》 20 AUGUST 2050 《
The Tipsy Temptress was always bright and busy in the evenings, and this Saturday night was no exception. Daevas bickered over a pool table while doting couples sipped drinks coquettishly at each other. The bartender, a Mal’Akh who had been working at the location for longer than he’d care to admit, poured orders with a swift hand, juggling several conversations across the bright varnish of the bar top tables. The elegant chandelier lights reflected off the clean wooden floors and walls, kept magically pristine with a touch of imbued green tea scent. The owner thought it would be refreshing for the customers, and cozy when paired with the plush lounge chairs and sofas ringing a stage near the back where anyone brave or drunk enough could request a karaoke number. Catchy tunes rotated on the tracklist by default when the stage wasn’t in use and people swayed to the beat on the nearby dance floor. Servers took orders for tables that often needed to be booked ahead of time and the clattering of alcohol glasses and kitchen hands working in the background made for a minor, pleasant backdrop to the music and buzz of conversation.
A magitech frame walked through the wide, double doors of the establishment sometime around midnight, just when things were becoming the liveliest. The svelte and clearly mechanical soldier drew some eyes, but it was the custom of the Tipsy Temptress to not ask unnecessary questions. Quasi-humanoid in shape and with a unique silhouette as a result of the various magitech parts equipped on his body and hovering around him in a steady rhythm, the frame was clearly higher on the AI hierarchy than the usual semi-intelligent models favored by lower rung franchises.
“Room in the back?” the bartender offered helpfully.
“No, thanks,” the mechanized voice responded, though the inflections in tone sounded too real to be a machine. The long, mechanical tail flicked to point towards the far side of the bar. “I’ll just have a glamour,” he nodded towards the shelf specialized in magically enhanced drinks. It was a one-of-a-kind service of the Tipsy Temptress that certain magical tonics could provide their effects without needing to be imbibed. Often imitated, but never properly replicated.
“Sure thing. Any preference?”
“Surprise me.”
Within seconds a crystalline orb floated towards him, glimmering white and blue with its package of magical energy. He crushed it with a hand and the pseudo-glass dissipated into pinpricks of light. The energy inside surged into his circuits, pulsing briefly when the pin lights of his eyes blinked rapidly in acclimatization. When the hum of its effects settled across his system, the frame seemed to finally relax, settling its weight fully onto the bar stool.
“Been in it long?” the bartender asked after a moment away to pour another drink.
“A few months. Still not used to the way it moves,” the machine replied, flexing the lithe, dangerous digits of his hands as if to test the flexibility once more.
“As long as you’re feeling all right.”
“Can’t feel bad about it anyway. It’s not like I can go back to my original body.”
The mood sobered for a moment, but the bartender was quick to smile the atmosphere away. His long, white hair moved aside by itself as he turned to take another order, the modern conveniences of precision magic having made life vastly more bearable for the majority of the population. The frame watched him move deftly about the counter, hands graceful despite their speed. The Mal’Akh’s iridescent white wings were as large as his torso, with longer, hanging feathers trailing down from the undersides, each distinctive feather patterned in colorful curvilinear lines.
It was likely the effect of the glamour that he felt the feathers seemed a bit mesmerizing the way they flicked and shifted like strands of silk.
The magitech frame remained where he was until closing, then left as quietly as he had come. When he was still a Daeva, the bar and restaurant had been his favorite haunt. It was only some months after the magical transplant operation into a magitech frame that he had realized how much he had missed being able to feel the sting of strong alcohol sliding down his throat, and the savory aftertaste of the highest quality drinks.
The frame had different ways of perceiving the world. For living beings, life was a cacophony of sensory data, of unceasing and chaotic processes that drove their flesh. For his new body, there was nothing left but the neatly arranged information generated in his UI and the quiet hum of efficiency; science had trimmed away his faults and weaknesses, while magic had created miraculous processes to replace evolution’s probability. Down to his very last cells, his purpose was made clear.
But perhaps, at a price too great. Perhaps he had taken his original body for granted. Thankfully, even regret came out muted now, and he found it almost bearable.
His UI beeped once again, informing him of the chilly night air (15 degrees Celsius) and rising dampness (25%). A gentle breeze hit him (3.5 m/s), carrying the stench of industrial taint and rotting garbage down the alley. He flicked the information away absentmindedly, frustration already a distant memory, and hurried out to the main street. The corner of 1st and Waverley might be relatively safe in the morning, but at this hour, even the police patrols gave it a wide berth. They were never far, though, as indicated by the occasional sirens in the distance.
It was a bit too late for buses, and he did not fancy calling on the remote vehicle for a drive, so he walked. It was almost an hour’s walk from his downtown apartment, but exhaustion was also a thing of the past for him, along with impatience and irritation.
He passed a small groups of thugs, a little bit later. Not an uncommon sight in the grimy heart of New York these days, when civilisation’s complacency was beginning to crack and mend in strange ways and people went seeking other forms of order. They eyed him, just as his UI had already pulled their rap sheets from the NYPD database. Grunts, the lot.
“What’cha lookin’ at, tin man?” One of them shouted, voice carrying easily through the empty street.
He stopped, wordlessly, just because he could. Trained as he was, these situations used to get his blood pumping before, his body gearing up for a fight. But now, only statistics remained: calculations and angles and measurements dancing before his eyes. Instead of a thumping heart, his chest felt empty: the silence of a loaded gun.
Even pity had turned into a mere concept; something cerebral and cognitive and intangible.
“Hey, don’t.” The thug in the back spat out his joint on taking a second look, suddenly fidgety and pale. His UI calculated a high probability of fear. “He’s one of them magitech ‘borgs. Fancy model, too. Ain’t gonna mess with that.”
It didn’t take long for them to slink away into the narrow alley, shooting glances backwards all the while, and so he moved on. It seemed that the intel on his government combat frame was a poorly kept secret. Perhaps on purpose, too, but he did not dwell on it. He would leave the scheming to the schemers.
The rest of his walk remained uneventful and soon he found the skyscraper that housed his current apartment. A stark contrast to the poorer neighborhood, this suburb was fancy and clean. Hardly surprising, New York had always been a city of contrast, and Calamities would not change that. He stared up at the stoic building with its bright light and glass skin, the shimmer of magic coating its surface with security and vanity. He felt nothing.
Was the class consciousness in him ideology or feelings? Concepts learned or reactions to the struggles of a life lived? Or one and the same, and thus cannot exist without the other?
He almost felt like laughing, but the actual feeling eluded him. The entrance, however, did not, so he just went inside.
His room was on floor 21, three doors down to the right.
The interior was sinfully spacious and opulent, quite different from any military bases that he had been stationed at before. One thing that had never changed, though, was the combat equipment and weapons scattered throughout the space. The tools of the trade never changed, even if magic and ingenuity made them look or feel different.
At the other side of the room, near the balcony, was a massive machine. It took up far more space than even the Californian king bed, but then he supposed he would use it far more than a bed anyway. As he approached, the lights on the machine flickered, and it opened up with a robotic greeting:
“Welcome back, Sentinel. Please enter your command.”
“Calibration, please,” he responded, the polite addendum a habit he hadn’t yet broken. Immediately, all the lights lit up and a soft whirling filled the room.
“Preparing. Please stand by.” One of the hatch flipped over to reveal a small screen, which displayed a progress bar. “Preparing the calibration process.”
That should take a couple of minutes.
He wandered over to his work desk, carelessly tossing off his jacket. Even then, his body calculated the gesture, and the jacket landed neatly onto the nearby coat rack.
There was a stack of files on his desk, conveniently in physical form even when his permissions allowed free access to the digital copies. They were his targets for this mission, Starweavers marked for recruitment. The reason why they picked him for this, though? He couldn’t even guess, sensing more machinations running underneath that he was not privy to. At best, it was just an easy job to help him reintegrate into the government workforce, especially after several months of tests and rehabilitation in his new body. Regardless, he picked up the files and started going through them.
The message to send was simple enough:
“The CIA is recruiting for a specialized task force. The subject of investigation is the Antarctic anomaly. Public recruitment campaigns have been issued, but individualized invitations offer higher benefits packages and larger compensations for services with terms to be discussed on acceptance of the offer. Non-pecuniary compensation will only be offered through these individual invitations and will be assessed in accordance with federal and state laws, including but not restricted to, the Central Intelligence Agency Act of 1949.
To accept, sign on the dotted line with your registered magitech signature. The agent assigned will inform you of further steps should you accept. This message is confidential and will self-delete within 48 hours. Any attempt to publicize these offers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
It was reaching the CIA’s targets that was the real problem.
Daniel Telem, a Starweaver with power to induce a deadly and viral condition. Previously involved with law enforcement, a modern-day pandemic at the tip of his fingers. The dossier had the boy’s address on file so it was a mere three thoughts away before a magitech missive was already digitally packaged, magically materialized, and instantaneously delivered to the boy’s mailbox by way of teleportation spell. It was a premium service that would have cost a pretty penny for most, but came free with his frame’s various financial perks.
Noelle Hodge, a Faye-blooded magician and sometimes, private military contractor. Power: time manipulation, utility: high, recruitment priority: essential. There were also pages detailing the many projects that she was involved in. Most of them? Highly confidential. Legality? Not so much. Eckehard Köhler, dwarf, engineer, witness of two World Wars. Previous involvement with Soviet military projects. Employed by NASA and worked extensively with space technology. Current status: retired. These two were far easier to contact, but far harder to distinguish himself from the veritable avalanche of requests and jobs they were offered on a daily basis. He pulled a few strings digitally, sending his e-mail to the top of their inboxes and magically materializing it in front of their computer screens, to be found the next day. It was a backdoor permission only the highest of government authorities had and rarely used outside of national emergencies. Given what they were being recruited for, Sentinel’s system found this an acceptable use of the privilege. His UI had already filed the paperwork for the usage clearance and his status allowed automatic approval unless overturned by a higher authority on review. The system calculated a 0.001% chance of a cancellation.
Ragneka Qroarae, Fletcher Patel’s pet project. The file included extensive details of the project, along with related interviews and footages. Another testament to mankind’s hubris? Or progress, this time? Was already under observation by a different team, and he found that to be the least amount of work, with his higher authority allowing him to issue orders unimpeded to her assigned team. He passed the message and moved on.
Savyna Liu, a runaway test subject that had only been recently located following the discovery of the illegal Hong Kong laboratory’s remnants. A rare, if only partial, success in magical genetic engineering, she was of particular interest for the upper brass and several prominent governemnt researchers had already made clear to the government their interest in her abilities and had their eyes on her performance. It was the instability of her powers that worried most of them, and the cunning of a politician that offered the Antarctic investigation as a trial run. If she died, she wouldn’t be a problem anymore and they would have a corpse to study. If she lived, all the better. A similar message was sent her way, and Sentinel also notified the interested parties that the offer had been placed.
Luka Krasnoff, Daeva, Starweaver and on government welfare. Recently returned from Siberia, though was never officially part of the forces stationed at Fort Yakutsk. Father Michail Krasnoff, KIA. There was a landline number and address to a PO box, but both had been crossed out. A sticky note on the physical files read: ‘find in person’. P.O. box was flagged as having been accessed only once by him in the last year—when it was created.
Jagannath Yaunten; human? Unlikely. Remote biometric readings at a maximum of 70% accuracy, minimum at 20%—data matches 63% with archived information of draconic powers. Further investigation required. Extensive criminal records in India and South East Asia. Most recently, involvement with the Mun Ji Dong. Suspect of multiple homicides, amongst many, many other crimes. Footnote: approach with caution. Jagganath’s location was also variable and the person himself seemed unlikely to respond to a missive, no matter how important it looked. Another one onto the list of manual acquisition.
Juān Bái, immigrant from Hong Kong. Also a typical rap sheet of criminal activities. Suspected involvement with various Hong Kong gangs. Aside from that, the dossier seemed sparse. Had been laying low ever since the intelligence agency had tracked her escape from the chaos she had stirred up in Hong Kong. With current reports of a person matching her description within the lower end of New York, it seemed he would need to tack on a bit of reconaissance to the workload. The system had calculated, based on reported sightings, a small area of activity in which the Fae seemed to operate, so he hoped the matter could be settled in a day.
Morgan Berion, outcast son of the Berion family with tenuous connections to the Vulcan Company. More importantly, a teleporter without messy ties. The file went into detail on Morgan’s activities since abandoning his duties with Vulcan, but most of it was observational busywork. There was nothing of note, and thus nothing to complicate the process of sending another glaringly obvious message.
“Calibration and diagnostic check ready,” the machine behind him gently informed.
He hadn’t even remembered to sit down, even if that motion was now a useless relic of a past life.
Obediently, Sentinel stepped between the various floating plates of the loadout station, positioning himself on the slightly raised dais in the center of the machine. As the rectangular plates rotated around him in various speeds, he deactivated the motor functions of his body and settled his mental processes into a dazed, almost oneiric state. It was the closest he ever got to the memory of sleep these days.
A magitech frame walked through the wide, double doors of the establishment sometime around midnight, just when things were becoming the liveliest. The svelte and clearly mechanical soldier drew some eyes, but it was the custom of the Tipsy Temptress to not ask unnecessary questions. Quasi-humanoid in shape and with a unique silhouette as a result of the various magitech parts equipped on his body and hovering around him in a steady rhythm, the frame was clearly higher on the AI hierarchy than the usual semi-intelligent models favored by lower rung franchises.
“Room in the back?” the bartender offered helpfully.
“No, thanks,” the mechanized voice responded, though the inflections in tone sounded too real to be a machine. The long, mechanical tail flicked to point towards the far side of the bar. “I’ll just have a glamour,” he nodded towards the shelf specialized in magically enhanced drinks. It was a one-of-a-kind service of the Tipsy Temptress that certain magical tonics could provide their effects without needing to be imbibed. Often imitated, but never properly replicated.
“Sure thing. Any preference?”
“Surprise me.”
Within seconds a crystalline orb floated towards him, glimmering white and blue with its package of magical energy. He crushed it with a hand and the pseudo-glass dissipated into pinpricks of light. The energy inside surged into his circuits, pulsing briefly when the pin lights of his eyes blinked rapidly in acclimatization. When the hum of its effects settled across his system, the frame seemed to finally relax, settling its weight fully onto the bar stool.
“Been in it long?” the bartender asked after a moment away to pour another drink.
“A few months. Still not used to the way it moves,” the machine replied, flexing the lithe, dangerous digits of his hands as if to test the flexibility once more.
“As long as you’re feeling all right.”
“Can’t feel bad about it anyway. It’s not like I can go back to my original body.”
The mood sobered for a moment, but the bartender was quick to smile the atmosphere away. His long, white hair moved aside by itself as he turned to take another order, the modern conveniences of precision magic having made life vastly more bearable for the majority of the population. The frame watched him move deftly about the counter, hands graceful despite their speed. The Mal’Akh’s iridescent white wings were as large as his torso, with longer, hanging feathers trailing down from the undersides, each distinctive feather patterned in colorful curvilinear lines.
It was likely the effect of the glamour that he felt the feathers seemed a bit mesmerizing the way they flicked and shifted like strands of silk.
The magitech frame remained where he was until closing, then left as quietly as he had come. When he was still a Daeva, the bar and restaurant had been his favorite haunt. It was only some months after the magical transplant operation into a magitech frame that he had realized how much he had missed being able to feel the sting of strong alcohol sliding down his throat, and the savory aftertaste of the highest quality drinks.
The frame had different ways of perceiving the world. For living beings, life was a cacophony of sensory data, of unceasing and chaotic processes that drove their flesh. For his new body, there was nothing left but the neatly arranged information generated in his UI and the quiet hum of efficiency; science had trimmed away his faults and weaknesses, while magic had created miraculous processes to replace evolution’s probability. Down to his very last cells, his purpose was made clear.
But perhaps, at a price too great. Perhaps he had taken his original body for granted. Thankfully, even regret came out muted now, and he found it almost bearable.
His UI beeped once again, informing him of the chilly night air (15 degrees Celsius) and rising dampness (25%). A gentle breeze hit him (3.5 m/s), carrying the stench of industrial taint and rotting garbage down the alley. He flicked the information away absentmindedly, frustration already a distant memory, and hurried out to the main street. The corner of 1st and Waverley might be relatively safe in the morning, but at this hour, even the police patrols gave it a wide berth. They were never far, though, as indicated by the occasional sirens in the distance.
It was a bit too late for buses, and he did not fancy calling on the remote vehicle for a drive, so he walked. It was almost an hour’s walk from his downtown apartment, but exhaustion was also a thing of the past for him, along with impatience and irritation.
He passed a small groups of thugs, a little bit later. Not an uncommon sight in the grimy heart of New York these days, when civilisation’s complacency was beginning to crack and mend in strange ways and people went seeking other forms of order. They eyed him, just as his UI had already pulled their rap sheets from the NYPD database. Grunts, the lot.
“What’cha lookin’ at, tin man?” One of them shouted, voice carrying easily through the empty street.
He stopped, wordlessly, just because he could. Trained as he was, these situations used to get his blood pumping before, his body gearing up for a fight. But now, only statistics remained: calculations and angles and measurements dancing before his eyes. Instead of a thumping heart, his chest felt empty: the silence of a loaded gun.
Even pity had turned into a mere concept; something cerebral and cognitive and intangible.
“Hey, don’t.” The thug in the back spat out his joint on taking a second look, suddenly fidgety and pale. His UI calculated a high probability of fear. “He’s one of them magitech ‘borgs. Fancy model, too. Ain’t gonna mess with that.”
It didn’t take long for them to slink away into the narrow alley, shooting glances backwards all the while, and so he moved on. It seemed that the intel on his government combat frame was a poorly kept secret. Perhaps on purpose, too, but he did not dwell on it. He would leave the scheming to the schemers.
The rest of his walk remained uneventful and soon he found the skyscraper that housed his current apartment. A stark contrast to the poorer neighborhood, this suburb was fancy and clean. Hardly surprising, New York had always been a city of contrast, and Calamities would not change that. He stared up at the stoic building with its bright light and glass skin, the shimmer of magic coating its surface with security and vanity. He felt nothing.
Was the class consciousness in him ideology or feelings? Concepts learned or reactions to the struggles of a life lived? Or one and the same, and thus cannot exist without the other?
He almost felt like laughing, but the actual feeling eluded him. The entrance, however, did not, so he just went inside.
His room was on floor 21, three doors down to the right.
The interior was sinfully spacious and opulent, quite different from any military bases that he had been stationed at before. One thing that had never changed, though, was the combat equipment and weapons scattered throughout the space. The tools of the trade never changed, even if magic and ingenuity made them look or feel different.
At the other side of the room, near the balcony, was a massive machine. It took up far more space than even the Californian king bed, but then he supposed he would use it far more than a bed anyway. As he approached, the lights on the machine flickered, and it opened up with a robotic greeting:
“Welcome back, Sentinel. Please enter your command.”
“Calibration, please,” he responded, the polite addendum a habit he hadn’t yet broken. Immediately, all the lights lit up and a soft whirling filled the room.
“Preparing. Please stand by.” One of the hatch flipped over to reveal a small screen, which displayed a progress bar. “Preparing the calibration process.”
That should take a couple of minutes.
He wandered over to his work desk, carelessly tossing off his jacket. Even then, his body calculated the gesture, and the jacket landed neatly onto the nearby coat rack.
There was a stack of files on his desk, conveniently in physical form even when his permissions allowed free access to the digital copies. They were his targets for this mission, Starweavers marked for recruitment. The reason why they picked him for this, though? He couldn’t even guess, sensing more machinations running underneath that he was not privy to. At best, it was just an easy job to help him reintegrate into the government workforce, especially after several months of tests and rehabilitation in his new body. Regardless, he picked up the files and started going through them.
The message to send was simple enough:
“The CIA is recruiting for a specialized task force. The subject of investigation is the Antarctic anomaly. Public recruitment campaigns have been issued, but individualized invitations offer higher benefits packages and larger compensations for services with terms to be discussed on acceptance of the offer. Non-pecuniary compensation will only be offered through these individual invitations and will be assessed in accordance with federal and state laws, including but not restricted to, the Central Intelligence Agency Act of 1949.
To accept, sign on the dotted line with your registered magitech signature. The agent assigned will inform you of further steps should you accept. This message is confidential and will self-delete within 48 hours. Any attempt to publicize these offers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
It was reaching the CIA’s targets that was the real problem.
Daniel Telem, a Starweaver with power to induce a deadly and viral condition. Previously involved with law enforcement, a modern-day pandemic at the tip of his fingers. The dossier had the boy’s address on file so it was a mere three thoughts away before a magitech missive was already digitally packaged, magically materialized, and instantaneously delivered to the boy’s mailbox by way of teleportation spell. It was a premium service that would have cost a pretty penny for most, but came free with his frame’s various financial perks.
Noelle Hodge, a Faye-blooded magician and sometimes, private military contractor. Power: time manipulation, utility: high, recruitment priority: essential. There were also pages detailing the many projects that she was involved in. Most of them? Highly confidential. Legality? Not so much. Eckehard Köhler, dwarf, engineer, witness of two World Wars. Previous involvement with Soviet military projects. Employed by NASA and worked extensively with space technology. Current status: retired. These two were far easier to contact, but far harder to distinguish himself from the veritable avalanche of requests and jobs they were offered on a daily basis. He pulled a few strings digitally, sending his e-mail to the top of their inboxes and magically materializing it in front of their computer screens, to be found the next day. It was a backdoor permission only the highest of government authorities had and rarely used outside of national emergencies. Given what they were being recruited for, Sentinel’s system found this an acceptable use of the privilege. His UI had already filed the paperwork for the usage clearance and his status allowed automatic approval unless overturned by a higher authority on review. The system calculated a 0.001% chance of a cancellation.
Ragneka Qroarae, Fletcher Patel’s pet project. The file included extensive details of the project, along with related interviews and footages. Another testament to mankind’s hubris? Or progress, this time? Was already under observation by a different team, and he found that to be the least amount of work, with his higher authority allowing him to issue orders unimpeded to her assigned team. He passed the message and moved on.
Savyna Liu, a runaway test subject that had only been recently located following the discovery of the illegal Hong Kong laboratory’s remnants. A rare, if only partial, success in magical genetic engineering, she was of particular interest for the upper brass and several prominent governemnt researchers had already made clear to the government their interest in her abilities and had their eyes on her performance. It was the instability of her powers that worried most of them, and the cunning of a politician that offered the Antarctic investigation as a trial run. If she died, she wouldn’t be a problem anymore and they would have a corpse to study. If she lived, all the better. A similar message was sent her way, and Sentinel also notified the interested parties that the offer had been placed.
Luka Krasnoff, Daeva, Starweaver and on government welfare. Recently returned from Siberia, though was never officially part of the forces stationed at Fort Yakutsk. Father Michail Krasnoff, KIA. There was a landline number and address to a PO box, but both had been crossed out. A sticky note on the physical files read: ‘find in person’. P.O. box was flagged as having been accessed only once by him in the last year—when it was created.
Jagannath Yaunten; human? Unlikely. Remote biometric readings at a maximum of 70% accuracy, minimum at 20%—data matches 63% with archived information of draconic powers. Further investigation required. Extensive criminal records in India and South East Asia. Most recently, involvement with the Mun Ji Dong. Suspect of multiple homicides, amongst many, many other crimes. Footnote: approach with caution. Jagganath’s location was also variable and the person himself seemed unlikely to respond to a missive, no matter how important it looked. Another one onto the list of manual acquisition.
Juān Bái, immigrant from Hong Kong. Also a typical rap sheet of criminal activities. Suspected involvement with various Hong Kong gangs. Aside from that, the dossier seemed sparse. Had been laying low ever since the intelligence agency had tracked her escape from the chaos she had stirred up in Hong Kong. With current reports of a person matching her description within the lower end of New York, it seemed he would need to tack on a bit of reconaissance to the workload. The system had calculated, based on reported sightings, a small area of activity in which the Fae seemed to operate, so he hoped the matter could be settled in a day.
Morgan Berion, outcast son of the Berion family with tenuous connections to the Vulcan Company. More importantly, a teleporter without messy ties. The file went into detail on Morgan’s activities since abandoning his duties with Vulcan, but most of it was observational busywork. There was nothing of note, and thus nothing to complicate the process of sending another glaringly obvious message.
“Calibration and diagnostic check ready,” the machine behind him gently informed.
He hadn’t even remembered to sit down, even if that motion was now a useless relic of a past life.
Obediently, Sentinel stepped between the various floating plates of the loadout station, positioning himself on the slightly raised dais in the center of the machine. As the rectangular plates rotated around him in various speeds, he deactivated the motor functions of his body and settled his mental processes into a dazed, almost oneiric state. It was the closest he ever got to the memory of sleep these days.
♃
