POTENTIAL 0

“You know, Eun— Errant, he’s just too smart for us,” Sara says in a stage whisper. “We need someone on his level.”

She gets up, struts away, and leaves the jar on the floor, tantalizingly in reach for anyone with arms.

She comes back five minutes later with a shabby, disheveled hobo of a man, and smiles so innocently. “Hey, Vic. Brought you someone you could actually have a real conversation with. Go ahead and make him an offer, bro.”

9891. Click. Eeeerp.

Dammit all, they really had to use a combination lock?

9890. Click. Eeeerp.

Falling off the chair sucked, and inch-worming over to the jar was just as bad, but at least he was making progress. Just... Another--

9889. Click. Eeeerp.

--9888 to go. He sighs, and is in the middle of tongueing the delicate dial down another number when the door swooshes open. Aaaaand it is the worst possible thing. This is not a dignified position for a CEO to be in. They have flunkies for this. Retract the tongue, slowly, deliberately.

"...Morning," he says. Cool. Play it cool. He's not lying on the floor, licking a lockbox. He's dignified. Draw him like one of your french playthings, Locker. "Can't say I. Expected you. That is. I knew, of course, that. That you were on the ship."

He stares at the jar, and wills his tongue to extend. Come on. Two inches. You can do this. 9887. Come on.

"...Look, I'm betting they've already filled you with promises, but I have a better one. Which I will tell you. Definitely. After I get my hands back."

<Snipped quote by eldest>

The Shogun gives a rough little laugh. "No, I can't survive space. I'm just hanging here trying to compose a fitting death haiku but everything about this situation is so ridiculous it is not working out. Help me out?

Friendly robot comes
Unlikely guide to heavens
Literal and otherwise."

"Oh. Drat, I was looking forward to going to space. What if you could survive going to space? Also, I'd do "literal or not" for the final line." She's nattering on, but she's doing math, and a lot of it. Average oxygen consumed by somebody of the Shogun's... status, pressure requirements, rocket drag increased from a hardlight shield, projected trajectory with and without adjustments, all of it. And in the shadows of the rocket, there's an odd, pulsing hardlight construct, quietly using one bulbous sphere of force to compress and filter air into another, building up the Shogun's lifeline. "I think we're gonna be just fine, myself." And wink, as the technicians retreat out of the launch bay.

[13 on protect, with the aim of getting off the rocket post-launch, Shogun's reaction determines if it's going to be before or after space.]

"...Morning," he says. Cool. Play it cool. He's not lying on the floor, licking a lockbox. He's dignified. Draw him like one of your french playthings, Locker. "Can't say I. Expected you. That is. I knew, of course, that. That you were on the ship."

He stares at the jar, and wills his tongue to extend. Come on. Two inches. You can do this. 9887. Come on.

"...Look, I'm betting they've already filled you with promises, but I have a better one. Which I will tell you. Definitely. After I get my hands back."

Locker moves in slouches. He always looks exhausted but it's even worse with the black eye and bruises. He looks like he's never slept in his entire life. He doesn't respond at all to anything you're saying, not like he's not listening, but like he's waiting for you to get around to being honest with him.

Pssht! He opens a can of an energy drink - the kind so rich in caffeine that any functional government would have banned as a matter of principle. He folds up like a deckchair, coming down to your level and holding the can out for you to take a sip from if you want.

"Oh. Drat, I was looking forward to going to space. What if you could survive going to space? Also, I'd do "literal or not" for the final line." She's nattering on, but she's doing math, and a lot of it. Average oxygen consumed by somebody of the Shogun's... status, pressure requirements, rocket drag increased from a hardlight shield, projected trajectory with and without adjustments, all of it. And in the shadows of the rocket, there's an odd, pulsing hardlight construct, quietly using one bulbous sphere of force to compress and filter air into another, building up the Shogun's lifeline. "I think we're gonna be just fine, myself." And wink, as the technicians retreat out of the launch bay.

[13 on protect, with the aim of getting off the rocket post-launch, Shogun's reaction determines if it's going to be before or after space.]

"That is a complicated question," the Shogun mused. "Back when I was growing up the stars were mythical spirits that revolved around the earth at the will of the gods. Flight was something reserved for birds and arrows. But then I extended that privilege to musket balls and now I'm here, about to be consumed by the unthinkable conclusion of the forces I set in motion on that day. I... am having trouble getting all of that into a haiku. Maybe it's short sighted of me to hold onto haiku at all. Maybe the same process of technology has ruined poetry for me as well..." she drifts off, voice meandering and melancholy.

Then her eyes shift. "Actually," she says, looking you in a kind of sideways way where she's avoiding exact eye contact. "How far are we going into space? Just hypothetically. Does our orbital trajectory take us past Elysium Spire? You know, the incredibly exclusive luxury resort orbital?"

Locker moves in slouches. He always looks exhausted but it's even worse with the black eye and bruises. He looks like he's never slept in his entire life. He doesn't respond at all to anything you're saying, not like he's not listening, but like he's waiting for you to get around to being honest with him.

Pssht! He opens a can of an energy drink - the kind so rich in caffeine that any functional government would have banned as a matter of principle. He folds up like a deckchair, coming down to your level and holding the can out for you to take a sip from if you want.

His eyes are not on the can. He would love to have eyes on the can. Unfortunately, Locker has squatted right in front of his face, and he's pretty sure right now that his face could serve double purpose as a space heater.

Oh. Right. Human interaction requires occasionally doing more than ogling.

Damn.

He looks up--and keeps looking up, holy crap--and winces when he meets Locker's eyes. "Fuck, man. You look like you headbutted a belt sander. You alright?"

"That is a complicated question," the Shogun mused. "Back when I was growing up the stars were mythical spirits that revolved around the earth at the will of the gods. Flight was something reserved for birds and arrows. But then I extended that privilege to musket balls and now I'm here, about to be consumed by the unthinkable conclusion of the forces I set in motion on that day. I... am having trouble getting all of that into a haiku. Maybe it's short sighted of me to hold onto haiku at all. Maybe the same process of technology has ruined poetry for me as well..." she drifts off, voice meandering and melancholy.

Then her eyes shift. "Actually," she says, looking you in a kind of sideways way where she's avoiding exact eye contact. "How far are we going into space? Just hypothetically. Does our orbital trajectory take us past Elysium Spire? You know, the incredibly exclusive luxury resort orbital?"

"I think we're pretty close to it at the apotheosis of the orbit? Just need to get up about 22km in orbit and rotate the orbit by 3 degrees or so?" She mutters to herself, going through math as the countdown starts, air container sliding up to rest next to the Shogun.

Euna watches the scene play out with a curious expression on her face. Ugh. What an idiot she's being. Here she is, getting all mad at Victor, when he's just... ugh. She's got less social graces than Locker. This is embarrassing.

A-anyway. Any idiot can see she's not needed here right now. Maybe she should go? She really should, uh, oh right. Wow. Yeah ok she hasn't eaten anything since... Jesus, what? Yesterday afternoon? Ok yeah let's just leave deprogramming to the experts here.

She turns to leave, and that's when she notices Sara. Staring at her. Not in one of those alpha posturing streamer ways, just... staring. She stares back. They have a moment like this. Maybe it's even nice, she's not sure. God she's hungry. Out of nowhere, Euna leans forward and pulls Sara into a tight embrace, buries her face in her shoulder and then... leaves. Out the door without a word.

Ok so. Yeah if she just. Alright. Hm. It's been a while since she's visited the Gears Foundation. Professor Gears always came to AEGIS whenever she wanted to mess around with Errant, but still. She's pretty sure the break room is, uh. That way? Yeah. That window looks familiar. Urgh, she's still thinking about idols. Idols wear hats sometimes, right? No, stop it! Stop it! You hated that stupid program Mom signed you up for way back then and you haven't changed your mind since! Just! Go eat, you idiot girl.

If you're feeling charitable, you can agree that Euna's got a lot on her mind when she manages to find the break room and stumbles blindly to the coffee machine. The Gears Foundation, for whatever reason, used one of those old-timey vending machine designs that made you push a physical button before it shot a cup out at you and squirted the black death liquid into it, plus whatever cream and sugar you requested (your options were: too much, or not even close to enough. Euna always went with too much). She punches in the buttons and stands there like an idiot, waiting.

Ok so if she remembers right they've got a sandwich machine in here too somewhere. Right over by, uh. Oh! That's... Angel-IKA, right? And that one is definitely Dominus. They're awfully close to each other, aren't they? And they're... oh. Oh! Um. Ok yeah. No. Sandwiches later. She'll just... just, you know, go now and...

BZZZZT! Coffee's ready!

"OH JEEZ I AM SO SORRY JUST IGNORE ME! SORRY! SORRY!"

POTENTIAL 0

“And here we see... the Great North American... Super-genius,” says Dame Sara Jimenez, Esq., in the most BBC voice imaginable. “Bereft of his limbs,” she explains to her camera, “during the all-important mating season, he meekly attempts... to elicit pity... in defiance of the Law of the Jungle.”

The documentary is a good way not to think about that hug. Like... that wasn’t a goodbye, I’m vanishing to protect you hug, right? And on the flipside, that wasn’t a come feed me chocolate and ask me out again hug. That was... Euna is just... aaagh, it’s too confusing. Physical touch was simpler when she initiated it.

“Once common throughout the Americas,” she drawls, grinning, “the Super-genius... faces new threats, such as chair legs to the face... which have restricted their habitat to the detention room in the Gears Foundation. It remains to be seen... whether they will overcome adversity, or end up being hit with a chair leg again...”

It is a crime that this is not being streamed, because Sara’s Documentary Voice is a gift to humanity.

POTENTIAL 0

“And here we see... the Great North American... Super-genius,” says Dame Sara Jimenez, Esq., in the most BBC voice imaginable. “Bereft of his limbs,” she explains to her camera, “during the all-important mating season, he meekly attempts... to elicit pity... in defiance of the Law of the Jungle.”

The documentary is a good way not to think about that hug. Like... that wasn’t a goodbye, I’m vanishing to protect you hug, right? And on the flipside, that wasn’t a come feed me chocolate and ask me out again hug. That was... Euna is just... aaagh, it’s too confusing. Physical touch was simpler when she initiated it.

“Once common throughout the Americas,” she drawls, grinning, “the Super-genius... faces new threats, such as chair legs to the face... which have restricted their habitat to the detention room in the Gears Foundation. It remains to be seen... whether they will overcome adversity, or end up being hit with a chair leg again...”

It is a crime that this is not being streamed, because Sara’s Documentary Voice is a gift to humanity.

"Your speech patterns indicates that you are attempting to construct a documentary. Can I help?" said a voice from directly behind you.

You've only seen Bode in glimpses until now, but here he is. It's always intimidating to have someone appear out of invisibility so close to you, but underneath that cape Bode is physically extremely imposing. He's got an enormous sniper rifle and the bulk to wield it effectively and his inhuman three-lensed face communicates nothing of his intentions.

"I have," he goes on, "an enormous stockpile of footage regarding the Creator that may assist you in your endeavour. As he always says: Information Wants To Be Free."

If you're feeling charitable, you can agree that Euna's got a lot on her mind when she manages to find the break room and stumbles blindly to the coffee machine. The Gears Foundation, for whatever reason, used one of those old-timey vending machine designs that made you push a physical button before it shot a cup out at you and squirted the black death liquid into it, plus whatever cream and sugar you requested (your options were: too much, or not even close to enough. Euna always went with too much). She punches in the buttons and stands there like an idiot, waiting.

Ok so if she remembers right they've got a sandwich machine in here too somewhere. Right over by, uh. Oh! That's... Angel-IKA, right? And that one is definitely Dominus. They're awfully close to each other, aren't they? And they're... oh. Oh! Um. Ok yeah. No. Sandwiches later. She'll just... just, you know, go now and...

BZZZZT! Coffee's ready!

"OH JEEZ I AM SO SORRY JUST IGNORE ME! SORRY! SORRY!"

You dash from the break room pursued by a violently thrown cup of scaldingly hot coffee. You dodge and curse yourself for doing it - if you had thought a little faster you might have been able to catch it out of the air.

You are now sans coffee, sans sandwich, and in dire need of both. Protocol is clear: avoid fighting on an empty stomach if at all possible. So it falls to you, apex hunter of the modern world, to find something to eat before the mission. Tell me of your trials and tribulations as it comes to getting delivery to a flying battleship.

Thus begins the mini-episode: Errant Orders A Pizza.

His eyes are not on the can. He would love to have eyes on the can. Unfortunately, Locker has squatted right in front of his face, and he's pretty sure right now that his face could serve double purpose as a space heater.

Oh. Right. Human interaction requires occasionally doing more than ogling.

Damn.

He looks up--and keeps looking up, holy crap--and winces when he meets Locker's eyes. "Fuck, man. You look like you headbutted a belt sander. You alright?"

"Mm. Low priority. Apparently you're the one with brain problems," said Locker. He took a sip of the drink and then offered it to you again. "We're about to go fight Turbo Knight and Prometheus for the fate of the world. Do you want to come with, or are we going to have to leave you in a utility closet for the duration?"

"I think we're pretty close to it at the apotheosis of the orbit? Just need to get up about 22km in orbit and rotate the orbit by 3 degrees or so?" She mutters to herself, going through math as the countdown starts, air container sliding up to rest next to the Shogun.

While you're thinking of countdowns...

The rocket fuelling finished a few minutes ago. You were expecting blast-off at any moment but it hasn't happened just yet. Rather than running for cover, Turbo Knight 2 is up there on the balcony, looking expectantly at the sky. She's waiting for something. For a moment she looks down at you, and it seems like she's waiting for something there as well.

"Interesting," mused the Shogun. "You... think you could drop me off there when we go up? After we've solved this problem I think I'm due for a vacation."

POTENTIAL 0

“waugh Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Sara says, clutching her chest. “Bode, Jesus, don’t... give a girl some warning before you sneak up on her!” She reflexively switches the vid off as she turns to look at him.

Part of her wants to grin. The Creator. Okay. Victor made Bode— Bound Eagle— which rings a bell, like it’s a story or something.

“Sure. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, though? I’ve known Victor for ages, but you’ve known him all your life, right?”

When she’d imagined Bode before, he was, like, an accountant. Early receding hairline, thin glasses, a bland puce suit. This was a whole lot different, but in its own way, it made a whole lot of sense. And now that she had the chance?

She wanted to know everything. Or at least close enough to be able to nod and say, “yeah, I know Bode, we’re super chill.”

The door to the break room hisses shut, and Euna is left alone in the obnoxiously bright and sterile hallway. She can't help but glance over her shoulder. But there's nobody here. No Corporate Champions charging down on her with the thrust of a missile. No principles to defend. Nobody to save. Nothing she can do to help. No more catastrophes to avert. No threats on her life. It's just her. It's just her and this cup of coffee spilled all over the ground. She stares at it, stupidly.

...This is such a stupid thing to cry over.

Euna walks as far as the wall opposite the door she just ran out of, and slumps onto the floor. Her cheeks burn. Her eyes sting. Her nose is running. She sniffles, but it won't stop. She can't get it to stop! It's just coffee, what is wrong with her?!

She pulls her legs up to her chest and rests her head on her knees. Her vision fills with blurry red before she squeezes them shut and starts thumping her head against her legs. Being able to feel every part of this exchange does nothing to make her legs less made of combat-rated alloys: this hurts a lot.

And she cries. It's the quiet, sniffly sort of sobbing that begs not to be caught, even though she hasn't bothered to find a safe space for herself. Feelings bubble over on top of feelings that wash over still more feelings and it's just and it's just a-a-a-a-a-nd i-i-it'ssss j-ju-just...

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Hic. Thump. Thump. Thump. Snnrrrf.

She's so tired. She's so hungry. But she doesn't move, except to occasionally wipe her eyes or her nose on her criminal-red sleeve.

...Some soldier. Can't even order a pizza.

While you're thinking of countdowns...

The rocket fuelling finished a few minutes ago. You were expecting blast-off at any moment but it hasn't happened just yet. Rather than running for cover, Turbo Knight 2 is up there on the balcony, looking expectantly at the sky. She's waiting for something. For a moment she looks down at you, and it seems like she's waiting for something there as well.

"Interesting," mused the Shogun. "You... think you could drop me off there when we go up? After we've solved this problem I think I'm due for a vacation."

"Do my best" she mutters absently, mind on other things. She's staring right at Turbo Knight 2, makes eye contact, and then when she blinks (Ferra is a robot. She does not blink first.) looks away, up at the sky, and smile slightly. The stars and satellites above are gorgeous, and she can see them quite well, but that's not what she's after. She focuses, and they drop away, duplicating and forking away from her like staring into an infinity mirror, warping ever so slightly in every kaleidoscope shift of possibility until she's looking at the souls of the worthy, and the points of pyros in the aether, and the majesty of frozen tears lighting the earth with the goddess's love. And in there, she looks for what the rocket's waiting on.

"Mm. Low priority. Apparently you're the one with brain problems," said Locker. He took a sip of the drink and then offered it to you again. "We're about to go fight Turbo Knight and Prometheus for the fate of the world. Do you want to come with, or are we going to have to leave you in a utility closet for the duration?"

"I! What! You!" Victor sputters like a fuse about to reach a powderkeg. Then he's upright, bites the edge of the can, and drains it in one fell swoop. "Look here, you jumped-up wannabe, Prometheus is my creation, he's my problem, and if you think you're going to leave me here while you rush off and save the--holy fuck, you drink that?"

Coughing up a fit, he drops the can and sags against Locker. "Fuck me, it tastes like tonguing a battery's ass."

And now he's coughing for an entirely different reason. Like, you wouldn't think it to look at the guy--after all, he spends most of his days dressed in what amounts to sweatpants and a pajama top--but underneath all the fluff is what he's realizing are incredibly firm abs.

"Um. Er. Ahem. To answer your question, fuck you. Yes, I'm coming with, and if you think you're running off without me, you'd best be prepared for me to stage a daring escape, hack the navigation console, and send the Gears foundation screaming into AEGIS headquarters."

He pauses, and leans further into Locker. (Holy crap, you could bounce a casino's wortha quarters off them.) "Which, of course, would be an objectively terrible plan, and cause hundreds of thousands of dollars in insurance premiums alone. I'd really hate to do that to my new company. Which is why I'm coming with now."

POTENTIAL 0

“waugh Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Sara says, clutching her chest. “Bode, Jesus, don’t... give a girl some warning before you sneak up on her!” She reflexively switches the vid off as she turns to look at him.

Part of her wants to grin. The Creator. Okay. Victor made Bode— Bound Eagle— which rings a bell, like it’s a story or something.

“Sure. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, though? I’ve known Victor for ages, but you’ve known him all your life, right?”

When she’d imagined Bode before, he was, like, an accountant. Early receding hairline, thin glasses, a bland puce suit. This was a whole lot different, but in its own way, it made a whole lot of sense. And now that she had the chance?

She wanted to know everything. Or at least close enough to be able to nod and say, “yeah, I know Bode, we’re super chill.”

"The Creator programmed me to ensure the freedom of information, especially targeting the corporation known as Disflix. To this end I carry with me a data crystal with the entire Disflix catalogue that I continuously copy into information technology nodes I come into contact with."

There's an urban legend about programmers called in to debug refrigerators and locate billions of dollars of Disflix films crammed in alongside their operating systems. What do you know?

"I spend the majority of my time invisible in order to deflect pursuit from the Mousecatcher teams who continuously attempt to hunt me down. Fortunately I am not alone in my mission. I am assisted by Prometheus, who currently maintains the bulk of my processing power for various administrative and logistical tasks. He ensures that I am adequately armed and supplied for my mission and provides me with access to new Disflix productions. Additionally I perform superhero functions when the opportunity arises. However, sometimes Prometheus falls short of his moral standards, at which point it is my duty to bring him back into alignment. The system is working perfectly. The creator is very wise."

And she cries. It's the quiet, sniffly sort of sobbing that begs not to be caught, even though she hasn't bothered to find a safe space for herself. Feelings bubble over on top of feelings that wash over still more feelings and it's just and it's just a-a-a-a-a-nd i-i-it'ssss j-ju-just...

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Hic. Thump. Thump. Thump. Snnrrrf.

She's so tired. She's so hungry. But she doesn't move, except to occasionally wipe her eyes or her nose on her criminal-red sleeve.

...Some soldier. Can't even order a pizza.

There are two cakes next to you.

One is a beautiful, elaborate, layered caramel and chocolate masterpiece that came from the classiest patisserie in the area that does delivery. The other... well, it's similar, but the heart-skill balance has slid allllll the way over in favour of 'heart'. The top layer of cream is uneven in a way that tells the story of 'attempted to write something in cream, fouled it up, and subsequently tried to even everything out'.

"Mm. Thank you cakes." said Sabrem from five meters away. Her distance is careful, deliberate, easy to vanish from if she gets the wrong kind of look. "You've saved me twice now."

She's not handing you the cakes. She's not asking you to make a decision about accepting them. They're just... there. Near you. If you want them.

"I! What! You!" Victor sputters like a fuse about to reach a powderkeg. Then he's upright, bites the edge of the can, and drains it in one fell swoop. "Look here, you jumped-up wannabe, Prometheus is my creation, he's my problem, and if you think you're going to leave me here while you rush off and save the--holy fuck, you drink that?"

Coughing up a fit, he drops the can and sags against Locker. "Fuck me, it tastes like tonguing a battery's ass."

And now he's coughing for an entirely different reason. Like, you wouldn't think it to look at the guy--after all, he spends most of his days dressed in what amounts to sweatpants and a pajama top--but underneath all the fluff is what he's realizing are incredibly firm abs.

"Um. Er. Ahem. To answer your question, fuck you. Yes, I'm coming with, and if you think you're running off without me, you'd best be prepared for me to stage a daring escape, hack the navigation console, and send the Gears foundation screaming into AEGIS headquarters."

He pauses, and leans further into Locker. (Holy crap, you could bounce a casino's wortha quarters off them.) "Which, of course, would be an objectively terrible plan, and cause hundreds of thousands of dollars in insurance premiums alone. I'd really hate to do that to my new company. Which is why I'm coming with now."

"No, you're staying here," said Locker, taking another sip of his battery acid. "We need to reprogram Prometheus so that he's not an amoral capitalist monster. You clearly can't think your way out of that problem so you're not our guy. Must be something in your brain structure, Prometheus' heel turn was exactly the same as yours right now. Anyway, we're going to let the Professor take a shot at it."

"Do my best" she mutters absently, mind on other things. She's staring right at Turbo Knight 2, makes eye contact, and then when she blinks (Ferra is a robot. She does not blink first.) looks away, up at the sky, and smile slightly. The stars and satellites above are gorgeous, and she can see them quite well, but that's not what she's after. She focuses, and they drop away, duplicating and forking away from her like staring into an infinity mirror, warping ever so slightly in every kaleidoscope shift of possibility until she's looking at the souls of the worthy, and the points of pyros in the aether, and the majesty of frozen tears lighting the earth with the goddess's love. And in there, she looks for what the rocket's waiting on.

There's a music here. It's twisted and off rhythm and far, far too rapid - but everything is a part of it. Turbo Knight's influence seeps into everything here. It all beats in time with her finger drumming against the safety rail - the Shogun's heartbeat, the satellites above, the ticking of celestial mechanics, the Gears Foundation and all inside that closes in on her. Data flows in monumental channels through these walls, tying her to the world around, pouring through the crown sculpted into her helmet like the words of the gods into the head of an ancient king. She is the avatar of this whole world. All flows to her, and she flows to it - as above, so below. Everything here is her design and every decision plays into her hands.

But there is something that you can see in the distance that is not a matter of numbers. A red shadow looms above everything. When it falls, so too will the music.

Cakes.

There are cakes.

Why are there cakes?

There are two cakes. Is this a test?

Thump. Thump. Sniffle... sigh. Euna lifts her head up again to stare at Sabrem through her bleary honey-brown eyes. Her "idol's eyes", like Mom always called them. There's that stupid word again. And Mom. And the... and the woman... and the woman who... there are two cakes. This is a test. It's a test and she's failing.

She rises up onto her knees. Staring at cakes. At two cakes. This is a test. Suddenly she's seized with a wild desire to scream and smash both of them against a window. That's just what she's gonna do. She moves slowly. She's watching Sabrem. Watching her enemy, waiting for signs of an attack, looking for the moment she needs to jump up and fight and this whole thing will make sense again. Her hand is near the beautiful store bought cake now. Stupid thing. She hasn't eaten a cake in six years. Not about to start now. Her fingers move by themselves.

Quietly, Euna grabs one of the blunted knives fixed to the packaging. She slowly and carefully cuts herself a slice from both cakes, and puts them on a plate. She grabs a fork, sticks it in the slice from the clearly homemade one, and then brings a bit up to her mouth. She closes her eyes as she chews. It's sweet. It's much too sweet.

"...Can't finish these by myself."

POTENTIAL 0

"So, this Prometheus... Victor has him back at his base, right? Is he like a supercomputer he's been tinkering on?" Okay, she can see the theme naming. Prometheus, the Bound Eagle, it's all connected. She'll have to tease Victor about being such a nerd later. And, more to the point, she might be able to twist his arm into using some of that processing power to help them when they go in to take down Vicki.

Because this is 100% the first time she's heard anything about this Prometheus.

"No, you're staying here," said Locker, taking another sip of his battery acid. "We need to reprogram Prometheus so that he's not an amoral capitalist monster. You clearly can't think your way out of that problem so you're not our guy. Must be something in your brain structure, Prometheus' heel turn was exactly the same as yours right now. Anyway, we're going to let the Professor take a shot at it."

"s'not how brains work," he grumbles. "You don't inherit a perfect copy of your parent's brains, and that's when you're working in the same species, let alone classification of being. You can't generalize to computers like that, s'not how it works."

Why is Locker being so difficult about this? He groans and leans in further. "Look, I just don't get why you think this is a bad thing. Hack, amoral capitalist monster? Kinda judgy, isn't it? I mean, yeah, he's taken some things to extremes that even now I wouldn't pursue, but it's not like capitalism is inherently immoral. It's just a remarkably efficient system for distributing scarce resources, normally along lines of ability. And you're plenty able, believe you me, because I have
been keeping an eye on you."

Mmm. Better make that two--Locker displayes incredible potential as a pillow.

"And why shouldn't the most able have the most resources? I mean, can you imagine what inventions could come about from just shoving all the money and power at someone like me? Like you? What advances the world could make!"

He could make a dozen Prometheuses. The thought strikes him like a fish to the face and he finds himself grimacing. That... That doesn't make sense.

Then, slowly. "Then again. That would mean that all the world's resources are vulnerable to the whims and caprices of only a few. And no matter how capable the leader, nobody's really an expert on everything. And while I might, personally, be the equal of any twenty scientists you might choose, I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't be equal to the output of forty, sixty, a hundred, and so on."

He's silent, and luxuriates in the worlds of thought and abs.

"And when you get right down to it," he says slowly, "Capitalism has some issues with waste and efficiency, as well. I mean, purely from a perspective of development, it's inefficient as all hell to limit your development to only those people who are on your staff. Easier to control, certainly, and infinitely easier to control versions, but more efficient? No, not more than putting the code to the public, and allowing them to create their own modified code according to their own needs.

"And that's before you even get into the inefficiencies caused by the need to be profitable." There's part of him that feels like he should be slapping himself for this, the ultimate heresy, but he keeps going. "Like, even above and beyond overproduction, capitalism's need to be profitable above all else means that it often creates its own destruction. Like, time and again it's shown that long-term it's more costly to hire an experienced employee and bring in a new one, but acknowledging that would mean admitting that there's some bargaining power to be derived from experience, and that would mean paying people more."

He can see how to turn the system to his own advantage. He's running the numbers and, if he really wanted to, he's pretty sure that it would be trivial to turn the shareholders against AEGIS, cause a panic. It'd be a disaster, a ruin, a warning story told about in business schools across the world, of "how not to win at capitalism."

So why does it seem suddenly appealing?

"And that's not even accounting for what capitalism does to the people who actually create the profit," he breathes, eyes closing in thought. "I mean, I might have created the design and set up the supply chain, but if I were to manufacture my nanites, it'd still be the ones manning the machines creating the actual value, and the cashiers selling the product. So why shouldn't they get the lion's share of the value they create, instead of squabbling over the scraps left over once I and my shareholders have more than enough to live on?

"Really, that's the biggest inefficiency of capitalism, is the hoarding of resources, of one person at the top of the heap holding all the cards and saying, 'these are mine, this is my work, you can't have any even though I'll never realistically be able to use even 1% of all these resources. Go starve on your bootstraps.'"

Hmm.

"Like a CEO."

Fuck.

"Fuck."

He sighs, shakes his head vigorously, and sighs again. "So, I'm hoping you have an EMP device somewhere under that PJ top, because I desperately need to wipe a phone about now."

There's a music here. It's twisted and off rhythm and far, far too rapid - but everything is a part of it. Turbo Knight's influence seeps into everything here. It all beats in time with her finger drumming against the safety rail - the Shogun's heartbeat, the satellites above, the ticking of celestial mechanics, the Gears Foundation and all inside that closes in on her. Data flows in monumental channels through these walls, tying her to the world around, pouring through the crown sculpted into her helmet like the words of the gods into the head of an ancient king. She is the avatar of this whole world. All flows to her, and she flows to it - as above, so below. Everything here is her design and every decision plays into her hands.

But there is something that you can see in the distance that is not a matter of numbers. A red shadow looms above everything. When it falls, so too will the music.

She's ready. She's been ready. She really ought to let things be.

But she's really curious.

"Hey! Turbo Knight 2 lady! What's your plan for Mars when you're ruler of the world and stuff?"

POTENTIAL 0

"So, this Prometheus... Victor has him back at his base, right? Is he like a supercomputer he's been tinkering on?" Okay, she can see the theme naming. Prometheus, the Bound Eagle, it's all connected. She'll have to tease Victor about being such a nerd later. And, more to the point, she might be able to twist his arm into using some of that processing power to help them when they go in to take down Vicki.

Because this is 100% the first time she's heard anything about this Prometheus.

"Yes, Prometheus is a supercomputer, but no he's not at Victor's base. He took over the BlackSun megacorporation in order to support and arm me while I carry out my core function. He is also working more closely with AEGIS these days. He's always looking for ways to help me perform my mission better," said Bode.

She rises up onto her knees. Staring at cakes. At two cakes. This is a test. Suddenly she's seized with a wild desire to scream and smash both of them against a window. That's just what she's gonna do. She moves slowly. She's watching Sabrem. Watching her enemy, waiting for signs of an attack, looking for the moment she needs to jump up and fight and this whole thing will make sense again. Her hand is near the beautiful store bought cake now. Stupid thing. She hasn't eaten a cake in six years. Not about to start now. Her fingers move by themselves.

Quietly, Euna grabs one of the blunted knives fixed to the packaging. She slowly and carefully cuts herself a slice from both cakes, and puts them on a plate. She grabs a fork, sticks it in the slice from the clearly homemade one, and then brings a bit up to her mouth. She closes her eyes as she chews. It's sweet. It's much too sweet.

"...Can't finish these by myself."

Sabrem approaches. She's not doing that heavy stomping she does sometimes - that terrifying psychological hammer blow she uses to confuse the sound of her approach. Just an ordinary walk, a walk that's trying so hard to be ordinary.

She takes an uncertain bite of cake.

"Hnn... the backup cake was. Wise."

Hmm.

"Like a CEO."

Fuck.

"Fuck."

He sighs, shakes his head vigorously, and sighs again. "So, I'm hoping you have an EMP device somewhere under that PJ top, because I desperately need to wipe a phone about now."

"You think that Saraphim respects my privacy out of the goodness of her heart?" said Locker. "I can guess her comlog password cold in under twenty attempts, less if I know what she's been doing recently. Here, bring up the login page," without so much as a blink of hesitation he unseals the jar with your nanites and gives you back your phone, looking over your shoulder.

"But yeah. I do have an EMP grenade as backup,"

She's ready. She's been ready. She really ought to let things be.

But she's really curious.

"Hey! Turbo Knight 2 lady! What's your plan for Mars when you're ruler of the world and stuff?"

"Mars? That pitiful red planet?" said Turbo Knight. "And Sylvanius, the one man outside of my system... You know what!? You're right! Change of plans! Fuck Australia! Lackeys! Turn this satellite around! We're going to blow up Mars instead!"

There was a wide and suppressed groaning from the tech support staff at this declaration.

A bite of one cake. A bite of the other. Then the first again. She alternates with extreme care and precision, watching Sabrem with almost as much focus. Then she sniffles loudly, because today is a day where even the good things don't quite go right.

She exhales sharply through her nose. Another bite of each cake; she's more than through her fair share at this point. The fork goes down two more times anyway.

"So... anyway, Seventy Four right? It's, you know, it's a... a romance drama set against the backdrop of that one stock market crash? With the virus? That's, yeah, that's how come the title. So like, yeah, the protagonist is, she's fictional by the way, it's not a real story, but she's a trader named Alys Mayer who makes this huge computing error at the beginning of the movie that costs her firm almost 40 billion dollars in the span of an hour. It sinks her entire division and gives Crown and Slate this overlarge market share in a space they... well I mean, the business scenes are really boring but that's not what the movie's about. The thing is, I mean like, why it's good is, you know, getting to see her life fall on this sad, beautiful arc.

'Cause, like, she's on top of the world, you know? Power suits and her apartment in the opening scene is just, like... wow. Gorgeous. And then she loses it all, bit by bit, till you hit that scene in the park where she's surrounded by all these people she used to know, used to identify herself by how she measured up to them... and she's the only one there getting rained on. And all she wants to do is get her boyfriend to turn around and acknowledge her! And then he doesn't and there's this just phenomenal close-up zoom onto her face with the rain blending against the tears on her face, and wow wow wow! But I mean... no, I shouldn't spoil you. But yeah. Yeah."

One last bite of the store cake. One last bite of the genuine one. The former is absurdly delicate and fluffy, with flavors that dance on the tongue and don't overwhelm her with sweetness even though the only sweets she's had in a year have been Sara's breath mints and the occasional tanghulu when the commissary was taking requests. The latter is... well, that's the lesson, isn't it? You aren't good at the things you don't practice.

"I just... you don't look like you watch a lot of movies. But you should watch that one. You'd... you'd like it."

Maybe Sara would like it too. She should ask.