t trustworthy, if only on a one-to-one basis.


    Maybe they could believe he was a long-term plant, though from what little he knew - and it truly was ¡°little¡± as the Agency liked to segregate and gatekeep a lot of information about reformed Solstice from other reformed Solstice, likely to stop them from seeking each other out and rekindling their evil ways.


    But even if he was someone who eventually planned to bomb Queen Street, or murder a meeting of the senior staff or whatever, that didn¡¯t mean that on a day-to-day basis, recruit-to-recruit, he wasn¡¯t at least a valuable resource.


    He was pretty sure that was Ryan¡¯s logic as well, that even as much as the agent didn¡¯t trust him - though maybe they were turning a corner on that - that Ryan had been able to trust his intentions. That hurting one individual recruit would be a waste of a deep-cover mole, so suspicion had never come his way, even when he occasionally dipped into areas of low or no System cover - like the Local Court - with fresh recruits.


    Always and always though, they¡¯d request a new partner, one with a less¡­grey-listy background, and that was only judged off his cover story Solstice history, the one where he¡¯d been nothing more than a Red-Shirt-nobody who hadn¡¯t done much, and not the much more unfortunate reality of the truth.


    Solstice was Solstice though, and so many recruits, especially new and eager-to-please, eager-to-toe-the-line so they could start their own careers without a blemish, wanted nothing to do with him.


    He¡¯s never had to mentor two recruits at the same time.


    ¡®Sir, what about Stef? Where should I put my priorities?¡¯


    ¡®I trust you to manage your time,¡¯ Ryan said, ¡®as Kendall will be acclimatising to a new country more than a new role, it will be a different kind of induction than you¡¯ve done with other new recruits.¡¯


    A small smile from Ryan, something that was a lot, lot more common since Newbie had arrived on the scene, something that really spoke to Mags¡¯ opinion - or hope or desire - that things were changing, if only slowly, if only in small ways.


    ¡®If I¡¯m also reading the updates she¡¯s been giving me correctly,¡¯ Ryan continued, ¡®I think she may be splitting her time with Tech for the next few days, so there may not be as much conflict in your schedule as you might think.¡¯


    ¡®When will Kendall be arriving?¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s essentially at our discretion. Right now, we can request him with fifteen minutes¡¯ notice.¡¯ Curt opened his mouth, but Ryan waved him off. ¡®If you¡¯re wondering about jetlag, don¡¯t. One of the things he¡¯ll be doing with his notice will be visiting his Medical team to get an-¡¯ Pause. ¡®Adjustment. It¡¯s a simple trick we can do with recruit blue that helps us mitigate circumstances like this. You may wish to go easy on him tomorrow, as there will be some minor lingering effects after a night¡¯s sleep, but he¡¯ll be functional today.¡¯


    He was sure that Phoenix Medical would do something proper with adjusting¡­ melatonin or dopamine or neurotransmitters or something in that area to give the recruit another twelve or so hours of function without feeling like his soul was trapped several hours behind.


    He was equally sure that if he had to be on secondment to Phoenix, that Two would approach him with a stupidly, comically oversized needle full of energy shots and caffeine, pump it into his arm, and wish that the gods may have mercy on his soul and bowels before flinging him across the planet.


    ¡®Let¡¯s say an hour after we¡¯re done with this meeting?¡¯ Curt suggested. ¡®I won¡¯t need much prep time, but I would like to get a few things tidied before taking on a new recruit.¡¯

 20 - Asynchronicity

    It wasn¡¯t unusual for there not to be a lot to read up on when inducting a new recruit - most of the people he¡¯d taken through this process were brand new to this side of the world, so other than relevant civilian records, and maybe the incident report that got them involved with the Agency, the fae, the Solstice or some combination of all three, it was usually a fairly slim file.


    People, as a rule, didn¡¯t transfer to Brisbane. There were exceptions, of course, he was walking proof of that, but mostly recruits were locals who had just been swept up in the bigger world that was hidden just left of what they knew.


    An existing recruit, however, should have come with a lot of information, but a good deal of it was being gently held back - would probably be obtainable if he asked for it, but wasn¡¯t being offered - in the time since Kendall had lost his memory, Phoenix and the Regional Director¡¯s office had tried various techniques to jog anything that might still be caught in his grey matter, but had largely come up empty.


    They had decided, therefore, to mostly not offer Kendall information on a lot of his older cases and missions. Some he knew, but they wanted to limit how much he was able to quantify that he was missing, especially if it wasn¡¯t critical to know right now.


    The personal information was similarly grim, though not from gatekeeping, just by virtue of being yet another member of the Agency who didn¡¯t have a lot of personal connections.


    It wasn¡¯t a universal thing, there were recruits with absolutely normal family lives - for whatever normal meant - and friends that weren¡¯t just their co-workers and colleagues. But it was a noticeable trend, particularly for those who lived ¡°on campus¡± that they were less likely to have a lot of strong connections to their old lives.


    Both Newbie and Sacha had deliberately put half a world between them and their family, though he understood that Sacha at least did have a decent relationship with his family, albeit one that was made better with distance.


    They might have been on the more extreme end of the scale, but for good and bad, this was a career that tended to attract people who didn¡¯t have two-point-five kids to go home to every night, or who had to choose between a job they¡¯d been in for a decade and putting on the suit.


    And Kendall was reinforcing that, aside from it being a safety issue for him to get some space from Phoenix - though in conversation, both he and Ryan had both quietly acknowledged that was more of a hope than a reality if Kendall¡¯s former Director really did have the desire for vengeance, or to fuck with him further.


    Even disconnected from the System, fairy stairs made global travel something reasonably achievable within a few hours, at least to get you into the right general area, though once you exited into your country of choice, you would then be stuck with whatever transport options were available there.


    But Kendall wasn¡¯t leaving a family behind - there were a few various cousins and whatnot noted in his biographical data, but more as points of reference than people he had any close connection to. Parents dead, tragic, but maybe a small blessing of the amnesia that he didn¡¯t have to think about their loss. No known siblings. No partner - either of the romantic or recruit variety - nothing that really tied to him to Phoenix. Nothing that would make his transition to Queen Street harder than it needed to be.


    And adjusting to a whole new country was going to be hard enough. Especially with how¡­reductive the views of some Americans were towards Aussies.


    He wasn¡¯t going to make any assumptions that that¡¯s what Kendall was like, as that was just as reductive, but he was bracing himself to debunk all the most common myths, possibility to the cultural shame of partaking in the long-honoured pastime of ¡°bullshitting the tourists¡±.


    It was just what you were supposed to do. You should have, by your mid-teens, an entire spiel about the dangers of drop bears, how deforestation had impacted their habitat, the areas where they were more or less likely to attack humans, that they were definitely real, mate, they¡¯re a more primitive form of koala, you know we¡¯ve got a lot of weird shit in this country. You could even chat up the reality of drop bears while slyly letting on that there were certain things Aussies did bullshit about, like hoop snakes, they were made up to fuck with tourists, you¡¯re too smart to believe in hoop snakes, right?


    Then again, this was a country where Mags¡¯ brethren did spend a couple of months a year divebombing anyone who didn¡¯t wear an ice-cream container covered in straws or zip ties, to the point where the local councils had to put out alerts about particularly aggressive birds or streets, so truth could be stranger than fiction.


    And it was easy to get certain things in order. Usually, he didn¡¯t bother with something as mundane as room assignment, but as he figured that his particular-


    That was going to be another problem.


    Ever since he¡¯d joined Queen St and taken on this role for Ryan, he¡¯d used ¡°newbie¡± just like Mags had done with him, something completely unoriginal, but something he¡¯d stuck to - if it was good enough for the aide, it was good enough for him.


    But now¡­well, Newbie seemed to own the word ¡°newbie¡± in his head. It had gone from something generic to something that carried meaning, and thus, lower-case-newbie would have to be replaced with something else going forward.


    Kendall¡¯s room assignment he¡¯d discussed with Ryan - roughly there was a cross of rooms that the Field recruits had - two intersecting corridors, though most of the current recruits occupied the longer approximately-north-east corridor that lined up with the street rather than the shorter intersecting corridor.


    Kendall had been slated for one of the rooms on the shorter corridor, as that was just had been automatically assigned as Ryan had processed the paperwork, but he had asked for the new recruit to be amongst his peers, rather than taking the chance that the random room assignment might make it seem like he was being pushed aside.


    And for someone who was going to need an entirely new social circle, they needed to start off on as many right feet as possible and avoid any potential bad optics, even if it might be taking things to a slightly Newbie-esque level of casual paranoia.


    Which brought him to his next task.


    Normally, to get to the Infirmary, he used the little bit of space-bending trickery that allowed an entrance straight in from each of the primary departmental floors, but for some reason, today he felt like taking the slow route.


    The elevator rose with its usual speed up to level seventeen, and let him out into one of the widest corridors that he knew of in this Agency, probably four metres across, space that could - in the event of the end of the world, or some unfathomable attack - allow beds to be lined up on both sides of the wall, holding injured recruits awaiting treatment, while still having enough space down the centre to run more beds or equipment.


    As it wasn¡¯t currently the end of the world, the space was dim - the lights only coming on as he approached each section, in some weird¡­there was probably some proper word for it, but it a lot of the things about the Agency conformed to the expectations of the primarily human recruits, as to not take them too far out of their comfort with the small things.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    The elevator took time to arrive, and he was sure that it didn¡¯t have to. It travelled at a fast pace, but one well within the expectations of that of a modern office tower, there were vending machines in all the recruit gyms, even though you could just require whatever you wanted. For all the things that made the Agency the Agency - that dust never collected, that - for most recruits - your room cleaned itself, that water from the shower was immediately hot and would stay that way, even if you let it run so long that it would drain the Pacific, the intentional ¡°less perfect¡± touches allowed you to keep some touchstones of what was familiar.


    There were photos on the wall of the corridor, nothing remarkable if you didn¡¯t look too closely. Black and white photos, in square black frames with a white mat, spaced a few feet apart from each other - and spaced so that where there was one on the left wall, there was a space on the right wall, which also might not have been something that granted any deeper meaning if you didn¡¯t know the twins.


    But the more you got to know them, the more you saw¡­them, the ¡°synchronous, but discontinuous¡± being that Two had described them as being, once upon a midnight with his hand in Curt¡¯s gut, digging out a bullet, several shards of glass and some other bits of shrapnel whilst gently complaining that he was missing out on the late Parisian lunch that he had planned with his better half.


    The twins were¡­the twins. As much the same person as they were different people. They weren¡¯t the easiest people to get to know, though for some reason he¡¯d been able to skip past whatever barrier they kept up with a lot of people, not that they were unfriendly¡­well, not that One was unfriendly, to recruits, and they were both professionals¡­well, One was much better at presenting professionalism. But they were in a very deliberate and very self-imposed way, probably the most isolated of the agents in the building.


    Jones was like a beloved teacher amongst his recruits, Taylor had always had Mags, Ryan was pleasant if bland and though hadn¡¯t obviously sought friendships with recruits from what he¡¯d observed, wasn¡¯t opposed to them, whereas the twins always kept to themselves.


    No recruits - no nurses - though apparently, that was something that they were very quickly losing the battle on, as it had been one of the outcomes from Agent Jane¡¯s assessment that had been non-negotiable, though they¡¯d still managed to hold off for weeks since.


    And keeping most people at arm¡¯s length was something common among their ¡°family¡±, of the other sets of twins that existed, from what he¡¯d been told, and what he¡¯d read on the Agency intranet. For so much, they were able to completely complement and fulfil each other¡¯s needs that expanding their social circle wasn¡¯t seen as something necessary.


    It also required people to be able to be able to approach and treat them as the same and different all in the same moment, which he¡¯d honestly never had a problem with.


    They were, on a fundamental level, from the creation of the twin glitch, simultaneously one person, two people, remnants of that original herald and his lover, and whatever random personality traits had been dialled in for whatever job they¡¯d been created for, and whatever they accumulated along the way.


    It was very similar to how he was, every person was, themselves, their ancestors, their expectations, dreams and fears, and the various ways they brought those aspects to the surface depending on the situation and their company.


    Everyone contained multitudes, the Parkers just had four hands and two faces to express a bit more of themselves a little more easily than most.


    For some reason though, a few days into his time at Queen Street, Two had simply barged into his room, swigged a beer and made it clear that he was invested in his health. He had always assumed that Farnshaw had said something - said enough - to make it clear that he needed a little care, a little kindness.


    And that kindness had come from Two, as wrapped in prickliness and assholery and sarcasm as it was, was real. One was a lot more openly gentle and kind - of the pair, only One was credited with having any kind of functional bedside manners. But whatever consideration One showed, Two was just as capable of it, though he seemed to be more choosey with who received it.


    Two, however, was an acquired taste, and often not the best impression for new recruits.


    He stepped in through the sliding glass doors of the Infirmary, hand automatically raising to half-shield his eyes against anything that would inevitably sear itself into his brain for a week, as well as¡­to avoid any potential splash zones.


    Though as bad as fears could be, even he could admit the worst he¡¯d had to touch was the time he¡¯d stepped in lube, on the morning he¡¯d walked in and the entire floor had been wet, and given both doctors had actually been fully clothed when he¡¯d stopped slipping on the spot, he¡¯d been able to glean it had been more of a thought experiment than anything they¡¯d actively been participating in.


    No one was visible through his spread fingers, so he lowered his hand and looked around. Unsurprisingly, the main area was empty of patients and was clean, smelled vaguely of lemon and eucalyptus and was waiting for injured recruits to walk in with anything from a bad papercut to half their skull missing.


    Through the large windows into the office at the back of the space, he saw One look up from whatever he was doing at his desk and wave him in.


    He wasn¡¯t sure when it had become an instant ability to tell which was which, even at a distance like this, but it had been second nature for months now. When they were talking, when they were interacting with people, it was easy enough to tell them apart, but at rest, physically they were identical - they didn¡¯t even do that thing so common amongst anime twins where they would part their hair on different sides - but their personalities always shone through, something about the eyes, the set of the jaw was enough that even with the briefest glance, he knew who was who.


    ¡®My other half,¡¯ One said, ¡®is out right now, doing something that requires just his attention.¡¯ This was another little bit of asynchronicity that he found frankly¡­cute, in the ¡°aww, the married couple really loves each other¡± kind of way, in that One tended to call Two just his ¡°other half¡± but said it with a lot of affection, whereas Two always went with ¡°better half¡±, wearing his heart on his sleeve for at least this element of his life. ¡®Though I should be able to help you anyway, Aide. How can Medical assist?¡¯


    ¡®Incoming recruit,¡¯ he said, ¡®whose turn is it?¡¯


    ¡®Mine, so it happens,¡¯ One said, ¡®though if that¡¯s a problem-¡¯


    ¡®No, preferred outcome, actually.¡¯ He required and handed over a copy of Kendall¡¯s file. ¡®We¡¯re getting a few things in place, I¡¯m getting a few things in place before you¡¯ll see the official transfer orders, but it¡¯ll be pretty instant once it does happen.¡¯


    ¡®Ahh,¡¯ One said as he looked at just the first page of the file, ¡®so we¡¯re getting wrapped up in this disaster.¡¯ He smiled. ¡®I¡¯m sure you have been told it¡¯s hush-hush, but unless you take extreme measures, there¡¯s only so much you can do to stop the rumour mill, and even when people don¡¯t say anything, the specific way they don¡¯t say anything, or what they don¡¯t say can speak as much as if they didn¡¯t play silly buggers and just said what they meant.¡¯


    ¡®How much do you know?¡¯


    ¡®Not as much as we will when those transfer orders go through and we¡¯re cleared to know the bloody and grisly details, but enough to know that there are bloody and grisly details. A director falling isn¡¯t something that happens every day.¡¯ One tapped on the file. ¡®There was an anonymised version of this case available for wider consumption, above a certain security level, of course, memory issues are interesting, and there was a call for a set of twins to give their opinion, as there are some unique ways in which our minds work, but we let our siblings from Stockholm take it.¡¯


    ¡®I do wish,¡¯ Two said, walking into the office, letting his hand slide across Curt¡¯s head in a way that was half-slap, half-pat, all goodwill in its usual twisty package; ¡®that sometimes we got to see the fruits of these favours that Ryan does.¡¯ Two leaned down to kiss his twin, and Curt looked away, giving them their privacy for a moment before Two settled in to lean against the wall beside his better half. ¡®Clarke plays it so close to his chest that- One time when he was absolutely pissed, he told us he¡¯d wagered the deed to this building, and I can¡¯t tell you if he was joking or not.¡¯ Two¡¯s face clouded, but some of the thunder cleared as One reached to touch his hand. ¡®Later. So many thoughts for later. Never do a deal with that man, because whatever-¡¯


    ¡®Doc, I am rarely in the same room with him.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s probably going to change, now that you¡¯ve gone up in the world.¡¯


    ¡®Love,¡¯ One said quietly. ¡®Focus.¡¯


    Two¡¯s shoulders rose, and One let out the breath that his twin had been holding.


    ¡®You don¡¯t want me to be fresh meat¡¯s physician?¡¯ Two asked, picking up the file. ¡®I¡¯m insulted, O¡¯Connor?¡¯


    ¡®I needed your approach,¡¯ he said, letting long-felt gratitude slip into his voice, ¡®but going by what I know, which I know isn¡¯t the whole story, I think we should try and give him a soft landing.¡¯

 21 - Work Day

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

 22 - Simulacrum

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.