—— Ximbic-8: Ximbic Central City: The Bulge

Spencer dashed through the streets of Blilhamr, a furious Hilth tight on his tail. He didn’t dare poach a backscance glance nor ruminate downriddle upon the translucent boulevard of compressed luciferase-laced gas that intersected in motley multiplicity betwixt the selenium-stained starscrapers alight with tumescent argon-infused glass advertisements that ascended axiom to apogee. Each naked footfall on those algid octagonal street tiles pierced like daggers into his heels. The contact raced up his shins and terminally tingled at the base of his spine. Still, he welcomed the pain—it blended sublimely with the moment’s exultant adrenaline rush and the prior day-split’s psychostimulants. Moreover, it was better than being mauled by the Hilth’s mechanical rotary injection nettles!

<< STOP, CITIZEN. >> pantomimed the Hilth behind him.

<< YOUR BLOOD IS UNCLEAN. >> its irritating mechanical rasp resounded.

<< COMPLEMENTARY FREE FILTRATION SERVICE IS COMPULSORY. >>

Mere moments later, Spencer sprinted onto a multi-tiered intersection where he careened heels-over-head and plunged face-first through the street’s chilly substance and tumbled to a lower level, although he remained hundreds of meters above rock-bottom. Once he disemboggled, he crowed at the pursuant monstrosity, “So was that continental breakfast! The wait staff force-fed me more than what could be construed by my species as a safe volume of tiphle fruit and xab cakes!”

He examined the beast through the immediately superior transportation beam’s pale and dust-choked filaments, then twitched. Up there lurked something familiar. At first it was merely an adumbrate yeuk in his anterior spline, that courageous combinatorial commodity of spleen and spine common to Careo Fas’ brave denizens. Then it clarified to a contemptuous cacoëthes, for high above Ximbic-8’s visceral and opalescent commercial sheen drifted a notorious pale blue dot.

Almost, Spencer faltered; however, with the finesse of a lifetime impresario and born busker, he clung to his balance and dismissed the contribution of the rectally-mounted prehensile prosthetic tail that, in some prior misadventure, invaded his person yet now propitiously extended as a adequate cantilever, offset his imbalance, then gently vibrated in a gesture of dutiful service.

Maybe that explicates the itch, Spencer purred even as he sensed it emanated from the sting of his conscience rather than the pulse in his posterior. Still, he half-thought: What do I have to feel guilty about? Last I remember was …Tamarin?

Caught in thought, he practically penetrated a slowly slothering Ixbic on the turquoise thoroughfare as a calamitous consequence of his ruminating run; jarred, he lurched, tripped, somersaulted, and side-scantered through an obsequian bead-veiled archway. Surely in such shadows, he cogitated, the Hilth would cease its hunt. Then, auspiciously, from deeper within the adumbrate vault emerged the babel of alien poesy:


Spencer narrowed his eyes and crept forward. Boldy, he stammered, “What?”

“I see from your ass tatt that you are a man of exquisite refinement and tastes,” rejoined Belacrazu, his mottled giraffean neck downbent and face thrust through the obfuscant smog that seeped perpetually from his Tepathian stamen-infused bong. An obscenely large mouth yawned loominously beneath four sets of neon orange curled horns and the eyes shifted to better-focus on the incandescent gold outline that emanated from Spencer’s right buttcheek that depicted a human female’s cocaine-dusted upturned haunches impossibly assaulted by the double-sevens of a pair of six-sided diamond dice.

It was drizzling all over the city. Tributaries of light flow like a river of luminescence before me. Early morning commuters cross the Verrazzano-Narrows bridge in a predawn haze. The constant hum of the engine throttles up as I override the Cadillac’s auto-drive function. I take the exit towards Bay Street where the silhouettes of pedestrians pass me by, flat as three dimensions allow, before blurring to obscurity in the rain.

Down by a portside warehouse I park and wait for the Egregor. Past the armored windshield I peer at the squat skyline of North Capital City; brownstones skulking like jilted lovers behind a fog-wreathed Statue of Liberty. Bad joke with a worse punchline.

High above, the Canopy looms; an obscure spectre with holographic advertisements dancing dreamily through the mist along its sub basements. Nearby arc lamps lazily bumble like pale blue insects along the shoreline in search of contraband drone shipments.

Acoustic sensors light up and I squeeze my Tawiskaron's grip when from the darkness steps out the Egregor. Neon cyan plasma writhed against an ever-shifting chromorphous bomber jacket. Hanzi script trickles down in columns along the Egregor’s torso as they come to a silent stop, the light reflecting off them dancing across the Cadillac’s tinted windows.

I step out and try not to be intimidating. Hard to do when you’re a few inches shy of 7’. My relationship with the Egregor was always a shaky one. Never knew what would set them off. The fickleness of a collective thought form I suppose.

I hand them the wetware data drive and watch as they load the vial into a biojector. The holographic projection of its face flickers, cycling through billions of permutations to obscure the Egregor’s identity. A moment of confirmation after injection and it hands me a folded napkin. I open it up to reveal an address and time.

The rising sun is punctuated by the nimble whines of high-end racing cycles. With daylight comes the illusion of order as gangsters relinquish the streets to criminals with appetites they could never match. I shut down olfactory input as a garbage barge trudges by. Another wonderful morning in New York City.



Fluorescent lights in the hall grow dim as I stand in the doorway. Stifled coughs fill the cramped backroom of Luca’s Delicatessen. A crowd of nearly a dozen men surround a small table laden with cold cuts and carafes filled with coffee. A damp smell permeates the room. Small puddles from rain-heavy wool coats collect on grey linoleum tiles scuffed by generations of wear and tear.

The group turns, watching behind half-eaten sandwiches as electro-active myomers silently come to life. I make a show of navigating through the crowd towards the ring of folding chairs. My retinal prostheses emit frequency-modulated carrier waves as they cycle through a few presets. A high-res gestalt of shadowy figures beyond the walls fills my field of vision. They’re armed. A second later and their registrations show up in my visual display. Surgically-inset lenses retract into their zygomatic recesses.

I leave my coat on and take a seat nearest the spread. Cochlear implants pick up a nervous looking rail of a man mumbling under his breath to the Holy Knights of Terra representative near a side door. They whisper beneath a banner that reads STRONGER TOGETHER. The platinum brocade of knights surrounding the Earth on the translucent knot of his jade arboform ascot is a dead giveaway. Tacky. Probability says it's a gift from his doting wife.

“... used to be a cop…”

I purposefully ignore the words and wait for the meeting to begin. Leaning back, I pull a slice of bruschetta piled high with prosciutto and capicola from a tray with an audible groan from the chair. A minute passes and all seats fill except for one. The group noisily chew their food and slurp their coffee as they awkwardly eyeball the cybernetic giant in their midst.

Someone comes up from behind and places a hand on my shoulder. It’s Ascot. We meet eye to prosthetic implant. Pale blue stare, like bleached denim. Not sure which one of us is more lifeless.

Handsome, inscrutable features smile at me. Lips thinner than the ham caught between my teeth. He extends his free hand and I see the flash of a flex circuit embed in the shape of crown-topped shield. Albion Defense Group. My OPHIUCUS practically yelps at the sight. I take his hand in mine, dwarfing it.

“Good evening, fellas. Sorry I haven’t been by for the last couple meetings. Been working downtown on upgrading the Mainline Defensive Array. You know the life. But I’m here now and I’m seeing a few new faces. None as surprising as this one here. I’m mighty honored to meet you, Sergeant Oakes. Let’s get some support going for our guest. He’s a real war hero, y’all!” Ascot gives me a firm handshake then crosses the gap in the circle to his empty seat. Didn't take long for them to pull my dossier.

"Now, y'all are welcome to talk if that's what you want. If not, you can listen. No judgements here. Like the motto goes, we're all-" Ascot looked around the group that begrudgingly joined him, "stronger together. That's right."

In the lion's den, I decide to improvise. I lean forward in my seat and start talking.



“March 5th, 2008. I was nineteen. Finished basic a few months before it all went to shit. My battalion was stationed outta Colorado Springs. Got planted in a combat outpost 16 klicks away from Fort Carson.

California and Nevada were gone in under 48 hours. Wouldn’t know the full casualty count 'til weeks later. Lots of fine men and women were lost to give us the time and intel we needed to put up a fightin' chance. Mission command was simple: hold the line.

Nearly 8,000 of us were spread throughout the town and surrounding countryside. We'd set up our crew-serves on the roof of a Days Inn and split our platoon between there and the third story. We were overlooking I-25. I remember it was brick out. One of the last real sensations I had.

Salt Lake City and Denver had gone dark within the last two hours. Best estimates were we'd make contact with the enemy by day break. They weren't wrong.

It'd been a quiet winter night. I was watching the SE sector from my corner of the roof, manning my SAW. Loads of hand-warmers down my ACU jacket and I still couldn't get warm. Scanning across a strip mall's parking lot to the Loaf 'N Jug on the corner, I was just starting to think maybe our intel was wrong. Maybe whatever was coming for us had gone elsewhere.

A stillness had fallen over the town while a storm brewed on the horizon. I looked to the interstate and could see another platoon set up behind some jersey barriers. They were flanked by JLTVs and Bradleys mounted with M2's and Mk 19 belt-fed grenade launchers.

Wind started to pick up somethin' fierce. Drowned out the chatter from the SINCGARS Jimenez carried. Felt like my face was being cut by a thousand knives through my neck gaiter. Then five flavors of Hell broke loose.

Defense sirens started that long, awful wail that echoed through the abandoned town. Overhead, the sky-shattering roars of F22 squadrons mobilize to meet a threat we couldn't see. I watched them fade into the darkness headed North towards Pike's Peak. That's when I saw it. Or part of it.

It came looming from behind the mountain range, a tempest in its wake. It was massive. Through freezing rain and cloud cover I could see it had these… fintacles. Scores of them like puppet strings swaying in the storm.

Distant pinpoints of light were quickly followed by the muted impact of JDAMs. The fintacles lashed violently and took the pinnacle of Pike's Peak clean off. The jets were coming around for another pass when the sky lit up, clear as day, with a sick green tinge.

Someone in the platoon cursed. Might have been me. Nothing was audible over wailing winds and an unearthly drone that shook the hotel to its foundation. No amount of training prepares you for the feeling of being prey.

Modern life is so far removed from the caves and woods we were molded by millennia ago. But the fear? The fear that kept us awake and alive through the darkness? It's still hiding in the back of our minds. Where instincts dwell, ready to sound the alarm.

Right then it was howling. At Leviathan. At Ahab's beast. Yet so much more. It looked like a whale's image twisted by a malicious mind. It's body wriggled through the air as enormous leathery wings furiously worked to keep it aloft. It swam through the twilit sky as bolts of green lightning arced from its hide. Then everything went dark as it sucked the lightning inside itself…"



Bio-force helixes upwards through the mass of ventral barbels in a surge of power. Thousands of apertures bleeding emerald light appear along its callous exterior. The atmosphere takes on an oppressive quality as the dreadnaught shudders violently.

From freshly excised flesh a scintillating volley of shimmering motes is launched; trails of burning viridian betraying their trajectory. They scream across the sky in terrific splendor, tearing through the fuselages of several F22's in explosive blooms of saffron and crimson.

The spheres burst through the wreckage unphased, completing their destructive course by crashing through the front line and pocking the battlefield with deep craters. The MBIT radio in Pvt. Oakes' pouch explodes in urgent exchanges of information across the CombatNet.

-eared hot. All forces: cleared hot…
Need immediate cas-evac at…
… Grid Yankee Delta 76502102…
Message to observer…
…-questing close air support…
Seven-Three-Bravo to One-Zero-Alpha… Fire for effect…
… How copy?...
Position overrun…
… Birds are outbound…

"CLEAR!"

Oakes tucks his chin in reflexively as a 60mm mortar cartridge arcs skyward from the other end of the rooftop. Within seconds dozens more fill the air. They explode at the zenith of their parabola into miniature lambent suns suspended in darkness. The gaseous discharge from their launches spiral into coiling tunnels as a trio of AH-64 Apaches chuf past at 200 mph.

The shrill whirr of their M230 chainguns rattles his skull. A deluge of smoking brass sizzles as each spent cartridge lands on snow-flecked streets and rooves. Errant rounds are deflected by something impervious and careen off into the distance; phantasmic comets lost to the void. The scent of cordite burns into his nostrils. It all overwhelms Oakes.

His weapon swings upward on its bipod as he scrambles in terror, pressing his back flat against a sandbag reinforced outcropping. His breaths come short and ragged. Oakes struggles with the collar of his IOTV, fingers growing numb as the temperature continued to plummet.

Illuminated by the erratic strobe of gunfire, he sees SPC Chandresh approaching in a crouched run. The combat medic grabs Oakes by the shoulders and leans forward. Words crash against Oakes but their meaning is lost to him. On the third repetition understanding sinks in.

“ARE YOU HIT?!”

The combat medic inspects Oakes for a moment when he recognizes the glazed look in the grunt’s eyes. He reaches back and strikes the young soldier across the face. Brocken spectres flicker against starshell glory that fizzle into sudden- and momentary- darkness.

In a celadon flash the combat outpost’s vicinity floods with blinding light. Several troopers rush to the Northern gabion wall of HESCO blocks. Gas pumps across the plaza erupt at the Loaf ‘N Jug. A concussive wave shatters the hotel’s windows. It knocks the platoon off their feet.

Hellish plumes struggle to rise against sleeted gales. SSG Rondeaux is the first to recover. Glare colder than the winds, he yanks PFC Eastman upright and barks inaudible orders. The stocky ginger nods and loads a 40mm HE round into the M320 grenade launcher attached to his carbine. Eastman shoots up with a rallying yell. He slams the M4’s buttstock against his shoulder in preparation to fire when he freezes.

“What the Hell you waitin’ for, Private!”

Rondeaux roars, rising to follow his soldier’s line of sight. His face hardens into a grim mask, jaw clenched tight. Soldiers rise behind him and watch on in horror as a theropodian monstrosity thrashes violently, consumed by voracious flames.

A mournful, hollow note escapes its crumbling osseous snout. The bulbous end of its rigid tail swells as venom-filled osteoderms boil then burst in a shower of hypodermic spines. Large and twisted horns emit steam as deep cracks form along them; thin layers of scute curl off and become embers lost to a rising gust of superheated air.

Gnarled and gurgling silhouettes convulse beside the burning saurian. Their distorted shadows dance amid the conflagration's ever-shifting flamelight. Elongated caricatures are projected across the plaza's parking lot in a Faustian performance. The paroxysmal denouement comes to an anticlimactic and merciful end as ligaments and tendons fuse together.

Mortal terror becomes much more immediate as a chorus of shrieks pierce the oppressive winter environs. Through the confusion of explosions and burning monsters, the plaza was overrun; the invading horde poured out from damaged store fronts. Fleshy apertures contract rhythmically as air passes through chambers that hum with murderous intent only to escape flaring nostrils as the harrowing howls of damned souls. The soprano of reptilian fiends is joined by the guttural timbre from hundreds of avian abominations.

DDDDDAAAAAAHHHHHHHHLLLLLLLLLL

Heavy skulls swung pendulously atop spindly necks as anisodactyl talons dug furiously into the wreckage from their crash landings. Vestigial arms flail lifelessly from their sides as they bristle visibly at their alien surroundings. Oversized beaks snap menacingly with the sound of grinding stone. Furious spats break out amongst their ranks, sending the rest into a frenzy as viscous blood splatters against densely-packed feathers.

“WE GOT MULTIPLE HOSTILES!"
"THEY'RE COMING OUTTA THE WALLS!"
"SECURE THE PERIMETER!"
"SEND THAT 40 MIKE-MIKE NOW, EASTMAN!”

*THUNK*

The High Explosive grenade spirals through the air in a graceful arc towards a cluster surrounding one of the larger reptiles when it explodes upon contact with a mysterious, opaque emerald barrier. Watching through his ACOG scope as the smoke clears and the barrier flickered out of existence, Rondeaux observes a glowing and partially open frill forming a fading corona around the saurian and its brood.

Cartilaginous folds wrap themselves around the shattered remnants of a massive horn that now resembled a gnarled cornulum. The SSG yelled over his shoulder at his men as he opens fire with his Mk 14 EBR. 7.62 rounds tear through the advancing ornithological infantry that continue undeterred, scrambling over their fallen brethren.

"LIGHT 'EM UP!"

Twin M242 chain-guns create a sustained wall of fire from LAV-25's parked in the courtyard leading to the Days Inn. Pavement spalls into lacerating flechettes as 25mm rounds skip then tumble through xenotissue while gunners on co-ax mounted M240's fire in short bursts across the approaching horde.

The larger saurians sprint through teeming multitudes of gnashing beaks, tactically deploying their protective barrier when directly fired upon. Spent brass tinks softly as the pile of spent cartridges around the vehicles steadily grows.

SPC Chandresh gives a few supportive smacks to the kevlar helmet atop Oakes head while holding his right hand thumb up. The Private mimics the medic's gesture, takes up his SAW once more and tries his best to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Before him Colorado Springs unfolds into a subnivean hellscape.

The cold, white spectre of winter descends from the mountainside; one by one city blocks are lost to an invading wave of fog. Macabre smoke rises from death-pyres that rage across the city, dropping visibility to a scant few yards at street level.

A series of crimson blooms cut through the mist as a quartet of M1A2 Abrams fire their 120mm tank guns; a dismal sheen and distant rumble the only evidence of their violence.

A chitinous javelin pierces the vaporous veil and embeds itself between two platoons stationed along an overpass of I-25 with a resounding crack. The lance throbs with an emerald brilliance that begins to furiously strobe in response to the humans in its proximity. The light bursts into a wide pulse before explosively collapsing into the spike. The overpass goes silent as soldiers collapse into snow-drifts; bodies devoid of all life before they reach the ground.

A Bradley crashes its way through a row of jersey barriers, burying itself into a deep trench along the interstate. It explodes into a magnificent column of white phosphorus as HEI rounds perforate the fighting vehicle’s laminate armor with the familiar buzzing hum from an A-10’s autocannons. A squadron of them swiftly traverse the battlefield, twin chasms of 30mm death in their wake.

Overhead the titanic abomination’s tusked silhouette writhes against churning storm clouds. Within minutes it was nearly to the high plains east of the city. Flitting bands of chiropteran-winged wraiths defensively circle the leviathan. Rays of jade arc and crackle along their insectoid thoraxes.

Higher still twin AC-130 gunships bank into enantiomorphic pylon turns, training their weapons systems on the dreadnaught. Charred and grisly remnants plummet from the sky as 30mm autocannons and M102 howitzers puncture the fluttering, raptorial bulwark, creating an opening for the gunships' cache of Hellfire missiles and small-diameter bombs.

Viridian bolts flash along the gaps and overload the projectiles' internal circuitry. They penetrate deep into the dreadnaught's hide yet fail to detonate until a stray 40mm from a radome Bofors L/60 strikes true. Leaden tissue scorches and collapses into a charnel crater along the monstrosity's right flank. Excess hide sloughs over the smoking lesion, leaving nothing behind save a gore-slathered scar.

An earth-shattering howl escapes it's cavernous maw and splits the surrounding icefields with a thunderous crack. Cheyenne mountain's triple peaks give a resounding groan before erupting in a cascade of free-falling snow, ice and rock. Miniature crustaceous figures leap in a futile race against the hibernal deluge. Diaphanous wings are violently crushed under bulky sclerites punctured by rimy shrapnel.

Meanwhile massive quadrupeds blindly grabble in their descent, spatulate talons fragmenting from the force of their tumble. Inviscid ichor spills from squamous pustules as they feebly cry out. The fossorial aberrations are engulfed until only bulbous eimer organs protrude from the icewave’s aftermath. The avalanche spills across Fountain Creek and the Palmer Divide, cutting the city off from Denver to the North.

The spiralling ribbon of wraiths disperse, blanketing the sky in shrieking forms. The steady rasp of static begins to drown out radio chatter as their coruscating carapaces become blinding motes interwoven by bands of emerald, creating a latticework across the firmament. The web bursts into an effulgent haze that decimates communications and electronic systems across Colorado Springs and Fort Carson.

Complete engine failure causes the aircraft nearest the dreadnaught to hover lifeless for a moment before careening towards the earth. Crew members desperately eject only to be viciously rived and consumed in mid-air. Luminous hemispheres bleed through the gloomy horizon as the cityscape before Pvt. Oakes is wracked with explosions.

Numbed, the Private's shock is momentarily usurped by curiosity. He wipes frost off his ballistic goggles and gapes at kaleidoscopic, undulating buds. Thick actinomorphic petals unfurl, revealing hundreds of lotuses that languidly drift against powerful, wintry gales. His nostrils flare at the heady scent that coils around the foundation of his willpower.

Oakes thoughts drift away and for a moment he is lost to the past; flashes of lures bobbing along the banks of the Kaniatarakwà:ronte and running from rez dogs with Tawit. Tawit… The sudden recollection that his brother was somewhere in the city, fighting monsters worse than any Niagwaihegowa or Ohnyare their grandfather told them of during cold nights under starlit skies, bolsters his spirit.

A hypnic jerk releases Oakes from his fugue. As his head clears he sees the lotuses suspended within a nebulous miasma of semi-translucent spores that scatter over the frontline. A sudden chinook wind from the demolished Pike's Peak pushes the spore cloud in his platoon's direction.

"GAS! GAS!" Oakes yells as his hands fumble to remove a C2 canister from a MOLLE pouch attached to his vest. "PUT YA DAMN MASKS ON!"

SPC Chandresh glances at Pvt Oakes slipping an M40 field protective mask over his broad features. For a brief moment the Specialist considers doing the same when his mind goes blank. In his final moments he evokes the warming aroma of his mother's vindaloo as a barbed tendril lashes itself around his throat. Arterial mist stains the snow-strewn rooftop with an abstract expressionist's hand. Necrotic nectar pumps through hypodermic thorns creating spasms that race up and down Chandresh's body as a manhole-sized lotus wraps its symmetrical, spotted petals around his head and torso.

Steam rises from seven .45 caliber sized perforations. Thick indigo mesophyll spurts from the ruptures then foams as it combines with Chandresh's blood. SSG Rondeaux loads a fresh magazine into his service pistol, DMR swinging from its sling. He steps over the convulsing medic's body, yelling "OFF THE ROOF!" through his mask’s voicemitter at the top of his lungs. Eastman, Jimenez, Frankfurter and Wilkes crouch as they sprint under Oakes’ skyward covering fire towards the rooftop access enclosure.

The SAW’s buttstock digs deep into the Private’s shoulder as he fires from a standing position. He adjusts his grip on the weapon’s folded bipod between controlled bursts. Airborne lotuses ignite into orange blossoms at the pyrotechnic qualities of Oakes’ M196 tracer rounds. Wilkes reaches for the door when he stumbles and slumps against the enclosure’s corner.

“FUCK! I’M HIT!”

Wilkes rolls over to reveal a cluster of spines embedded deep into his armor’s front SAPI plate. With shaking hands he tries to remove a spine from center mass when he harshly coughs blood. PFC Frankfurter grabs the drag handle on Wilkes’ IOTV and begins pulling him to safety.

"FRIENDLY COMI-"

Kicking the access door open, Frankfurter looks up to see a groping mass of mottled, spindly arms reach out from the darkened stairwell. Purulence seeps from viscera-covered claws that cut through muscle and bone with ease.

Frankfurter struggles to yell as a score of limbs fill his mouth and tear at his jaw until the flesh splits open. Blindly firing into the grotesque horde, the PFC’s eyes go wild with agony and he is pulled into the stairwell.

Blood pouring from his mouth, Wilkes shakily removes an MG7 grenade from his chest rig as he is dragged through the threshold. He exchanges a solemn look with Eastman and Jimenez. Summoning the last of his strength, Wilkes pushes the rooftop door shut with his boot.

“FRAG OUT!” Jimenez yells, turning away from the door as it is partially blown off its hinges. A thin column of smoke trickles out from the demolished threshold. Before they could begin to process or mourn the death of two comrades, Rondeaux steps past the two stunned soldiers with Oakes and CPL Nguyen in tow. He throws two more primed grenades down the stairwell, turns and points towards the rooftop fire escape. “MOVE! MOVE! DON’T YOU DARE STOP SHOOTIN’, OAKES!”

Metal grating clangs under heavy footfalls as the remaining soldiers stack up then descend the fire escape. Oakes shudders with adrenaline, waiting for the tap on his shoulder to break contact. His gaze travels past the M249's smoking barrel and across the wide steppe. The gargantuan cetacean continues on its eastward bound journey, winding its way through the squall that accompanies it.

A colossal cauda splits open at its extremity, revealing endless rows of towering, serrated teeth that jut out of its pulsating interior. Wispy strands of emerald condense, drawn into the beast’s puckering fluke. Oakes hairs stand on end, turning away as its caudal sphincter widens threateningly. A pulpous teal globule, violently gnashed by internal teeth, shifts anomalously through equiangular rotations; appearing as a shrinking sphere one moment, a widening paraboloid the next until collapsing into a beam, obliterating the heart of the city.

Oakes descends into the hiemal murk. The sounds of the battlefield muffle as he joins the remaining soldiers. Backs against the wall, they line up behind SSG Rondeaux. Diffuse haloes sweep their surroundings as they move towards the building’s edge. Inspecting his compass, Rondeaux curses at the wildly spinning needle.

“LAV’s are gone. Intastate’s too exposed. We’ll follow it best we can ‘til we hit open terrain.” Rondeaux replaces the magazine in his rifle. He peeks around the corner then turns back to the group. “Can’t see shit,” the SSG comments, removing the scope from his Mk 14. “Stay close. Don’t get each otha killed. Nguyen, you’re on point.”

The eerie tranquility that gripped the streets obscures the squad’s retreat. Oppressive silence distorts their sense of direction. On edge, they meet no resistance for blocks until muted bursts of gunfire boom to thunderous levels as they approach a fireteam dug in at an intersection.

"Forty meters! Up the road!"

Two grunts armed with M4 carbines fire into the mist from behind an overturned LMTV. Rounds snap at an advancing horde of swaying shadows in the fog. Behind them, a third soldier desperately tends to a wounded comrade face down on a stretcher. Panicked cries of teeth in the dark and eyes rising from the shadows fade to incoherent whispers with the hiss of a morphine auto-injector. Hands slick with blood fumble inside his trauma kit as the combat medic yells for aid into the gloom.

Haloes bob across shattered storefronts from rifle-mounted flashlights while Rondeaux and his men sprint to a covered bus stop. Oakes and Eastman provide covering fire for CPL Nguyen as he rushes into the crossing. He slides to a stop beside the medic and helps apply trauma pads to deep lacerations that run from shoulders to hips. The medic notes the chevrons on Nguyen’s sleeve, leans forward and struggles to be heard over the gunfire.

"SPC Borges with the 41st! Sir, we've got to get the fuck out of here!" Borges tears into an israeli bandage and motions for Nguyen to help with the mangled remains of the wounded soldier's left arm.

"Where's your CO?" Nguyen pulls the combat tourniquet's drawstring taut with a sympathetic wince. He holds the limb up while the medic unfurls a ribbon of flensed flesh, gristle smearing his sterile gloves. Borges quickly wraps the bandage around exposed bone and sinew, holding it in place as coagulants begin to stem the blood loss.

"LT Roberts is right here. We got to move him.” Borges removes the gloves and grabs one end of the stretcher. Just as Nguyen takes hold of the other end, one of the soldiers by the overturned truck is dragged away by an unseen force.

"CAMPBELL!" The remaining soldier struggles to fire his stovepiped carbine while Campbell's agonized yells bubble to a choked silence. He pulls back on the M4's charging handle as a flanged beak collides against his right leg. The femur splinters from the impact and he topples over into a ravenous horde of nightmarish avifauna.

"FALL BACK!"

The incapacitated form of Lt Roberts jostles as he's carried to the bus stop turned defensive fighting position. Nguyen leaves Borges to tend to the Lieutenant. He passes Eastman while the PFC loads his last High Explosive 40mm grenade and sends it towards the LMTV. Visceral shrapnel coats the street in the aftermath of the transport vehicle's explosion. Dozens of guttural bellows erupt in voracious rapture before gnashing and tearing at charred tissue.

C-... South… O… -tel… FRV…

The Corporal takes position between Rondeaux and Jimenez, readying his M16. The latter presses the receiver of his radio flat against his ear, straining to make sense of the garbled communications. Jimenez yells into the transmitter, watching Oakes drop to one knee as he feeds a fresh belt of black-tipped 5.56 ammunition into his M249. “THIS IS RED WARRIORS DELTA 7, SAY AGAIN ALL AFTER “SOUTH” OVER!”

Fits of static interrupt dead air. Jimenez looks up at Rondeaux and gives a frustrated shake of his head, pushing the SINCGARS backpack away. Determined not to suffer further casualties, Rondeaux motions for Oakes to follow him across the road. They form a defensive line, weapons trained and ready for whatever comes through the burning wreckage up the street.

SSG Rondeaux’s gaze sharpens as shimmering emerald specks bleed through the conflagration’s haze. He raises his fist, signalling the others to freeze while turning to Oakes. Side by side, Rondeaux speaks into the Private’s ear. “I want you to pin that bouzen down as soon as that fucka’s exposed.”

Motes swell, luminous panels curving into the flame-licked spheroid of another light-projecting saurian. Falling snow sizzles within the orb’s proximity, creating an impenetrable patch of fog. The theropod’s barrier dissipates with a series of intense flickers, forcing the wintry brume to rush into the lacuna created by the shield’s dispersion.

A soul-piercing screech rings from deep within the murk. The hellish tone sends a chill wave of terror over the troops. Rondeaux does not waver. He moves to the brick entrance of a bank, waiting to give the command to fire. Oakes marvels at the SSG’s courage while leaping into the bed of a Dodge RAM. Bracing his weapon’s bipod with the open tailgate, he scans the street in anticipation from a prone firing position.

The shriek drops in pitch until it's nothing more than a croaky hiss, tingling the back of the Private’s skull. Charging, the theropod’s hooked talons skate along verglas; ice yelps at its flaying by honed edges. It dashes through the misty veil’s border, broad barbed tail swaying to maintain balance. The beast cranes its muscular neck forward, frills flattened backwards to reveal a jagged, osseous spearhead. Through the lens of his scope, Oakes stares deep into it’s saurian eyes and is confronted with an overwhelming, bottomless malice.

Rondeaux sweeps his arm in a wide, low arc several times from behind cover. Squeezing the trigger, Oakes watches his rounds ricochet off mottled anterior scales. Focusing on breathing evenly, he keeps his bursts to two second intervals. Adapting to the theropod’s defenses, Oakes shifts his aim towards its outstretched skull. The monstrosity weaves its tapered reptilian head through the hail of M995. His vision narrows to a point; fleshy apertures contract along the abomination’s muzzle as the reticle of his scope sways in unison with its movements.

Oakes exhales and takes his shot. Dozens of rounds speed through the air at 3,000 feet per second. Tungsten penetrating cores fragment on impact against the saurian’s cornulum. White hot shrapnel pierces deep into the soft tissue of its eyes, frill and snout. Viridian gore splatters across the road, glowing dreamily through the creeping gloom.

It topples over blindly, a fine web of cracks forming under its jaw that smashes into the verglas. Thick gushes of emerald blood pour from its ruined muzzle as it struggles to upright itself. Violent strokes of its thrashing tail crush the frame of a parked sedan. Oakes clambers to his feet, spent cases tinkling against the truck bed. He hops off the tailgate, zeroed in on the theropodian nightmare. The Private leans forward to compensate for recoil, ice crunching underfoot as he advances on the intersection.

Impact after impact strike the saurian, keeping it off-balance. Stray armor piercing rounds perforate the scaled seam along the center of its underbelly. A yowl of agony wells up from the panting beast, cornulum digging into a crumpled car door as its haunches splay out pitifully on icy asphalt.

Dry clicks from an empty weapon snap Oakes out of his battle trance. With a clatter, the spent box magazine falls at his feet. He drops to one knee, retrieving his final box of M995 from a side pouch. The compensator on his M249’s barrel sizzles on contact with the frost laden curbside.

Oakes shifts his gaze away from the theropod’s death spasms, oblivious to grimalkin pawprints approaching along snow-capped car roofs. Hands shaking with adrenaline, he struggles to feed the fresh belt into his weapon’s chamber. Harsh, bestial snuffling sends a wave of terror through him. Hammering the round in place with a fist, Oakes slams the feed tray shut, pulls back on the SAW’s cocking handle and turns towards the sound’s source.

Brows furrow in confusion at the sight of a gently rocking Jeep Cherokee across the intersection. Oakes gasps, taking a step back when a column of shifting flames from the nearby LMTV reveals the tessellated contours of a massive, pouncing feline. Light passes uneasily through its spectral frame, reflecting the surrounding wintry cityspace like endless broken mirrors. Twin jewels of gleaming amethyst spring into existence, staring deep into Oakes’ soul. Only the slavering fangs that lined its gaping maw seemed real, although a strange smoky patina clung to them.

Prepared for death, Oakes is stunned at the unexpected sensation of being pulled from behind. Stumbling backwards, he is yanked to safety by Rondeaux just as a Cougar 6x6 MRAP barrels through the intersection with an audible thump. It skids to a halt. The gunner on its tower-mounted M2 whoops with manic laughter; .50 cal rounds trail a filmy emerald coma through the gloom. Rear double doors swing open as the vehicle reverses. Inside a heavily bandaged trooper waves them in with the bloody stump of an arm. Voice hoarse from smoke inhalation, he yells at the gawking pair.

“C’MON! IN! IN!”

Ordering the Private to protect the troop compartment, Rondeaux departs into the fog only to return within seconds with the last of the platoon in tow. Eastman and Jimenez file past the towering Oakes, visibly relieved at the compartment’s protection. They quickly move towards the front of the cabin, making room for Nguyen and Borges as they pile in with the stretcher bearing the injured Lieutenant.

“AY! WE GOT COMPANY! HURRY THE FUCK UP!” Oakes freezes, looking towards the familiar voice as the M2 gunner pivots to face him. The soldier’s eyes grow wide beneath his ballistic goggles. Pulling his neck gaiter down, the smooth, handsome features of Tawit Oakes beam down at his fraternal twin.

“SÓSE, I LOVE YA BUT GET. THE FUCK. IN!”



A cocktail of glutamates and monoamines flood the neural-weave of my amygdala. Subroutines initiate and I’m grateful. Who knows how far back I’d set aug rights if I have a traumatic episode and tear through the vets in the room like a box of fried bread.

Thinking about Tawit always does this to me. No amount of therapy can fix that wound. Good thing the techies figured a way around my emotions early on. Dissociating at will has gotten me through more than one hell.

Cursor hovering over the weeping emote that appears, I play the odds and bank on vulnerability being key. Thick synthetic tears trickle down ceramsteel protrusions along my cheekbones, salting the faded bronze Deflexion of my jacket.

With a dramatic sob, I look around the room at solemn faces nodding with understanding. The Rail from earlier wipes away snot with the sleeve of his Mets sweater. Ascot is nowhere to be seen.

Too distracted by the past. Sloppy. The room's activity replays itself at double-speed in the periphery of my awareness. I see him slip through the side door with a flash of his flex circuit in the middle of my monologue. What an asshole.

I prod the door's security console with tight-band microwave signals from my OPHIUCUS. Monitoring network activity transmissions, the hacking implant picks up on dormant intrusion detection systems. Better to back off before anything notices me snooping around. The warm static of neuroinhibitors keep me speaking.

"Tawit… Tawit was a wild son of a bitch, but he was my brother. Always had my back, especially after talkin' me into trouble.

A measly five minutes older but by the way he acted, you'd think otherwise. Tawit, always tryin' to slay giants. He was like that with everyone growin' up. I.. I miss him."

Another dose of chems and my consciousness sinks into dissociative tranquility.

"Movin' up to the crew cabin, Rondeaux pulls rank and has Eastman relieve Tawit from the gunner's tower and gives me the briefest of nods. Hell of a Staff Sergeant, no two ways about it. We never woulda made it off that hotel roof without him. I keep in touch with his family; least I could do after everything that happened.

Anyway, Tawit takes a seat next to me and is… Buzzin'. Like we were kids eatin’ fry bread with berries and honey, y'know? Just fuckin' giddy, even though he fought through the same Hell we did. I thought he mighta been in shock at first but the more we talked, the more questions I had."



Tawit pulls off his neck gaiter and stuffs it into his sweat-lined high cut ballistic helmet. Emptying a canteen with eager gulps, he turns in his seat to face Sóse. Flashing a toothy grin, he begins to excitedly ramble. The babel of radio chatter and impromptu surgery fades into the background.

"Holy shit Só, can you fuckin’ believe what’s out there? Stryker Brigade I was with was gettin’ it when shit popped off. You remember when Rakshótha would take us to the beach? When we were little? You’d cry when he’d chase you with horseshoe crabs in both hands? Imagine one seven fuckin’ feet tall turning your CO to jelly. Shit, with that sour-ass look on your face you already know what it is.

Yo, swear to Sky-Holder that avalanche was gonna be it. We tried buggin’ out then that fuckin’ spacewhale shit out a laser?! You see what that shit did? Whole damn blocks was gone. Poof. Nothin’. Fuck outta here! Whole damn blocks, Só!?” Tawit pokes his chin at the silent figure nearest the door. Expressionless, the soldier’s sunken eyes watch as Borges struggles to keep Lt. Roberts alive.

“We picked up the one-armed jarhead fightin’ one of those creepy-ass dodos. Beat the brakes off the damn thing with his e-tool. He was at ground zero when the laser hit.

Not sure how much of him is left in there. There uh… ain’t too many of us left out there... But I got somethin’ for that alien ass.”

Sóse pauses for the briefest of moments, then fits the rest of a fresh belt of linked ammunition into the box magazine on his lap. Staring deep into his brother’s eyes, He turns away in recognition of the tell-tale emerald simmering beneath Tawit’s gaze. “You-uh, you okay?”

“I’m good. I mean… Yeah, I’m good. I just… I feel like I’m thriving out here. It’s fucked up. But ever since the shit started I could… I could just feel this raw energy buzzin’ in the air. I never felt nothin’ like it.

So warm and… shit had me geekin’. Felt like I was about to explode. Then this piece of shit velociraptor comes at me and I unload my whole mag except my fuckin’ hands start glowin’ and I turned that Jurassic Park bitch into spaghetti sauce.

Straight up, thought I was trippin’. But then my CO asks me if I’m Hal fuckin’ Jordan and well, I been fuckin’ them up ever since. Thought it was just me, but I feel better knowin’ you feel somethin’ too.”

Finding no comfort in watching Borges deal with a collapsed lung, Sóse looks back at his twin with a curious expression. “Fuck you mean?”

“You serious? Bein’ next to you feels like I’m standin’ on the sun. You tellin’ me you haven’t felt different? Nothin’?”

Before Sóse could reflect on the sensation he'd considered an adrenaline rush up to that moment, Eastman began to holler from his position at the gunner’s tower as their vehicle swerves to dodge a runaway HMMWV. “MOTHERFUCKER! THERE’S A GOD DAMNED HULK! DRIVER SIDE! 75 METERS! ENGAGING!”

The Oakes brothers lean across the center platform to peek out of the compartment’s bullet-proof windows as the gnarled, osseous pauldron of an enormous, leaden behemoth smashes through the slatted rear armor of an M1 Abrams with a horrendous crash. Nearly tipping over from the impact, its tracks futilely dig into montane shrubland as the massive brute positions itself beneath the tank.

.50 cal rounds harmlessly bounce off sallow plates of dense bone that run along its immense torso. With a guttural bellow the Abrams flips through the air before striking the ground with an eruption of ice, soil and metal. Turning in the direction of it’s latest annoyance, the Oakes twins shudder in unison at its savage, twisted countenance.

Cloudy, malicious beads suspended in atramentous pools glare at them from sockets sunken deep into its grotesque and cadaverous skull. Respiratory slits flare above a mouth full of crooked, shattered teeth as it takes in their scent with ravenous gulps. Thews grow visibly taut beneath waxen flesh as it begins to slowly squat.

Oh shit.

In an eerie display of fraternal telepathy, the Oakes brothers rush to secure the restraints on their seats as they warn the others to do the same. “SEATBELTS! NOW!” With a forceful swing of its brawny limbs, the hulking abomination vaults into the mist. Incredible momentum causes its massive frame to burst through the exploding fuselage of a Kiowa providing close air support to the decimated tank platoon.

The colossus comes to a deafening halt as it collides with a 300 foot spire of snow-capped sienna. Sandstone shrapnel pelts the armored glass windshield as the Cougar's diesel engine revs up to a roar, steadily lurching towards it max speed of 65 mph.

Eastman ducks back down into the troop compartment, eyes wide with fear. That look remains on his face as the soldiers’ bodies hover weightlessly for the briefest of moments. He disappears through the gunner tower’s aperture as the MRAP’s crew cabin is crushed beneath adamantine kneecaps.

Broad, serrated bones protrude from dessicated fingers and mangle armor plates into composite metal ribbons as the enraged behemoth lifts the remaining portion of the vehicle high above the misshapen slab of its head. Rondeaux’s body jostles then snaps at grotesque angles as the Cougar tumbles through rows of juniper shrubs. A white fir splinters with a resounding crack, showering the MRAP in a cascade of pine needles and bark.

Having lost consciousness at some point after the fourth roll over, Sóse awakens with a jolt as the dust inside the compartment begins to settle. His vision swims in and out of focus as he searches for Tawit. Head ringing, he tries to yell when coughs thick with blood cause his agonized body to clench.

Freeing himself from the seat with a struggle, Sóse crumples to the floor with a fractured femur. He crawls along the blood-slick interior, fighting the urge to retch as he passes the shattered heap of SSG Guiscard Rondeaux. Fingers tear at sparse grass and with a desperate tug he pulls himself out of the jagged remnants of the troop compartment.

Sóse props himself up against one of the Cougar's tires shorn off during the crash. His chest shudders with ragged gasps and with a choked yell he straightens his damaged leg.

"FUCK!"

He nearly swoons. Scanning the immediate proximity for anything he might use to fashion a splint, Sóse is shocked into momentary catatonia. Frozen, he looks upon the slowly brightening horizon and two disparate figures locked in battle.

Tawit, wreathed in the emerald flames of vitality, dances around the behemoth's flailing limbs. Each missed attempt by the abomination is met with the resounding smack of a bio-force enriched crankshaft bouncing against the hulking monstrosity's skull. Bone spalls upon contact with the steel rod that bends with each strike and yet the juggernaut mindlessly persisted.

A well-timed parrying blow sends Tawit flying through a thicket of pines while the crankshaft penetrates inches deep into a sandstone formation in the other direction. The emerald flames momentarily flicker as the older Oakes brother picks himself up out of the crushed front end of a Stryker. Tawit smiles, spitting out fragments of several teeth before charging at the behemoth.

Watching his brother fight alone and injured, Sóse feels something terrifying in its scope awaken inside of him. His eyes grow wide with a surge of power that envelops him in neon jade light. Bellowing coughs clear airways full of blood. Dislocated ribs snap into place. His femoral bone grinds as it resets itself. Tissue mends with a deep burning sensation while Tawit is once more knocked away.

Sóse’s body lurches as he unsteadily pushes himself upright. He bounds into an uneven sprint, shedding his ruined IOTV with a shrug. Each muscle of his herculean shoulders and back swell with emerald vigor, bracing for impact. He throws himself at full-force against the titan as it leaps for a second, murderous pounce.

Propelled off course, the behemoth’s interrupted lunge instead sees it’s mandible furrow through yards of rocky terrain. It grinds to a sudden stop, slamming into a sandstone monolith. Plumes of dust rise from the impact crater. With a telluric groan the rock formation collapses.

Tawit hobbles over to Sóse, removing a dagger of twisted metal from his side with an emphatic grunt. Crimson and steam gush from the puncture, marring what little snow remained in their presence. The shrapnel falls with a heavy thud. Leaning on his crouched younger brother for support, Tawit bursts into excited laughter as a positive feedback loop forms between the two.

“Feels good to be you, doesn’t it?” Tawit exclaims, the wound in his side sealing with no residual scar tissue. A jade patina envelops them, turning the air electric. Rising in unison, the brothers take in their surroundings.

In a small clearing oriented towards the East, they see the first rays of sunlight framed through the hogback ridges of the Lyons Sandstone. Beams peek through the thinning blanket of arcus clouds at the retreating storm’s outskirts. Reflecting off snow-capped sandstone, the area is slowly bathed in a crimson tinge.

To the West, through dense clusters of towering Ponderosa pines and Gambel oak shrubs they see the smoking wreckage of the devastated tank platoon. Engines of war turned to visceral fodder for the juggernaut’s rage. Broad strokes of gore and entrails ooze to the ground from the rent composite armor.

Wedged in a copse of white firs to the South is the ruined hull of the Cougar 6x6. The massacre within thankfully obscured by a mantle of fallen snow and mist. Through the fog they observe the faint outline of a mostly unscathed HMMWV along the treeline. The faint clatter of crumbling stone steers them North to the collapsed monolith.

“We can’t fight that thing forever,” Sóse shouts over the coarse sound of grinding stones, “Shit, I'm not sure we can even take it head on!”

“I got a plan,” Tawit yells back as terrestrial shrapnel explodes from the sandstone mound. He points to the damaged vehicle, “First we need to get me to that Stryker I smashed into. GL looked like it’s still operational.” He then gestures towards the Humvee with a nod.

“After that you gotta get on that TOW. Put everything you got into it, Só! You hear me?” His question is punctuated by a second earthen eruption that showers the area in craggy debris.

Spindly pennons of dust momentarily enspiral the hulking outline before dispersing in a revealing gust. Viridian ichor dribbles from jagged lacerations that converge across the behemoth’s seething frame. Its jaw hangs in horrid display from tattered strands of ligament.

Its throat swells with guttural utterances, an inarticulate expression of its rage. Massive fists grasp its fragmented mandible and pendulously swaying tongue. With a frenzied yank the juggernaut removes them.

Lost in its lust for battle, the berserker lunges for the Oakes brothers. The two leap away as it bounds through the air. Missing its mark, the titan careens into the wrecked 6x6. Tawit turns to sprint towards the Stryker when he is knocked off-balance by the dismembered torso of CPL Nguyen. The carcass ruptures upon contact.

Rolling forward with the impact, Tawit narrowly ducks beneath a gargantuan paw. He scrambles to his feet when the brute slams both fists into the ground. The terrain warps, unable to withstand the blow’s might. Tawit claws at crumbling soil, sinking further into a widening crater.

Focused on the struggling form at the hollow’s edge, the behemoth is caught unaware when Sóse locks his wrists around its abdomen. The patina that surrounds him scintillates, magnifying his strength. He lifts the fiend high above, rolling their combined weight backwards until momentum takes over and Sóse relinquishes his grip.

Snow cascades from quaking boughs as a horrific shockwave ripples through the clearing. Deep fissures gouge the nivean landscape. Jagged karsts rise from crevasses, tearing at the sunrise.

Sliding down the crater’s slope, Tawit skids to a stop at his brother’s side. Borrowing from Sóse’s fount, the older Oakes brother’s aura begins to crackle. They leer at the juggernaut’s rising form, tumbling clods of marl scattering in the aftermath. Its right arm hangs limp at its side, thews pierced by the fractured end of a monstrous humerus.

The abomination rams through towers of shattering limestone as it lurches forward, rushing across the meters-wide crater at the Oakes brothers. Its charge comes to an abrupt stop when it stumbles into a foiba midway. Sóse turns to his twin as the beast partially disappears into the chasmic void.

“GO!” He yells, sprinting towards the hamstrung goliath. Tawit abides, streams of emerald trailing him as he leaps out of the crater. Sóse bounds along a toppled karst, gaining momentum. He propels himself into the air. With a brutal crack a winding trench splinters the limestone platform.
A viridian column engulfs man and monster when Sóse’s knee strikes at the heart of the behemoth’s plated chest. Scree caught within the luminous pillar begins to slowly ascend. Time slows to a crawl for the suspended combatants until a nexus of gossamer fractures spread along the osseous bulwark.

Immeasurable pain elicits a hoarse howl from Sóse as he pushes himself beyond the brink. His knee sinks further, cracks forming into craggy ridges along the juggernaut’s reinforced chest. The emerald column collapses into a coruscating point before erupting in a devastating display of power.

Sanguine mist fills the air. In a flash the flesh of Sóse’s leg strips away. Bones and nerves atomize into a fine slurry that obliviates in the ambient energy. Tawit observes Sóse’s unconscious form careen towards the South from his position atop the Stryker. He falls in a smoking, crumpled heap yards away from the Humvee.

“Só!”

A sonorous rumbling intensifies Tawit’s concern. The grisly visage of the juggernaut shambles out of the pit. A faint, flickering glow emerges from the gaping cavity in its chest from Sóse’s final blow. A gore-slick scar snakes away from the wound, revealing dangling knots of viscera.

“YOU. PIECE. OF. SHIT.”

The goliath turns towards its remaining target when a triplet of jade-wreathed 40mm grenades rain down on it. Cadaverous flesh ripples sickeningly before mangling from the augmented explosives as it hobbles towards Tawit’s blazing silhouette.

Volley after volley detonate against the monstrosity. A well-aimed series of grenades flense its mighty legs, stopping its advance entirely. Tawit leans heavily against the Mk 19 grenade launcher, struggling to catch his breath. Currents of blood trickle from half-healed wounds. An incredulous laugh escapes him as the broken behemoth crawls towards him with its final working limb.

The older Oakes brother’s vision swims in and out of focus. He pauses, reflecting on the surrealness of his last moments as his gaze ambles over to Sóse’s stirring form. Steeling himself, Tawit steadies his aim while pouring the last of his reserves into the Mk 19.

“Konnorónhkhwa, Ri’ken:’a.”

The words rouse Sóse to consciousness. Luminous motes hover around his injured form as one final explosion rattles the landscape. His mind wades through the mire of trauma, struggling to correlate all he’d lost that fateful morning. Watching the sun settle high above the Garden of the Gods, tears begin to stream down Sóse’s cheeks.

—— Earth-F67X: the Kithless

A year prior, it seemed to Czes that the world was on the brink of disaster or transformation; perhaps, simultaneously, both. Now, on that day's anniversary, known world-wide as NOW dayy, he isn't sure whether Earth and its survivors are capable of transcendental metamorphosis. A sigh, too weary and ancient for his eternally young body, trapped in awkward prepubescence, emanates from either side of his concentration-pursed lips. There's just too much hate in the world. Too much hate and too much history for it to be erased.

"You know," Lionel starts to say, "You don't have to --"

Czes cuts him off, "My mind is made up."

Clasping his hands behind him, the immortal gazes at the paintings in precise presentation behind transteel plates in his yacht's gallery and can't help but feel insignificant. No matter how perfect his preservation of these original works, it is only a matter of time -- a flicker in the panoply of the Verse -- before they diminish to dust. Modena, Beksiński, and Canetto were masters of their craft, yet their names now manifest only on the tongues of critics. In another thousand years, those artists might not at all be mentioned. He certainly does not intend to remain, even if it is for the noble purpose of passing on history. As for the Abditory and the Comte Foundation, that burden now belongs to a newly-installed board of directors.

"So long as it isn't merely for my sake. I could easily walk through one of those portals," Lionel insists as they move up toward the deck.

"You can and you will, but I couldn't; not easily, that is," Czes argues, "I'd feel defenseless. Besides, while there is no guarantee the HKT and their ilk can't reach you there, you'll be much safer. How many assassination attempts have you endured, to the point where you're taking refuge here with me? Nine in the last year, all because of who you are and what you advocate."

Lionel bites his tongue. Despite his Terran origins, he is human.

Czes nods a cordial goodbye.

Lionel steps off the gangway, walks down the dock, and heads to the portal. Strange, its isolation on an island in the Maldives. Almost as though Ximbic-8 predicted this moment. Czes watches in silence as his friend and confidant vanishes through a shimmer of cerulean, the last vestige of his presence a few footprints in the sand.

After a few moments of contemplation, he decides it is time. Unlike his friend, Czes cannot lay his trauma to rest and enter defenseless a largely foreign world. Which is why mecha are such wonderful things. One for just this occasion stands ready on the deck. The wind of this world and its sunlight graces his flesh one last time, then he enters the machine. That feeling of safety envelopes him. No offensive capabilities and smaller than usual to fit through the portal to the alien world of Ximbic-8, he feels its strength all the same. At a mere eight feet tall, solar-refractive actuators cover its spherical core, allowing it to morph and reflect any shape and pattern. Today, its programming dictates the appearance of a large silver wolf. Before him, a HUD lights up. Ahead is a glowing archway that leads to a place where his billions in wealth will neither influence others nor protect him. If the machine fails, he will be dependent on his wits and, he worries, once more his immortality.

A knot forms in his belly as, through his neural link, he urges the mech forward. The alabaster frame of the arch blurs into his periphery and then, suddenly, Earth-F67X is elsewhere.

Forever, he realizes.

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City, Chinatown

Mateo dropped into his bottom bunk, a stained and thin yellow foam mattress glued on a metal frame welded to the inside of a black MercSadé knockoff conversion van parked somewhere in the New New York Chinatown arcology. Cozy, he felt, as he wiggled his toes and tranced to the neon red afterimages of the phosphorescent interdigital contour lines on his Vertx armored toe socks, bottom plated in Mg-Al alloy Kikko-style hexes and the only attire he needed or wanted on his body on this sweltering swamp ass night if it became critical to madlad down the trash-strewn alley without needing to b-line for a t-boost at the charity clinic. His socks were brand new and brand name, the only thing like that he owned. Van-mate gone for the next hour, Mateo took advantage and plugged the USB into his bootleg nEXtFlesh mastoid interface for a high fidelity direct-connect to the web. He had scrounged and saved a year for this, well, and for the socks. He was excited to meet his virtual therapist.

Occipital interrupt established, the neon red blurs on a black canvas morphed into an afternoon in a field somewhere, a hill of gold grass gently declining into a perfect celadon lake. Warm sunlight and a gentle breeze soothed his skin and he felt the urge to strip naked and go for a swim, but an androgynous voice interrupted:

"Welcome Mateo Ruiz-Malavé to inCite Personalized Therapy, E-tier. What would you like to talk about today?"

A look around revealed he was completely alone, not exactly the level of interaction he wanted.

"Can I, uh, talk to a person?"

"A human representative is available for A-tier plans and above. Would you be interested in upgrading or do you wish to settle for a human facsimile via avatar and continue your A.I. interaction?"

"Uh, avatar I guess. A bro I can relate to and not feel threatened by, but still be real with. Can't afford A-tier."

A line of heat traced his face, he felt it despite the interference of the uplink. A scan. He blinked. Down by the lake a guy who looked similar to himself was sitting next to a fishing pole, line sunk in the water, bob motionless. Dank graffiti gray-and-gold hoodie, darkwash bootcut jeans, buzzcut, tossing back a cold one. Maybe in his early 30s. Hispanic. Meteo walked down and the man turned to him and said, "What's up, Cuz? Sit down, have a drink, and hit me with what's been up in life."

"Heh, you really do look like my cousin. Nice sleeve, bro. Quite the history. Galitae? HKT? Ampbacks? Drip for her, root for them, and damn they better win the cup this year; am I right?"

They bumped fists, the A.I. nodded, that slight upward chin tilt, and went back to contemplating his line. That's when Mateo noticed that there was only one arm on the guy. An amputee. Not even bothering with a prosthetic. Now that was confidence. He knew he'd definitely go with a prosthesis, at the very least to switch-hit while jacking it. Anyway, that wasn't what he was here for, he was here for answers, and there was only one way to get those. Mateo began talking:

"I think maybe I should stop. Yeah, I have a list. Two bodies of sweet revenge deep. But, I don't know. I didn't feel it as much the second time. If I do it again it might just be the motions, and then what, I've become some sort of psycho? A cold-blooded killer? Is that what I want out of this?"

"You mean you killed someone?" the A.I. queried.

"The advert said this is confidential. No data sharing or reporting."

"Absolutely, Cuz. Just between us. But, uh, what was it like? Your first time."

Mateo paused and thought about it. Images visceral in his mind splayed before him, crisp and lifelike as rerendered by the occipital enhancement of inCite's memory recall module. His dad was at the top of his list, the bastard who let the Corporate Holy See bamboozle him into making his child an eternal preteen fuckboy in exchange for food vouchers, but Mateo worried that would be too personal. That there'd be too much rage. So he started from the bottom. The Vatican doctor he barely knew, that bitch who improperly installed the GnHR-blocker in his hypothalamus so that it could never be removed without irreparable damage.

"My dad beat mom a lot, so I guess you could say I didn't have qualms about killing a woman who did me dirty. It took a long time to track down who she really was, the Corporate See has a habit of moving those types around a lot. But they are great record-keepers. So I got in touch with a hacker who helped me find some bootleg ice breakers. Don't know where he found it, but one was counterintelligence tier. I only use it when necessary, but it adapts really well. Posed as an altar boy, snuck into the admin office, hooked in, and blasted the CHS firewalls. Found the bitch who done it. She lived close, up in Dutchess. Single. A nun who failed at being the good type of doctor, if that even exists."

"Anyhoo … nuns these days don't always live in convents. This one lived in some lowsec gatecomm by her lonesome. Pathetic. No mods, at least none that helped in a fight. Me either, at the time. It was late October-ish, so I posed as a trick-or-treater, a real killer with a real machete and fake costume hockey mask and convenience store jumpsuit. You know who. Chit-chatted the guard at the entrance to the gatecomm, said I was cute, no idea I was there to near-field break their security cams. That done, I found my target, waited until clear, rang her bell, slit her throat, kicked her back across her threshold, and let the screen door slam shut as she slammed to the ground with her hands on her throat. I was fucking terrified. Instant cold sweat, chills, the works. Looked around, nobody in sight. So I ran. Climbed the wall, escaped the gatecomm, and sat in the woods for an hour trying to catch my breath."

"Kinda a blur after that, but the ten minutes before I can tell you every little detail. What she was wearing, what kind of candy she put in my jack-o-lantern … how fucked up is it that as I sat in the woods I woofed down that shit like a fucking animal?"

The A.I. must've taken his pause as a request for response. With all that rambling, he'd gotten a bite on his rod. Not sure what kind of fish, maybe a trout. It was green and orange with black stripes. With one good hand, the A.I. reeled it in. It thrashed in a rusty metal bucket between them, not so noisy as to ruin the mood. Part of Mateo expected some sort of canned response or condemnation. He got what he could pay for, after all. Instead, the A.I. set a hand on his shoulder and looked at him, dead in the eyes, set his rod to the aside, and said,

"A man's gotta eat."

They shared a weird serious moment, then the A.I. cracked a smile. Spontaneously, they both cracked up, laughed like a duo of fools. It felt good, really good. Not just to get some history off his chest, but to find some reason to laugh about what happened. After they settled, Mateo reclined on the grass and looked up at the sky. Relaxed. All sorts of clouds in all sorts of shapes. Then he heard the A.I. say,

"A man's also gotta feel there's justice in life. If society doesn't give it to him, if society makes it unattainable within its frameworks, well, that pushes him to act out or give up. Always better to act, otherwise you're not a man. Not a person. Just broken. Justice has evolved, in theory; it use to be retributive, then proportionate, then rehabilitative. Of course, for guys like us, we know it is always about who can buy it. Still, the theory holds. We want to feel we've gotten a fair shake. We want to feel we've given a fair shake. So, tell me, Cuz, how do you feel about the justice you gave your first victim?"

About to respond, but the A.I. interjected with an upheld hand and told Mateo, "Next session. Think about it."

A low long tone, the world went dark, and Mateo was hit with bold gold holographic sans-serif: We hope you were satisfied with your inCite personalized therapy session. Your account has been debited for 28 compute cycles. Unplugged, but deep in that interstitial choroidal haze, he almost threw up when a hand grabbed his dick and gave it a rough jerk.

"Ar-Em, fall asleep watching porn?" his van-mate mocked, "you reek of sweat. This whole place does."

"That's your fucking crusty-ass socks, Kostas, you unwashed shit. How you can pull them on when they're hard as concrete, I don't want to know. And keep your hands to yourself unless you want to lose them," Mateo shot back. They were both assholes, which was why they tolerated one another. Kostas was wannabe Yakuza wrapped up in black nylon with an acute case of hydrophobia so bad that Mateo actually celebrated the day he went noseblind. CyBax Eu Pom in Pine Barrens was no substitute for a solid dip in the Hudson, Mateo's preference. "And before you shoot off, tonight is too hot for clothes. This may be your van, but I pay my rent."

"In fast-ramen," yawned Kostas, who pulled himself into the upper bunk and tossed a stiff sock down at Mateo.

"Doesn't even matter!"

Earth-F67X: New New York City, 4 Pennsylvania Plaza

A blend of bare-throated bellbirds, electronic synths, miscellaneous roars, conga, and trap drums awaited Oringo as he neared the club. Carrying a frantic Jane over his left shoulder, the damsel repeatedly battered his back which felt more like woven steel than muscle. Desperately, she began to pull on his dreads, the pelted lion’s mane of his vest, and so on, but to no avail. The transporting warrior proceeded to clear draping fauna with his free hand, allowing her to turn ever so slightly to see around his shoulder and catch a glimpse of the two men guarding an entrance to a vault door. She caught sight of the bouncers. As much as the blaring stroboscopic lights allowed and even looked to the two for help, but as she approached, they practically ‘high-fived’ her kidnapper.

“That’s my young bull right there! Yo, look! He caught another one."

Turning around, one of the heavyset bouncers, built more like a gorilla than human, with his cybernetically enhanced arm proportions, relinquished his grip on a belligerent drunk. He bore the entire weight of the man with just his pressing forearm. The unconscious male fell several feet off the ground, folding upon himself on the Boston ivy and weed-ridden concrete as he turned his head. Simian walked over to examine the woman, identifying her as Natasha Holcomb, a reporter for the Daily Hound.

"Mans is relentless when it comes to his prey.” Haughtily laughing, his oversized gorilla-esque gold and diamond-studded canines revealed themselves, leaving the reporter terror-stricken.

"Go right to the back. Jags waiting.”

Oringo, her captor, gave a slight nod and proceeded to the back where he’d soon meet with the chief.

---

With the tinnitus-inducing sounds of the party, rattling the walls of the VIP section, the stocky fingers of Jag palmed and carefully caressed the top of a black jaguar’s skull. The imperfections of his vitiligo-ravaged skin stood out compared to the rosette pattern drowned in the feline’s melanistic fur. Typically, to observe them you’d have to venture into the endangered animal's habitat, which many were hesitant to do. However, the alternative was no better. Meaning, you had to get close to Jag, in his territory—a jungle hid in the metropolis at 4 Pennsylvania Plaza. Now only known as ‘The Garden,’ the world’s most famous arena and much of the vicinity around it became notorious under his thuggish tutelage, transforming it into a community of cybernetically enhanced humans living in a housing project of tribes under one umbrella.

---

“I’ll be frank. I can’t help but fear for Amina’s future...”

A middle-aged woman, clearly overworked, tidied her messy bun before carefully sorting through the report cards of her fourth-grade students. On this wet, thundery day, she was tasked with meeting with all the parents but she felt exasperated with the thought of a single one. Another woman sat across from her, clearly anxious in her own right, failed to even make eye contact with her. Genesis, like every other parent, awaited her child’s grades. The teacher, Mrs. Herring, slapped a sheet of paper face down in front of her. Tensely flipping the report over, it was revealed to be some sort of an IQ test to her confusion, widening her distressed brown eyes. It read the following. “The results of the administered test have determined that Amina Lucas has an approximate intelligence quotient score of 219.”

After reading the score, the woman sunk in her chair a bit, head down, plunging further into her anxiety until the teacher placed her right hand on hers. “Raise your head, sweetie. You must stay strong. Please, for her sake. Keep this a secret from him. There is no doubt in my mind that he values her as the princess of his kingdom and that is what I find so...unsettling."

With the inevitability of her daughter being involved in the vice operation Jag called a business looming over her thoughts, Genesis cried. Her cheeks resembled the drenched panes of glass soaked by the storm, running her mascara to her chin. “I’ve never been so afraid of tomorrow.”

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City, Chinatown

Mateo flung himself off his mattress. A plastifoam container crunched under foot, empty, wrapper torn. He kicked it, an aluminum Aquafinka can, and a half-empty bottle of ÜberSilk party lubricant. Necessities for young men gone feral. After a bit of a shuffle, a patch of filthy green acrylic carpet. Maggots, maybe. He'd spray again, soon.

"Seen my trunks, Kost?"

"Might've used 'em as a jizz rag," Kostas yawned in his bunk to a telltale syncopated fist pump.

"Nasty. Abso vile," Mateo sneered, "Wait til I'm out of the van, at least."

"Bro, all the time you tap my skeet feed and beat to the rhythm. Mmmph. Yeah," Kostas' laugh slowed to a husky sigh, "Or what about that time you nightfreaked, jumped my bunk."

Trunks were under a recycoseal bag, full given Kostas and he were too broke to afford drop service. The bag, that is. As for his trunks, Mateo picked them up and examined them under black light. Clean, mostly. He risked a sniff, smelled only his own ass. Weird, but a locus or else deck Kostas for reanimating dead memories. Again. Dread dream or gApsmAck hacksoft glitch, no matter, he was out of his mind and craved comfort. Kostas was warm arms, a weight blanket. Mateo's tears dried and cold sweat turned hot, nature's lube.

"You're a liar, too."

"Check inside."

Didn't bother. Pulled them on, hassled getting the waistband over his dumpster; mother nature's gift, great for Little League, now a curse. Priests wanted it. Kostas wanted it … again. Trunks always seemed to catch, lift his shelf, then snap and smack his spine while his cheeks clapped. Swim trunks in lieu of shorts and briefs were simpler, anyway; fewer garments to purchase, hold on to, wash. They were also waterproof, soilproof, with a neat neon red flecktarn pattern that matched his socks. A possession from age 12 onward, they sparked joy.

Kostas was just another name on his list. Two down, a bunch to go.

"Gotta be somewhere," Mateo exchanged the hotbox van for the covered alleyways of North Capitol City's Kips Bay enclave, the gutter-valve heartbeat of what everyone called New New York. No breeze, but still cooler than a MercSadé hiding two male horndogs pumping chud.

A walk, solitary, long, Mateo a skinny sheen on a silhouette in a dark grotto with old pavers, older foundation blocks. Indirect incandescence, people merely shades, outlines, snakes in water. His moon shone in Heaven as an ad-stream of eternal ultra-vibrant diode manipulation, one moment scarlet, then ultramarine, then harlequin, and always he its penumbra, undulating, coruscating, an ugly cross-hatch curve. A partial outline. Less than a person. Real, the way society felt he was real.

Mateo tucked his thumbs in his trunks and wrinkled his nose. Grease. Food truck, maybe; no, grittier, but nobody around, much less a mobile diner. El overpass, above, abandoned. Flanked by windowless, doorless, boarded-up walls. The utterdark, where even Heaven's light didn't flow. Above the el, an impenetrable crisscross of pedestrian and highway trestles. Quiet. Too quiet. Thumbs down, his trunk legs drooped midway on his knees to the thick of his calves. Sprung, he pissed. All the world a gutter, his gutter. Eyes traced urine through pavers, to crumbled sideway. A lump, trenched up, big.

An hour later, he heaved a corpse through an old Salvation Army warehouse freight door, the kind where you pull a big strap and it lifts on pulleys. Rows of lights buzzed, long tubes that flickered just outside his scotoma, an inducement to a migraine. Concrete blocks painted red, white, pealed, chipped. Corrugated tin or aluminum rather than windows. All that just the husk. Its ribs, rows of folding tables bowed under fabric, limbs, shoes, jewelry. In the center, the crown jewel: a heavy duty piece of cutter tech that could do all the sewing, slicing, dicing, and modding its operator imagined.

"You in, Fesyen?" Mateo's words echoed.

Hantu Fesyen lifted his head dreamily off his cutter station's desk, "Ah, poor Mateo boy, here to sweet talk himself into some wares? I've told you, I only accept crypto."

"Pfft, what, too good for trade?" Mateo shot back, nonchalant. He sat on his tarp-trapped barter, ankle to knee, and inspected his nails. Dirty. Time for another plunge in the Hudson.

Somewhere in a lilac and green hydrangea explosion that approximated hair, opera glasses folded out and over Hantu's eyes; hammered palladium frames, rose gold arabesques, hexagonal rose lenses. Leisurely, he stood, smoothed out his trans-linen frock coat around his brief, thin figure; vaguely opaque eggshell embroidered in hues of lilac, silver, then emerald in hydro-thread needlepoint that rippled in an arrangement that complemented the arabesques in his frames. A translucent fingernail, synced to his trench's hue shifts, pressed his brown cheek and Fesyen crooned insincerely, "Don't da~are bemuse me, Mateo boye~e. What bi~ig thing are you hiding from du~addy?"

Mateo stepped forward, but Fesyen held up his hand.

"Stay, Filth!" screeched Fesyen, "You'll pollute the product!"

Coattails billowed in his descent as he scampered down the platform.

Earth-F67X: New New York City, 4 Pennsylvania Plaza

Plopped on the ground like a sack of potatoes, Natasha's bent round-eyed frames fell into the umber shag carpet preceding the full-grain leather couch Jag lounged on. The reporter felt dwarfed as if she were laying right before the Lincoln monument when looking up at his onyx-suited hulking figure veiled in the dim lighting. Natasha swallowed her heart as the tingling breath of a beefy black panther bore down on her neck. With that and the gangster's judicious leer suffocating her, the tactical transfixion of the reporter was complete. A voice cold with anger then spoke out.

"I never concern myself with gossip from those at the bottom of the food chain but your insistence on justice seemed hollow, contrived. I had to conduct some research and came across some fruitful connections between us."

The prowling panther showed restraint, sauntering back to Jag but Natasha's cold sweat persisted. Her heart thumped like the 808’s humming through the walls of the neighboring party. Right before her was Demarco "Jaguar" Lucas. A man with practically an urban militia, guilty of just about everything vice, snugly living in his small sector of the city, yet here she was, face to face with him. She made a living loathing and exposing real-life villains like him, yet none of her pieces about his jungle mafia Tribe: Barrio ever seemed to gain any traction in the media. It was clear Jag read them at least, as he sent an assailant to abduct her.

Prior to this meeting, she carried a deep personal hatred of him. Her vendetta against Jag was founded on very simple accounts of his history of abuse towards Genesis, her old college roommate, and friend.

A momentary lapse in judgment allowed the journalist to forget just how much danger she was in as she recalled their past. Scowling at him, she remembered the luxurious limos he'd often send Genesis way in the thick of the night. Peeking through the blinds, the chauffeurs in name resembled thugs of the worst caliber. Bestial cyber-enhanced goons bordering on body dysmorphia were their common theme. Natasha wrote extensively about the psychological dangers of delving too deep into cyber enhancements. In the tribe's particular case, the gradual degradation of their psyche as they obsessively sculpted their bodies caused them to emulate the behavior of their favored animal making them subhuman. To think Genesis was subjecting herself to being around such a crowd on the regular showed what kind of psychological hold he had on her. Though she and Jag were no longer together, the child they brought into the world forever entangled their lives. Natasha thought if she could just bring enough attention to his black empire through the press, the authorities would do the right thing and Genesis as the caged bird she was would be set free.

Mustering up a microgram of courage, with her eyes producing waterworks Natasha lashed out. "If you wanted to kill me over the articles I wrote, you could have done so without bringing me here!"

Inching slightly forward, a smug smirk momentarily crossed the tribe leader's face. "You should be thankful for having a purpose beyond fertilizing the soil for a near life cycle. I have some tasks for you, woman. We'll start with the most important one. I have a daughter as you know. Her birthday is coming up. I would like for you to find out what she wants. I expect through your integrity as a journalist that the info you report back will be accurate."

Natasha stared at Jag in genuine bewilderment. This couldn't possibly be what he dragged her down here kicking and screaming for. Not in the position to object, she replied "That won't be a problem," fumbling to straighten the glasses on her face after wiping her eyes.

Leaning back into the cushions of the couch, Jag lit a cigar off a peculiar spark emanating off his golden prosthetic. "Good, and as a means to safeguard your task, I’ll remind you I have many more animals camouflaged throughout this concrete jungle we call a city. Some which, won't be as delicate with you as Oringo."

He was right. Even if she tried to somehow report this, thugs just like the one who brought her here could swoop her off the streets in an instant. Natasha wasn't aware, but Oringo who watched her with hawkeyes from the corner of the room had her scent engraved into his memory. He could whiff out her location and hunt her down like the prey she was.

"I take your silence as a sign of obedience."

Without the need for an alarm Han rose from her bed at an exact hour to go see a vintage boot specialist. She had no need for rest though with how low she was running on money she thought it would be best to save as much as possible, if she did not move as much then she would not need to eat as much food. However, whenever she did have to move she needed shoes, and as any hipster knows, they had to be nice shoes from a hundred years ago. 'Let's see... Oh yup, there it is.' She thought as she reached for her phone, checked the messages sent to one of the anonymous board members, where she met the one capable of mending her boots, and readied herself to drive to the location of the tailor.

Her apartment was quite nice, having a lot of space, two bathrooms, and two bedrooms, one of which was used more as an office than anything else while leaving the master bedroom which had a connected bathroom as a normal bedroom. Located in Greenpoint, it was the perfect place to camouflage her 'historical appreciation' for 1940s Germany. After a nice and brief shower she readied herself to go out, taking her pair of worn paratrooper boots and placing them on a bag before going down without eating breakfast. On her way down she greeted and got compliments on her retro style, further exemplifying how oblivious the others were to what exactly she was wearing.

Han opened her car door and placed the white bag containing her worn boots on the passenger side before turning on the engine, waiting for it to heat up, and then left calmly to her destination. Although she knew the way to the warehouse where she'd meet the tailor, she enabled the built-in navigation system in her car. It sometimes guessed right which way to go to avoid traffic, good enough and certainly better than her in this regard. The drive was uneventful, she only listened to music as she made her way there, a mix of metal and electronic music. Unknown to her even her taste in music was set beforehand by her creator to match an European.

The modified 2008 C63 silver gray Mercedes-Benz came to a stop just in front of the dilapidated warehouse. The neighborhood did not look any better but this was the only person Han managed to fight, able to maintain and fix her boots, with a sigh after looking at the surroundings she took her white plastic bag and exited the car. The electric tint made it impossible to look into the car, something not true for those looking from inside to outside, which led to Han only being visible once she got out. Rapidly, she walked across the street and towards what she suspected was the entrance to the warehouse, looking both ways to make sure no strangers were coming before she made her way there. Her gait was slightly rushed as one would expect from any upper middle class person who is put into a not perfect area.

"Uh-" A female voice said from behind Mateo before Han entered the premises. "Are you Fesyen?" She asked as the short man was completely camouflaged from her by the many things inside the warehouse. Her pale blue eyes met with Mateo, her gaze uncertain and slightly worried about the man not too far away from her. From her pristine pale skin, short grunge naturally blonde hair, black jeans and leather boots, and a darker black Metallica 'Ride the Lightning' t-shirt it was clear she was not only foreign to the neighborhood but also its way of life and inhabitants. "I came to get these fixed, we met on the board. I’m Han."

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City, Chinatown

Footsteps tapped an approach on concrete behind Mateo. Defensive of his tarp-draped treasure, he turned and beheld a pale, blonde, blue-eyed hipster adorned, of all things, in wrinkle-free washed attire—she even smelled good! As Mateo prepared to address her, Fesyen darted around a massive stack of color-sorted denim and pleaded, "No~o! That filthy lout a designer? Puh-leez!"

He paused to catch his breath, his hands on his knees, looking like a sage-crowned white parakeet.

"You're here for the, uh, oh my," — a digital display scrolled through his bobbing opera glass lens — "the historical footwear; yes?" he peered at her appreciatively, finally eye-level with an actual customer rather than a penniless scamp, dollar signs evident in his dark brown eyes.

"Hey, first come, first serve!" complained Mateo.

Fesyen scowled at Mateo and grumbled, "Without an appointment, my sexy little catamite cesspool! No business until we've cleaned you up, if what you're trading is worth waving the spa fee! Now!" — he turned his attention back to Han — "a moment please, while I look under this tarp."

He lifted up the edge, appraised the corpse of, he hoped, just an io; an implant overdoser. Glasses glinted as they switched to x-ray, and he gasped at the sheer number of mods. He stood up, clapped, and sent a silent signal through his local mindnet cluster. In response, a loader bot slid off the wall, grasped the tarped corpse in one of its grippers and plucked Mateo up in the other. Of course, Mateo struggled, and perhaps fortunately for him the clamps were layered in a rubber-foam tricoat that gave in around his form rather than crushed him with the raw brutality of metal.

"Put me down, Jose-Queen-Mo! I'm not walking out of here empty-handed!"

"Tut tut tut," Fesyen waved his finger, "Bath time for you, dirty boy! As a reward for this trove, you'll walk out fully clothed with your pick of accessories, whatever you can hold, within reason! Or does the purist want daddy Fesyen to touch his insides and leave some mods behind?"

The loader strutted through a set of bay doors opposite from where Mateo and Han entered, and Mateo shouted back, "Clothes, a weapon, and the io's cy-weave!" Through an up-tilted ramp across the boulevard, it eventually reached a pleasant commercial services complex, in particular the spa: a high-end bathhouse body rejuvenation salon, with options for fish, maggot, laser, or wage slave skin exfoliation; stone, goat, machine, or wave slave massage; showers, saunas, hot and cold jacuzzis, a heated olympic-sized pool, scent-select enema pump stations, and of course solicitation. Freed from its tarp, which went directly into an incinerator, the io was dropped in a private maggot exfoliation tub where, within 24 hours, every gram of dead flesh would be consumed. Mateo, meanwhile, was stripped of his socks and swim trunks, all he had on in the first place, and confined to a scrub-in-plug to be thoroughly groomed while his clothes were laundered.

Fesyen turned to Han and said, "Please, remind me of our communication? Did you want your genuine war-era marschstiefel professionally restored or are you looking to buy? If the former, you can enjoy the full services of the spa while I attend to your request."

The "hipster", whose attire's only hipster element were the Nazi boots, seemed quite puzzled at first as she could not find the short man, but sighed in relief after spotting him. Just as she was about to speak however, Mateo interjected with his demand to not be left out. Without a space to talk, she only stood there, looking back and forth between Fesyen slightly confused until she was addressed again and she had to reply with a nod.

She also tried to peek under the tarp, her mouth slightly opening as she raised her head and tried to get a nice look. It was not enough though, as she was unable to make what was under the tarp before the robot took it away. Of course, she also paid attention to the other, living, load being carried away to the spa. She smirked lightly at the clother's remarks and then laughed as she caught a glimpse of the cursed penis of Mateo. "He has ze baby dik!" She uttered rapidly in a slight German accent as she laughed.

"Oh yes-" She said as she collected herself, moving back to where she was and opening the white thick plastic bags she brought with her. Inside were the boots in question, which seemed more worn than in the photo. Their soles were almost run to the fabric, the leather had sun damage and also a few cuts, and the laces had gained a few strange stains and had unraveled themselves in quite a few spots. Either she did not care about these relics, or she cared so much that she felt it would be disrespectful to not use them as they were meant to be used, probably the former considering she was a young white blonde woman. "I did say I would pay in cash but I kind of am running short on that. Sooooo~" She said as she reached into her pocket and took out another interesting artifact. This one was an original First Class Iron Cross medal, it was not very worn and even had the cool and edgy swastika in the middle of it. "Could you take this as payment? I don't have any use for it at the moment." Although not as rare, it could still fetch more than 300 dollars if you were lucky, though of course you would have to know about these artifacts to know that.

"Oh also." Han continued, keeping the medal in her hand as she spoke. "Do you know any fixer in need of some assistance? I could work a normal job but honestly... that sounds very boring and totes not worth it." After all, it was a capitalist dystopia. Crime was probably the only way to make it if you were not born to a family of money like her. "Or if you have any jobs I can tell you what I can do." Han finished, offering the man a quite charismatic smile that made her look less like a solo and more like a stupid teenager that did not know what she was getting into. It was quite common for college aged students to get into stupid things too, which did not help her case at all.

Earth-F67X: New New York City, Brooklyn-Queens Expressway

Much like Genesis’ gut-wrenching emotions, the storm did not subsist. Squinting, her’ eyes barely made out the road. It was hard to see the winding snake path yet she maintained to break into the BQE safely. On this tiresome commute back, a good night’s rest was craved. However, there was no telling how much her mind would race the second her body hit the bed. Genesis’ hastening thoughts penciled what Amina’s life could become were Jag to find out. The horrific reality of her daughter being groomed to become some corrupt engineer, scientist or political pawn for Jag’s tribe tugged viciously at her sanity. The joy of her world was in Amina. For her to go down a path like her father… Stressed, she no longer could stomach the thought. To drown out those worries, Genesis turned up the radio.

“Breaking News: This is a localized alert via CitizeNN. There are dangerous disruptions in your immediate vicinity along the BQE. Depart immediately.”

With no option to turn around, Genesis rerouted to the next exit hoping the commotion was at least a few miles ahead. Mistaking the grumbling road for potholes, the pavement below this quindecuple-stacked expressway deteriorated in real time, waving like lifted bedsheets. Genesis acrylics dug deep into her palms, clenching the wheel hysterically the instant she felt weightless. Her navy sedan floated trunk side up, propelled meters forward to the point where she barely made out some makeshift mech rampaging through the highway. With legs like an emu, it leaped, crashing through the lower levels, hurling cars like hot wheels.

Its Octavian bundaloo extensions drilled through any mass of infrastructure with the audacity to be in its path. This carnage Genesis found herself in the middle of, despite seeming senseless, had some means of madness. At the helm of the mech was a man named Vernon Hayes, a member of a cult led by an environmentalist influencer gone rogue. The group, Neo Environmentalist Working, Destroying, Earth’s Ailing Liabilities (N.E.W. D.E.A.L.) took up the task of limiting carbon emissions by stringing a long series of terrorist attacks on transportation infrastructure contributing to climate change.

What was unclear to the public was how said group obtained the consistent flow of funds and tech to commit such atrocities on society regularly. There were plenty of wealthy groups and politicians secretly lobbying on their behalf. The corruption was that clear but somehow unproven. In a corporatocracy, they were a feared collective among CEOs and executives. With devoted members ready to sacrifice themselves on the regular for a cause, it was often too late when discovering who a member was.

Vernon Hayes, a statistics secretary of the Metro Transit Authority, after copious amounts of research, hand-picked the demolition of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway as a means to put a clot in the flow of traffic into Queens from Brooklyn. This easily inconvenienced millions, giving Vernon an orgasmic shot of dopamine which was particularly heinous when factoring in the complete disregard for innocent lives now in harm’s way. It was rush hour. He couldn’t have picked a worse time for such pandemonium and Genesis, like hundreds of other drivers found themselves descending to their imminent demise.

Nose diving at a corkscrewing angle, all she saw was the rubble-filled junkyard that Brooklyn Bridge Park became below. Hipster joggers and bicyclists fleed frantically, piercing the air with ear-splitting screams. Knowing this was the end, Genesis shut her eyes. The cries for help, the destruction around her, fizzled out, muffled by perhaps the acceptance of death. Consoling memories of Amina, her mother, graduating from NYU with Natasha; she experienced it all simultaneously, finding solace after many years of duress.

It was finally over…

“One’s death ushers the birth of another.”

Right before impact, the gaze of a gorgon penetrated her psyche. A voice, which sounded much like her own, more powerful and with conviction spoke to her soul. The will to see Amina. The will to survive overcame her. Genesis had no time to make sense of the jolt of heroin in her veins but before she could act it was already over.

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City, Chinatown

"AAAH! How dare you collar and chain me like a dog to the scrub-n-tug!" gurgles Mateo from the spa, his voice reverberating through the skyway connecting the highrise to the warehouse. Seussian contraptions flail about on pneumatic hinges from apertures in the bathhouse wall, erupting torrents of sudsy soap froth and scourging him with nzw-Martex antimicrobial microfiber tassels. Eyes stinging, he can't even decipher color or shape, just that, through his clenching eyelids, everything is shining bright red.

Something pinches his neck, inside the collar. Hot, heavy, and soaking wet, he slams his fist down on the floor.

"Fesyen, I'm going to kill y-arrooooo! Arrrrf! Arrrf! A-wooooo!"

He pants, ears flicking back against his skull. Suddenly, he feels his tailbone twist back on itself, unfurling just above his asshole, and his joints reverse.

"What the—grrrr! Arrrrrroooof!"

A spray of fresh cold water slaps against his face, clearing away the soap. His tongue slaps out, licking some beads from his cold wet snout. Then, he sees his reflection. Oh fuck no, that ain't me! I'm not a fucking kinker, Fesyen! Staring back at him are twin chocolate eyes framed in a dense light gray-brown furry fox face, a bright red flecktarn collar around his neck with a blank name tag, and the body of a chilla.


Fesyen refocuses on his second guest of—well, whatever the time be. Han, the Nazi regalia aficionado.

"Wel~l," Fesyen contemplates, reaching both his hands out to close Han's own, hiding in her grip the Iron Cross, "I'll take care of these rare and precious boots. You, meanwhile, may return when you have the bits. As for a fixer, well, I'm not tha~at well connected, bu~ut I hear if you goosestep your way down to New Venice you'll find some luck. Follow the scarlet swatches, once you get down there. When you feel you've found the kingdom of nerds, you're there. Then again, if the suffering of xenos is not to your liking, maybe you'll find something more agreeable at 4 Pennsylvania Plaza."

He turns around and scampers up to his work dais, clutching her boots.

There'll be a buyer for these if she can't get the bits, I'm sure.

Han remained smiling as Fesyen closed her hands, only nodding along before replying. “Thanks! I will be sure to head there once I check out the spa.” What awaited her there, the human made horrors beyond her comprehension, were of course unknown. Fate itself, for some reason, dictated that she had to watch someone disfigured into an anthropomorphic fox. Observe powerlessly as the bones and flesh were molded into an aberration that mocked all of creation, followed by a howl, a scream of defiance against nature, the defiler’s bow, his macabre finished product now on full display for everyone to see.

After the nice little window into the depravity of humanity Han did a 180 turn and spoke again. “Actually, I think I should get going instead.” Her smile unchanging, she speed-walked to her car, waving goodbye to Fesyen and adding a little “Don’t worry sir, I promise you I will get the bits!” Before she fully left both the homeless man’s and the tailor’s field of view.

One rapid entrance followed by a gear shift and enough acceleration to make the wheels slightly slip later she was on her way to the flooded underground. “Just like the old times, right?” She asked to no one in particular, eyeing the middle of the back row as if able to see the gun in the vehicle’s trunk. ’I wonder what he would do in a time like this…’ Han thought as well, a small memory being indexed and then played by her nervous system automatically; the heavy traffic facilitated this, having flashbacks was one hell of a time-consuming activity. Why exactly traffic was this bad she did not know, did some highway blow up or something?

It was a regular Tuesday evening, the sky was cloudy and the night was warm. Light pollution reflected off the clouds enveloping the city in an eternal twilight only eclipsed by the city’s own artificial lights. A dark figure drove calmly towards a destination Han had unindexed and overwritten a long time ago. “Those fucking Xenos.” The man spoke, his voice raspy like Marlboro Red’s smoke. “Brought war here and sold us the guns to kill each other with. If you ever get the chance to, crush their skulls and skin them.” Then a brief pause. “Reverse that order, actually.” After, a prolonged horn followed by screaming at a cyclist who just got out for his morning ride. “Fucking asshole, anyway the only good thing they brought here was some damn fine ass- “His sentence was interrupted by the man taking a sip of his bud light. The conversation was deafened as Han already knew he was going to go into extreme detail of how he fucked an alien while in Africa even though he somehow does not even know if it’s a continent or a country. No, her eyes were focused on the man’s machine gun resting in the backseat. “-Hey, you even listening kid? Ah whatever-” He threw his empty beer can out the window. “Tell you what, if you can field strip this pistol I got from one of the guys I killed today in a cleansing operation you can keep it.” The man then reached over Han’s lap for the glove box, opening it and browsing past a bunch of fines before he finally took out the gun, a black Springfield Hellcat. “Who knows, maybe you’ll shoot someone accidentally with it.”

The pale woman finally reached one of the entrances to New Venice. Luckily for her they were still kept in the vehicle’s navigation system. ’Can’t beat good old GPS.’ She thought as she stopped and left the car in a not so stupid place before she exited it and made her way to the underground. Memories rushed back in as she stepped down the stairs and into the dilapidated flooded part of the New York metro. Han did not even need to follow the swatches, her memory implants already knowing the way to the place Fesyen described earlier, yet her conscious self could not help but wonder where she was going. As she got closer the endless tunnels and corridors started to sport banners, xenophobic messages, and culminated in some sort of makeshift frat house in an area previously unknown to her. ’This must be the place.’ She thought as she made her way through nerd-land and approached the first person she saw, hopefully her appearance would come in handy for gathering information from these social outcasts. With a naïve smile she asked: “Good afternoon, sir! Would you be so kind as to point me to the current job openings? I am a bit strapped at the moment and could use some bits.”

Location: Earth-F67X New New York City, Brooklyn Bridge Park

Screeching sirens neared as paramedics gracefully navigated the mounds of warped steel, cars, and rubble operating coconut crab-like transports. A potent, swaying strobe light surveyed the area for survivors as men with agile robot units leaped out with haste. Compacted like a can, Genesis' car stood out like a sore thumb, sitting vertically at the top of the pile, wedged between several hulking rods of steel. The nose of the car was completely stuffed, crushed to such a degree that it appeared Genesis' limp body was in the back seat.

Her entire lower body was crushed. The accompanying robot to the paramedic scanned the car with due diligence while several debated even attending to her.

/–[PULSE DETECTED]–/

It was a miracle. The unit's arm transmogrified into a form much larger than its initial size, employing a hard light saw to butter through the car's metal exterior. Mouths gaping, the crew of medics stood perplexed and aghast. Immediately after pulling her limp body from her wrecked vehicle, her flesh, stripped to the very bone aggressively multiplied in real-time, reforming around her matte black skeleton. It baffled them. How she was even alive let alone unharmed after this ordeal was a conundrum bordering on conspiracy. The questions only multiplied as she was ushered to the hospital. What kind of governmental tech was this? The investigation was already underway.

The answer lies in the past….

Jag had overt ways to obtain resources. Dealing with the various colored syndicates on Earth-F67X was risky but it had to be pursued to quench his insatiable lust for power. Often, lives could be seen as house money, especially in a case where they could yield miraculous results. The sample Jag received from the Goldman Brothers due to their "partnership" was not to be seen as charity by any means. They had methods and devices to track how their experiment would pan out. That would worry most men but Jag couldn't recall the last time he slept without one eye open. He was a powerful man. Ego gave him immunity to the idea of consequence. His soul darkly settled on if he couldn't have Genesis nor could the world.

Guinea-Pigging your partner was a heinous act Jag would have to atone for one day, however, he lived in the moment. Despite this, the urban chief genuinely foresaw a future with Genesis. Just not the one she envisioned for herself or Amina. In many ways, this was an investment. One to ensure that his family and tribe would become one. To gain this, in that vulnerable time for a lover even, like a hawk, Jag preyed on her will to survive, focusing on turning Genesis into an asset.

Battling leukemia, Genesis was told she was getting a bone marrow transplant. Albeit, by suspect means, she knew very well, but there was no way to know Jag would stoop as low to experiment on her. At that point, their relationship was already on rocky terms.

To keep Genesis, Jag gave her a new lease on life, healing her illness but in return, the river of life flowing throughout her veins was home to millions of Val'gara nanomachines. Subsequently, the hemocytoblasts in her marrow were charged with a permeating influx of Bioforce radiation. As a result, her physical traits began to defy human anatomy over time. First, she'd never bruise or scar. Not too long after that, she noticed how toned her body became. Genesis worked out, but not enough to yield such results. She then cut her regiment for a few months, mindful of her feminine figure, but the improvements in strength and flexibility remained. At times, looking in the mirror, it appeared she had grown a little though she recalled being 5'5 her entire adult life. With every year, her body changed slowly but surely, but it was a candle in the sun to her mental changes.

Genesis couldn't pinpoint it, but at times, she didn't feel like herself. Her emotions ran at severe highs and lows. She often repressed deep anger, blanketed by her sadness. In times of stress, she'd black out, losing her sense of time, having weird visions like dreams where she imagined committing gruesome violence to solve her daily dilemmas. When in spells, she’d forget to pick up Amina from school and gymnastics. Feeling she was losing an understanding of her body, Genesis asked for help from time to time from Natsasha. Primarily, Amina even spent most of her time at Grandmother's home, the one place Jag's personal code of conduct forbade him from entering.

A face, pale as retracting metal, poked through the abyss, alerting Han with echoing heel claps through the tunnel. Much of the approaching man's figure was cloaked, muddied in the darkness, but a light briefly flickered on, accompanied with an electric buzz. A relatively tall, trenchcoat-wrapped figure with a semi translucent face likening off-white fiberglass had been stalking the blonde for who knows how long. Han could look for the person she saw earlier but they were gone, as well as the entire entrance she perceived. Glancing over her shoulder, light flickered once again, revealing the top-hatted figure was closer. It wasn't the same man pursuing her. It was now the person she originally saw from a far to introduce herself to.

"I am the reader."

Words implanted into her skull, but his face never progressed from a mannequin's expression. His body phased away, revealing the cloaked individual's face mirroring early failed attempts of ai art. The Reader's towering isoscele's triangular figure stared into her cerulean eyes with a glare lacking humanity and pupiless. As Han looked through his transparent skin she could see his brain, but subsequently after, something told her internally that she was looking at her own. Perhaps into her own soul. Examining every aspect of her essence, he grew judgemental.

"Impressionable."

A loud rumbling crept towards the two from the parallel tunnel. A relic of half a century ago, an old service car, lingered into the abandoned station lacking a conductor.

"I will take you where you need to go."

The once lauded illusionist, directed the short woman to the train with one of his several outstretched mechanical limbs. The rest folded along his abdominal area. No desire existed within him to deceive her, though perhaps she had no choice to follow him as he clearly had been tampering with her locating services and senses. He was an expert on the matter. Obligated to police and surveillance the tunnels, to keep out unwanted intruders, he'd often doom them to wander the massive depths of the subway, thrown astray by tech and chemical induced misimpressions of reality.

Stepping into the car, the specialized mirage dissolved, revealing an illustrious arts décoratifs inspired interior with a golden ceiling. From various speakers an incanting sermon could be heard, accompanied by profound organs and choirs.

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Lakehurst Airforce Base

Light shines sharp through bamboo slats barricading a window, thin glass admitting a chill breeze. Nothing warming this room. Certainly not its chief occupant. Slouching behind a large metal desk, beige with chips exposing dull aluminum flecks, a government-issue therapist's heavyset mass reclines in an straining swivel chair; an old Pollock executive with abundant wear and tear evident in its leather creases. A civilian contractor, the man strains a tan t-shirt and olive slacks, neither of which are stain free. There might be a belt in there somewhere, but his gut isn't telling. Unconscionably, he sports a beard, a ratty ginger affair.

On entering this sanctuary of despair, Dom stands at attention, shaved, short, and sturdy, the operational camouflage of his ACUs ineffectual against the white backdrop of the office walls. Sleeves tight, rolled up, and buttoned, his left shoulder bears the single silver bar of his rank; on his right, the colorful stitching of the Grim Zims, insignia of his remote vehicle operation squad. Taking in the mess of his therapist, Dom masks his contempt with, he hopes, disinterest.

Civs psychoanalyzing fighting personnel and dictating their fitness. Bullshit. Fit for that task as any fool confident in their placement on the Dunning-Kruger spectrum.

Dom's oppugnant opens his lax sore-rife mouth and opines,

"Second Lieutenant Dominic Ruiz-Malavé, is it? Born Dominique. Now you go by Dom. You think you're a man, huh? Taking testosterone, pissing through a funnel, begging someone to staple a cock to your clit. Why should the airforce finance your body-modification? Not merely cosmetic, but fully-functional."

"Sir," Dom coolly readies his prepared speech, tensing his muscles and wordlessly highlighting his more masculine physique, "me and my fellow soldiers are willing to give everything for Earth. Our lives. Many of us have, including my father. He died honorably as a result of his service during the First Contact War. All we ask for in return is for Earth to stand behind us. If it can, make us whole."

"Whole, huh?" the therapist muses, "Sounds like a load of horse semen. This is no recital, you know."

Dom's jaw tightens. He'd clench his fists were they not flat against his thighs. At the moment, he doesn't have the luxury of vomiting out whatever angry nonsense parades through his skull. He needs this charlatan's signature on the approval form for the bottom surgery he's been waiting a year for.

"Sit down," his therapist gestures toward a far less executive vinyl and aluminum stacker, yellow foam escaping through fissures in its cushion.

"For me, Sir, this is no casual affair," Dom answers, and continues to stand. "I know who I am. I know what I am. I've known ever since I was old enough to know there were differences. I know without this, I won't achieve my potential."

The shrink snorts, drums his fingers against the disarray atop his desk, retorting, "Are you not achieving your potential now, as a military officer?"

Dom pauses, collects his thoughts, and answers: "Sir, I mean my potential in life. I am male not because of what I imagine being a man is. I am male because I must be for my life to have meaning. One day, I will meet a girl and fall in love. I'll work up the courage to ask her out. She might say yes, but even if she doesn't, I'll keep asking until she does. I'll insist on paying for everything, even though it is sexist and old fashioned. One day we'll kiss, make out, find somewhere private, and make love. I'll feel myself inside her. Really feel it. Really know I'm getting her off. Eventually, we'll get married and have a kid. I'll be a father. I really want to be a father, Sir. Of my own child. Only then, with a woman and kid my blood boils with the desire to protect, will I achieve my full potential in the defense of Earth against xeno scum."

Opposite, the man pretends to look at a file, and says, "Quite the speech. Seems to me you already have enough reasons to hate this so-called xeno scum. Not the least of which is your father's eventually fatal condition, no treatment at the time, shame. Besides, that was decades ago, and Allure, well, that was just a big acci—"

"With all due respect, Sir," Dom interrupts, "your assessment is … wrong. Making excuses for the xenos? Trivializing millions of dead men and women, deaths for which xenos are to blame? The more reasons I can give myself for hunting them down and exterminating them, the better."


—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Central Park

Hours later, I'm not sure what I'm planning, thinking. I'm on auto-pilot. Just casually waiting for him to leave the office. Gray sweats, now, great for a winter jog. Casual, anonymous. Uniform hanging back in my locker.

I follow the bastard to Central Park. Maybe I was planning on killing him. Scaring him, at least, that fat fucking fraud. I wasn't expecting a distraction, but that's where it happens. I see her, the damp dank depressing atmosphere striating the scene in my mind's eye like an antebellum photograph. She sits in lonely anguish on a bench, eyes downcast, dove gray cheek against jet black glove, mysterious yet sensuous under a charcoal corduroy duster. Beautiful, sublime; like a grieving angel atop a grave. My heart skips a beat, and not just because of what I am about to do. I focus on what I am there for and play it forward in my imagination.

He is cutting through the park, taking a shortcut, probably eager to get home to his penthouse in the canopy where a tepid bath, shot of butterscotch whiskey, and blowjob from his mistress await. She's paid, she has to be. That ugly slob. I'll get to him first, just as the path cuts through a dim copse of gloomy swamp oaks and withered magnolias. Zap him right in the back of the neck with the prongs of my Belkrait. No. That might get me caught. There is a record for everything. I'll pick up a rock instead, there are so many of them nearby. Scenic litter. Pretty. Zen. It'll make for a fine memento once steeped in his blood. Then I'll drag him to the subway tunnel that leads to New Venice, except we won't be going to New Venice. We'll be going to a utility closet full of useful tools like push brooms, crowbars, x-acto knives, and prybar scrapers.

When he comes to, he won't have his tongue, or fingers, or vocal cords. I haven't done this before, so it will be messy. A hatchet job. Still, I know enough field medicine to ensure he survives long enough to see me and know. Know. Know what?

I glance back at the girl.

Is he worth it? Worth possibly losing my life over? Worth definitely losing my soul over? No, he isn't. My pride isn't.

She's my savior.

I abdicate my prey to his karma. I man up. Damn, this is harder than killing a man. Deep breath. Finally, I walk over to the bench and sit down on the other side; next to her, but not so close as to be creepy. I feel creepy anyway, like some stalker or pervert. There are other benches, empty ones; I could easily sit on one of them. It is so awkward. So damn awkward.

I need to say something to break the ice.

Nothing good comes to mind. I don't know what to say. I panic, clench my fists in my pockets, and feel a handkerchief. Heh, fancy. It is really just a paper tissue, fortunately not yet soiled. I don't need to say anything. I offer it to her without a word.

"Thank you."

Her voice isn't shrill, or sharp, or pitched. It is like cool velvet, like jazz, like falling asleep happy and sad at the same time. Melancholic. Yes, that's the word. Somehow it calms me and I find my own voice. False start, I remember it isn't deep on its own yet. The hormones are still doing their work. Gruff, baritone, intentional, I mumble, "You're welcome, ma'am."

It feels good. Warm, almost. My cheeks are suddenly livid, not from anger, and my stomach growls, not from hunger. Not wanting it to end, I push myself to continue the conversation. A side-long glance. She seems so cold, her flesh almost in a pallor.

"It is chilly out here, isn't it? There is a café in the Boathouse if you'd like some tea or coffee."

Somehow she accepts.


—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: New Venice

Our date is over, I'm already calling that. I'm elated. Terrified. Her name is Vesca and she lives in Kips Bay. She's into military guys, I think. She doesn't know I'm not all the way there, yet. I dread I won't be ready in time. Killing that guy would've just delayed it, anyway. Even so, her and I have parted ways for the moment. I'm on my way to an important meeting at a quick pace, but not so quick as to be conspicuous. My shadow splits five ways as I navigate the tunnels of New Venice, for one long stretch traveling via gondola. Eventually I stand in front of oil-slick bronze double doors, a veritable gate of yore, opulent in contrast to the dilapidation of the rest of this subterranean sprawl.

I push inward, and pass under a red banner hanging on the door of the gate. It depicts knights from the good old days where the only thing a man needed to prove himself was the courage to bash in the skull of anyone who dared to challenge him. It is my first time here, but I've heard good things. I'm excited. For two reasons, now. A nice swing away from the piss-poor start of the day.

Inside the local headquarters for the Honorable Knights of Terra, it smells of cigar smoke and thick coffee. Already, some blonde bimbo is asking for work. What kind of establishment does she think this is? We're here to assassinate the worst in this world. We're here to plan, coordinate, and execute the extermination of xenos.

The sudden changes in her environment made Han become very alert, her smile dropping as she rapidly turned around to face each of the perceived threats thrown at her, with her navigation off she felt compelled to just shoot the thing but was never quite able to get enough time to measure a clean shot against the illusion. Even though her eyes moved about, and her hand remained hovering over her pistol as she twisted her body no fear came out of her, lacking an amygdala from extensive neural degradation suffered as a result from the constant experimentation done on her.

This all changed once the Reader introduced himself. Her face went from cold and focused to her usual bimbo face. “Oh hi! I am Han, pleased to meet you.” She smiled, extending a hand, and offering a handshake. The strange sensation that the brain behind the man’s eyes was her own quickly vanished as she realized she had no brain, though did make her comment on it as she did not think before speaking. “Nice brain by the way, it looks like mine.” Though she was interrupted by the incoming service car before she could continue her stupidity any further. It was strange, not like how she remembered getting in here though she was also gone for a very long time, long enough for anyone to doubt her intentions and her mysterious arrival. Distracted, she stopped what she was doing and went to inspect the service car.

Before the man was done speaking she was already entering the car, fully trusting the complete stranger to have good intentions as he introduced himself. Surely, she thought, no bad person would do that.

Eventually she moved on from the exterior of the cart and walked inside, listening to the strange choirs and being once again filled by a sense of familiarity, though not brought about by an illusion this time. The sounds were very pleasant, something she missed though she did not know exactly why.

Once she arrived she exited the vehicle without looking at her surroundings, waving goodbye at the Reader with another cheerful smile. “Thank you, Reader!” Before she turned to the Nerd Central that was the Holy Knights of Terra headquarters. For some reason she found it hard to remember exactly what it is that she did, all of her memories somewhat foggy and not very reliable in spite of her mechanical nature, why this was she did not know. As well, she felt that same sinking feeling she got when she first entered, remembering that vividly. “Is it normal to feel weird here?” She asked the same shadowy figure of her previous flashback. She still could not discern what he looked like. “They’re a bunch of nerds, pretty sure it would be weird if you didn’t feel weird being looked at by this many grease-faced weirdos.” Her question remained unanswered, but the reassurance of the man kept her from turning back. ‘What a strange instinct.’ She thought, shrugging off the feeling after remembering that interaction and moving on.

Her first questioning was unsuccessful, with some dismissing her and others stuttering so much she found it impossible to communicate. Eventually, she fixed her sights on Dom. That feeling came back, something drawing her to the man. “Hi, how are you?” She asked Dom nicely, having skipped over. “You give me good vibes. Can I work for you? I need to eat so I don’t die.” Very straightforward, she thought it would work like how machines understand simpler things in a much easier manner. “I can’t recall what I did here, I think I shot things but that’s all I remember. Oh and you look like someone I used to know, he brought me here so I thought maybe you would also know since you look similar. You do shoot things right?” In spite of what she said, her smile and tone remained the same as if this was a genuine conversation and she was not fucking with Dom.

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: New Venice

Within, the Honorable Knights of Terra's regional headquarters is abustle. Strangers mill and cluster, their voices coalescing to a din demonstrative of the unsuitability of the hall for casual conversation. Linoleum snap-groove textile that looks kind of like maple is glued over disintegrating subway tile, pipes, and wires. A sconce flickers, a testament to a shoddy wiring job. There's a word for the style, but Dom can't remember it. Lots of cheap wood accents and wallpaper featuring stags and water fowl. Dark. Gloomy. A poor man's idea of a rich man's study. Attire is generally motley, although Dom's own gray sweat suit sulks at the bottom of the spectrum of decorum. For the time being, he won't come here in uniform. Not until he knows it is safe, anyway. Maybe after he earns his gold oak leaf.

Speaking of uniforms, he scans the room for his bird dog.

There, in a long open pale suede duster with minimal accents. The silver coyote seems cool, even though the room feels, to Dom, uncomfortably warm. Probably on purpose. There's likely technology hidden underneath the silver paisley ascot, plain white dress shirt, and sepia blazer that keeps him comfortable in spite of his environs. Personalized climate control, a way of life for anyone over 40 who can afford it.

Dom considers making his way over, but decides not to embarrass his superior with unsolicited fraternization. He just waits for eye contact, his dark chocolate eyes briefly catching artificial blues. A brief nod. Acknowledgment. Then, out of nowhere, he's accosted by a blunt blonde. Dom tried to place her accent, manner, ethnicity, but to no avail. She's almost alien or—no: almost robotic in her precise, concise approach, so much so that it initially strikes him as a contrivance.

"You give me good vibes. Can I work for you? I need to eat so I don’t die," she blurts out.

Speechless, he glances down at himself, his short solid frame presumably inconspicuous in rain-flecked gray sweats. Except for the prominent bulge in his crotch where his Belkrait is stashed. The blonde likewise appears to be packing. Her attire isn't much better than his, a band metal t-shirt and simple black jeans. Her boots are peculiar, though. There's something oddly familiar about them, like something from a black-and-white movie he watched in junior high.

"I'm looking for work, too—well, not so much work, but guidance. If you need to eat, there's food here," and points at a spread of mini hotdogs, fried chicken, and baked beans. Not a vegetable in sight. Not even cheese. Anything resembling a charcuterie might be construed as effete.

He walks with her over to the table, and introduces himself, "I'm Dom. What type of work are you looking for? Although, I guess if you're here, heh. We'll both know more after things settle down and we listen to what the realm Dragon has to say."

With an entrance hidden behind a holographic projection leased out by illusionist The Reader, this club was hidden in plain sight, located just below a Long Island City underground parking garage operating currently as a relatively managing encampment. Much of this community made means by scrapping cast-off cybernetics from the canopy and other well-off areas, turning them into the next man's treasure. A few were even vendors at flea markets throughout the city, developing such a niche following that outsiders came to the lot to cut deals before their parts hit the market. It wasn't much but it allowed them to build out their tenements, which were constructed vertically out of the foundation of abandoned vehicle stackers.

Despite how seemingly successful this tight-knit community was, a very obvious observation, which was never spoken about, could be made. No matter what they collectively scavenged, there was no way this group of people could collectively pay the city and its immoral prices for the space they call home. There was a very simple answer as to why they were left alone for so long to build, though you couldn't beat it out of any of them.

Walking into the garage, a man in a navy suit and tie followed by two nearly seven-foot guards, stepped in like they were regulars. It's clear this man came from wealth and as soon as someone tried to get a look at his face, it transmogrified as unreadable to their eyes like a gaussian blur. It was almost as if everyone's neural optics collectively malfunctioned. Walking with a McMahon-esque stride, the man and his eccentric bop progressed toward the largest vendor's sector. On sight, everyone else currently in the store made a swift exit through the entrance's shell-beaded curtain. The two accompanying stoic-faced guards barely fit through the door.

The elderly man behind the counter, Jotorie lifted his metal-plated eye patch, shooting an amber ray that scanned the man briefly up and down. He lifted his fingerless, hobo gloves to reveal a cybernetic eye in the palm of his hand which he related info.

"Go on."

The elderly man put his cowboy boots on the counter, lighting a mild as the quirky suited man and his security walked, phasing right through the wall behind him. It led them into a stairwell, lit up with parading lights as pulsing music could be heard from afar. Below this garage was a basement even wider than the actual structure. Even the sound was completely suppressed from the outside by means not fully understood by the businessman. Only after being lifted from an ascending platform did Odis see the entire venue.

The arena was dimly lit currently aside from the ring bathed in a vermillion light. Low spotlights circled the crowd as hovering drones patrolled the airspace in search of suspicious activity. Kind of moot considering everyone here was suspect or corrupt in some sort of way.

Holographic, crystal-clear displays lined the walls, catching reactions to every crushing blow between the fighters as the sound of metal clanging pierced the onslaught of cheers and taunts. The current undercard fight was brutal, causing Odis to wince as both fighters used league-regulated advanced melee weapons and gadgets to bludgeon each other. The center ring was elevated on a steel platform with elements like cars for cover and sand pits spread throughout. Below the platform was a thin pool of what you could only assume was some scarlet acid to deter running away once they committed to the bout.

While spectating for this brief time, Odis couldn't help but feel like he was constantly being watched. He felt relief, however, knowing he was heading off to the suite which was very much less prone to the chaos customary of the bleachers or front row. Steeping in, he was alerted to the dangerously low and deep growls of a panther. Before he could spot them the dangerous heavyset gangster Jag greeted him.

"Odis Lyndon Gallagher. You made it, or should I say…Ferris."

Instantly, like a switch, the once nervous expression the goofy man held the entirety of his duration in the venue turned smug. With his body language alone, he confidently, implied "You know very well." Quickly unfastening his top button and pulling away at his tie until it crookedly hung, Fearis let out a sigh of relief.

"Do you know how terrible it is to let that idiot be in control sometimes?"

Shaking his head, it became unkempt enough to rid his corporate sleekness. The two guards behind him melted into a matte silver liquid, jumping off the ground and into the orifices of his navy suit, disappearing. As unsettling as it was, it didn't cause Jag to skip even a beat of his pulse.

"Take a seat."

Before Ferris Caldwell could, he noticed the once growling feline rubbing playfully against his left leg. Taking a seat across from Jag, he skipped the small talk and got right down to the reason why he was there.

"At first I was surprised when the Goldman Brothers made me aware of their little experiment out here. I even doubted anything interesting would come from it but I don't mind being proven wrong as long as the results, like in this case, are interesting."

Raising a brow, Jag hung on to any rebuttal. He was interested in what info the man was about to relay.

"Your Queen is street ready to rule."

—— Ximbic-8: Ximbic Central City: The Bulge

Light-enlivened shadows trilled to Belacrazu's every utterance, a moribund paternoster that lilted, grated, and ensnared. Saccharine sounds commingled with minute motions, ephemeral as the flensing of dawn by the diurnal pendulum's dusk-sharpened edge, and stirred motes surreptitiously amalgamated in dappled silver bands buoyed by the alien's posterior plonk. Amid the effluvium, crimson and gold ribbons circumnavigated a lazy descent. Gracious e'er, he, Spencer's host, wended limb in a decanter-directed gesture, and offered:

"Pot-valor, client courageous?
Whilst wrinkled organ moil,
And glutamate-greased sere-wan ducts
Perfect palaver peculiar?"

Answer anticipated, an ice-laden quintic mandelbulb of heavily-faceted phenakite careened into Spencer's sternum. From the midst protruded an ornately fluted onyx flagon, as otherworldly as an obelisk atop a shattered glacier. Still, within smoldered a promise of hidden hooch. An alien wink and a nod were ample evidence thereof; thus, vessel delicately lifted to his lips, Spencer drank the formidable unknown. Orgasm exploded on and clung to his tongue, all salty, sweet, viscous, and neat. Petrichor inundated his nostrils. Rigor bewitched his loins. Wooziness beset his skull. Suddenly he was quite conscious of the elliptical geometry of the shop, itself rife with implausibly-sculpted trinkets. The influx of awareness nearly caused his collapse, but, shifted to a mucosal hassock, howwhich he knew not, Spencer remained upright, recalibrated, and suspiciously enjoined, "Uh, so what'cha sell?"

Chest puffed, braided beard asway, and horns provocatively coiled, Belacrazu regally crooned,

"Mercurial,
Experiential,
Skin slipping,
Mind twisting,
Exploits extraordinaire!"

Strung archwild round the apothecary, gaze synchronized with Belacrazu's arm sweep, Spencer beheld on shelves overburdened and vibrantly-stained a variegated arrangement of flasks, bottles, and condoms. Some appeared ceremonial, like a suspiciously phallic calabash; others outright alien, as was the prismatic arrangement labeled Flakon of Ekthidian Ganask; and a great many more were beyond his ken, although he imagined at least one vessel served as lacrymatory to an extant species of sentient cosmic persimmons. Nothing immediately suggested the implied virtual reality. It took a moment, then he connected two and two. Eyebrow's furrowed and mouth ajar as he digested the splendid scene, Spencer reduced his host's preposterous boast to noisy doubt, "You sell drinkable memories?"

Irises florid as nacreous offal mesmerized Spencer's benighted pair. Unable to elsewhere gape, he felt his inner daemon lance his attenuating insult, the warranted gesture of which planted itself deep in his bowels; lest, of course, such sensation was merely an alchemical reaction from his alien imbibement. Flushed, shame somehow tore his gaze astray. Inability to pay for such an intrepid exchange ruminated briefly in his brain, then Belacrazu whimsically whispered:

"Two of thine,
Wed with wine,
Best of the lot,
For one of mine,
A decadent plot.
Merely think,
Then piss in the pot."

Gist gotten, Spencer quaffed what remained in the gelid vessel then, vis-à-vis with pupils pertinacious, renewed within himself congealed tokens two: the former, a tournament where with heroism he maybe died; the latter, an orphaned childhood in which, amid war and poverty, he thought he thrived. Gone, for chimeric vivaciousness, was the apothecary, but behind each scene camped Belacrazu's cipher. Thus encouraged, illumined neurons bled acetylcholine into ganglionic canals, mementos petrified in ptyalin-partitioned dextrose patterns, secreted from parotid to urethra, and deposited from an instrument unclothed and clasped warm and rigid in his calloused grasp. Wait, no. That wasn't his hand. It felt like toffee draped in fur. He glanced down. Vibrant, twin jets diverged, by fate or crusted glans, from a worm coiled about a black woolen mitten where once was his member. He blinked in horrified curiosity, then pondered the way his liquefied sunshine glistened through a pallor of steam and settled into neon porosity. Soon the dual tides of piss were riven back into their respective streams and absorbed within antipathetically-arranged phials.

"Chaos! Suspense!
Delusive juvenescence!
Personal fable gilt in altruism's belied guise!
Exchange equivalent, to words thine own,
Take this, go forth and 'give a shit.'"

Dysmorphic conundrum paramount in his mind and words reduced to slurs, Spencer inexpertly articulated, "Em I--errr melthing?" Either the chamber blurred or his vision filled with smoke, at which point he promptly lost consciousness.