[IC] The God Complex

[icmasticc]

The God Complex

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God Complex - An unshakable belief characterized by consistently inflated feelings of personal ability, privilege, or infallibility

Introduction

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It's such a sight to behold that it's advertised at a point of emphasis to tourists with even the slightest interests in seeing the sights of the new world; Chicago, in all it's technological glory, stands at the forefront of progress and represents the very latest the world's greatest minds can offer. Innovation is almost an understatement in the city and this new Chicago has enjoyed attention and benefits for all its hard work in bringing to world into a more positive technology-based future. Among its chief achievements are the rail system which revolutionized the way vehicles get around. By attaching a sophisticated electromagnetic gear system to the roof of every manufactured car, any vehicle can attach itself to a lane on the desired rail and go shooting off to their destination while still in control of acceleration and speed of movement. These rails are sprinkled throughout all facets of the city and even dance and wrap around skyscrapers at the their tallest heights, creating a much more vertically inclined metropolis. The rail system also does mostly away with car accidents as each gear is only attached to its electrically-charged line; of course, people can still switch "lanes", but it's far easier to avoid an accident when doing so than ever before.

While the rail system is one of the shining innovations of the new Windy City, metallic structures bathed in neon lights can be seen anywhere and everywhere. Even though the city is more vertical, there's nothing like a caste system in which the poor inhabit the bottom and the rich at the top. Chicago is as diverse as they come and ever since it's expansion, it has become home to many interesting types of businesses and people who choose to reside all over the place. Some even forgo the rail system to enjoy the modified road driving experience at the ground level of the city which still uses electromagnetism and gears, but to a lesser extent since ground road innovation has been geared more towards safety concerns. In effect, one can't classify Chicago as one way or another; the only true statement is that most of the more profitable businesses own skyscrapers and venues at other height levels while the more traditional folks who refuse to conform to technology reside on the ground level and without the fancy aesthetic of LED and silver.

Even despite the sheer beauty of the locale during the moonlit hours, not everyone can appreciate their surroundings. Some people are far too busy to care one way or another about the new world so long as their new conveniences aren't disturbed. Others are much too distracted to realize how lucky they are to live in such a city. On this night, one man fit exactly that description though, he would probably never use the word "lucky" in regards to residency in Chicago. In fact, almost no person would describe themselves as lucky to be living there. While no one would use such words, they also wouldn't voice such opinions aloud. For if they did, they would end up in the same situation one resident found himself in on this night...

+++++

The desperate clops of newly worn dress shoes echoed against the cobbled sidewalk of ground level Chicago. Each clop rapidly followed one another and could only be discerned as running - someone was running. The runner in question heaved breaths as his suited arms swung in wide arcs and his desperate expression begged his body to carry him faster. He passed several colorfully lit storefronts and paid no mind to the line of parallel parked cars as he dodged the random pedestrian and continued his sprint. With the way he was dressed and the bright yellow tie he wore, one wouldn't assume that he was out for some exercise that night. Somehow, his professionally cut hair stayed in place as he sharply turned a corner and entered into a dark alleyway - classically stereotypical, but not an uncommon judgement failure for a man as desperate as he was. The pursuer was nowhere in sight as the well-dressed man finally slowed and leaned on a wall for support.

Stunted coughs stumbled from the runner's throat and beads of sweat rolled down his leathery cheeks as he leaned, bent over, and tried hard to catch any breath. He eventually turned his back to smash it into the wall as he slumped down to the ground, legs spread and arms limply resting on thighs. Many thoughts ran through his tangled mind as he absentmindedly gazed at the brick wall near the entrance of the alley. It had only been a couple of minutes, but he was sure he'd lost his pursuer. When the chase began, the fiend had been much closer in distance and now he was nowhere to be found. The tired, but still well dressed, man chuckled quietly in a soft victory. He was convinced he'd lost the person who was chasing him. Convinced he could go home for the night and return to work the next day to demand answers regarding the situation.

Convinced he wasn't the raving psychopath he was being labeled as.

As he tilted his head back to relax a little, the sound of soft footsteps invaded his ear canals. Sharply, the man's head came back down to face the other side of alley where the entrance on the left was. There was only a dumpster on the wall across from the entrance and the emptiness of the square the man decided to regain his energy in suddenly felt as extremely open as it had always been. It was too late to do anything now though, The masked figure had finally appeared,adorned in all black aside from the navy blue body armor he wore. His mask was featureless and showed not even one scrap of skin, even going so far as to defy the need for eye holes. Fear gripped the slumped man's demeanor as his judge, jury, and executioner approached him at a casual stroll.

The masked man held no weapons and was empty-handed completely when he stopped at his target. He stood over the slumped and well-dressed individual, sizing him up in his desperate state. The soon-to-be victim trembled, but did not move his arms as he stared at his faceless captor. "Y-you can't do this! I'm a chair in the City Council! A chair I say!" The scared man shouted unexpectedly. The faceless man only cocked his head slightly at the statement before a human voice disguised by digitization echoed a reply.

"And that... Is exactly the reason,"

In a few quick seconds, a taser was brandished and volts of electricity were sent into the neck of the scared politician. As he fell over unconscious, the faceless man carefully put away his taser and gazed up at the stars above. It had been a productive night in the end and for that, he was eternally grateful.

+++++

Elton Devereaux was famously bitter. His annoyed demeanor seemed to radiate as he stood in one of the meeting rooms of the rather large Erasure Agency. This meeting room held a silver, oval table and black chairs with ornate, twisting and spiraled designs. The room itself was composed of extremely polished and shiny black walls with a pristine white floor - as it cleaned itself automatically every night - and silver ceiling with two rows of diamond shaped light fixtures set flush. Double doors allowed entry into the room and slid open when the proper credentials were recognized - a keycard and a handprint as were required for most areas in the Agency. Elton stood at one corner of the room on the wall opposite the wall with the double doors. His arms were folded and his back leaned on the shiny wall as his gaze bore directly into the doors. He was waiting, just like instructed.

"Nine!? Since when is a team of nine needed for any operation?" Elton almost shouted. Rhonda sighed and flipped a loose strand of brown hair back behind her ear before adjusting her slim-frame glasses. She was shorter than Elton usually, but the heels of the day put her at level for this encounter. The blue suit jacket and skirt did a wonderful job of following the curvature of her body and one would think she was trying to woo the older man's favor with the white collared shirt that accentuated what most agreed was her best asset. However, Elton remained focused on the stern face and pulled back hair of his boss. He wasn't having any of her shit today.

"It's needed when the top says it is. You know how this works. I haven't gotten all of the details yet, but for now, you're only directive is to head to meeting room B on the second floor and await the rest of the team," Rhonda replied in an eloquent and extremely articulate manner. Elton groaned.

"Even a team of four guys has a tough enough time dealing with an erasure. They have to account for all sorts of random shit rookies like to pull in the field. Why the hell would anyone think that nine people won't fuck things up beyond belief?!"

"That's none of our concern, we're only to follow orders. These people have been pulled from agency branches all over the city and I've been assured that they all bring something of a needed role to the task force we're forming,"

"There's that fucking word again,"

"Excuse me?"

"Task force,"

"Your point?"

"Task forces are only formed when there's a job that can't be done, simple as that. What the hell is so going down that requires a team of nine fucking agents to focus on one case like the damn police?"

"You have your orders, Devereaux. Follow them like the good dog you always were," Rhonda turned and walked down the suspended walkway as Elton gave a middle finger to her back and turned in the opposite direction.

"Yeah, fuck you too lady. Fuck you too,"

Elton smashed a hammer fist into the wall before resigning himself to a seat next to the head chair. Obviously he wouldn't sit in the head chair as he didn't want to hear Rhonda's mouth even more, but his mind was focused on the incoming team. He shook his head remained silently as he waited for anyone to arrive. Unfortunately for them, Elton was a man who always got the answers he sought, no matter who he had to ask. Unbeknownst to the coming members of the team, they were in for some serious scrutiny from Elton Devereaux.

He was famously bitter, after all.

[YandereNoodle]

Within minutes of Rhonda's leaving, the silence in the room was interrupted by the soft whirring sound of the double doors parting. Standing behind them was a young girl, easily mistakable for a minor, she holds a stack of books near eight-inches thick to her chest firm to her chest in her right arm and reaches with the left to readjust her glasses further up her nose. In a soft, subtle motion she moves it from her nose to cover her mouth before gliding into the room as if she were a ghost. She glances over to Elton and quickly down to her feet, watching them move as if on their own accord.

Her body moves elegantly, with little deviance in her step, she moves across to the right side of the table to a chair not too far away from Elton, but definitely not too close. She leans over the chair and sets her stack of books onto the smooth silver tabletop, the stack consists of a couple composition notebooks and a large paperback textbook titled: 'Law & Order: And Introduction to Criminal Justice.' Aurora pulls one of the dark, obsidian-black chairs out from beneath the table and moves around it, sitting softly in the chair before laying her head on the tabletop and yawning.

She brings her hand up to the tip of her glasses, colored images flash by on the lenses; she watches, darting her eyes around at the tiny screens as she lays otherwise motionless. Suddenly, she perks up, sitting up straight in her chair before touching the inside of her right ear,

"Hello?"

"Yes, Dad... I'm here."

"...is he the scary one with the greying hair?"

"Then no... he's not here yet."

"Alright... I'll call you when we're done."

"Love you too... bye."

[Doctor Belasco]

The Erasure Agency was not an organisation given to slackness. It was tight, efficient, and naturally secretive – as it had to be; leaks could jeopardise an operation in the time it took to tap a keyboard. What this did mean was that James had not had so much as two days' notice. Forty-eight hours had not quite passed since he had been invited into the head of his previous department's office, and given the news. He had been bashfully aware that McNair had been mentioning his name to the 'right people' for a while, now, but had simply assumed that it was barely more than a gesture of generosity. He'd certainly never expected anything to come of it.

“Thanks for seeing me, James,” said McNair, maybe twenty years his senior, as the two men shook hands. He gestured to a seat opposite his own. James sat.

“Not at all.”

“I've had a request,” McNair spoke slowly and deliberately. The contrast was particularly evident against James' bulletlike speech-patterns. A wide grin was just about visible beneath a convincing effort to conceal it, “To transfer you to the Central Agency. Congratulations!”

There was a pause. He couldn't quite believe it. He thought he'd lucked out getting his current job with C-East. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that he might be working for central.

“When do they want me to start?” he couldn't stop himself from beaming.

“Thursday.”

“I don't know what to say. Thank you so much for this!”

“Don't thank me. All I did was let people know how much potential you have, and they snapped you up. Anyway, as far as I'm aware, you'll be doing similar stuff as you have been with us; all-round support to whatever needs supporting, but even that's an estimate. You know how hush-hush they all are.”

The email with proper details had arrived later that evening. Where he was to go, to whom he was to report – his new salary. The figure for C-East had been astonishingly high, even for him, a junior employee, but this one was practically eye-watering. Not that the money mattered. Wealth was nice, but there were bigger things in life. Besides, he'd long been told that, if the Agency sensed you were only in it for the paycheque, they wouldn't look at you twice, just like the medical industry. It made sense; they were both about making people better.

So it was that, that Thursday, he approached the C-Central Erasure Agency, head held high. He looked like any young professional; blonde hair neatly parted, tie perfectly knotted. He had splashed out on a new suit and pair of dress shoes for the occasion – it was visibly expensive and a gorgeous piece of tailoring by anybody's standards, but it didn't quite suit him. They were an older man's clothes; his eyes shone too much, too blue. Briefcase in hand, he had a change of trousers and a pair of slightly more practical boots with him – still appropriately smart attire (as was literally everything he owned), but slightly less impressionable for the first meeting. To look at him, you wouldn't have known his heart was fluttering in his chest like a startled moth. Certainly, the way he entered the building cleanly through the correct staff entrance (as opposed to the more welcoming visitor's entrance) and passed the fiddly identification protocols without incident, passers-by could be forgiven for thinking he had been there before. In fact, he had, yesterday, for research purposes. With a little information, you could do anything.

The building was particularly grand. C-East was somewhat more rough-and-ready, with bits of the building needing re-touching, whereas C-Central, which had no fewer than sixteen storeys, six of which underground, was pristene from top to bottom. The corridors were wider, and taller, the doors big enough for three to fit through abreast, and James couldn't escape the feeling of being dwarfed as he found the meeting room on floor two. He would have preferred to take the stairs for such a short distance, but new buildings like these were fazing out stairs altogether as obsolete technology, so tried to walk slowly down the corridor. He made a conserted effort not to look like he was dawdling, but, ultimately, he was trying to kill time. Even having scouted out the location and procedures, he had left his appartment in very good time, just in case. This meant he was now five minutes early - he had been told to report at fourteen hundred hours – not thirteen hundred and fifty-five. Mentally timing himself, he found the right room after an appropriately laboured stroll, just one minute prior to the specified time. Not too bad.

He knocked, and entered. Only two others were there, a girl even younger than himself (could she possibly be an Agent?) and a man slightly more in keeping with the age precedent McNair had set – he actually looked a little like him, funnily enough, grizzly and chiselled, but he didn't appear particularly happy to be there. Weren't there supposed to be nine of them? Well, of the two, not-McNair was clearly the more senior, and was looking, or glowering, at the newcomer anyway.

“James Hart. I am in the right place, aren't I?”

[Dannyel]

A "task force."

A fucking "task force."

Janet Stafford was psyched. She had never been on a team grand enough to be called a "task force" before, hell, she had never been in a group larger than four and even those were rare. This group had nine - NINE! - Erasure agents on it. That just had to mean that it was a very important, very challenging case. Right?

Hanging around in the lobby of C-Central, Janet keep a strict view on the time. She knew that she didn't want to be the first one there, that was always the most awkward since she would wonder if she was in the right room, but one didn't want to be late either. Especially on a mission this important. Finally growing too impatient, she darted to the elevator when there still was five minutes left till the meeting started.

There had to be at least one go-getter who arrived early.

"Second Floor," she announced to the elevator, which quickly whooshed her up to the location. The glass door opened smoothly, revealing the wide, crisp hallway, and Janet practically ran out of the elevator and down the hall. "Meeting Room B…. Room B….

"A-ha!" she exclaimed as she reached the door. "Found it!" She was proud of herself. Though she had been in C-Central before, she couldn't honestly call herself familiar with it. Flashing her card and holding up her hand for identification, she grinned as the door finally approved her for entry.

Already in the room was a grim older man, who looked like he wasn't entirely pleased with the situation, a young girl who probably should be out picking a prom dress, and a crisply dressed young man. Well, this wasn't promising.

She suppressed a sigh. Though most Erasure Agents were what she called "stuffy," she constantly hoped that she'd find a others like her. People who, you know, knew how to smile. She supposed she was asking too much.

"Hello," she said with a brisk wave as she took a seat at the table right next to the young girl, pushing the chair back so that she could kick her feet up. Leaning over, she began to poke through Aurora's books. "So, what do we have here? An 'Intro to Criminal Justice'? Since when did we start allowing kids in?"

Smiling over at Elton, Janet pointed at the girl. "It's not just me, right? She's gotta be sixteen. Oooh, are we training people? Am I a trainer now? That sounds fun."

[Etherdrop]

"God damn my head hurts."

The proclamation was a reiterating statement to say the least as David attempted to press the tab on the soda machine for a bottle of water... only to get a can of Sprite Zero instead. He looked at the container of pain killers in his left hand and the can of soda that sat in the machine. There was a pause in any other actions as he tried to overcome the huge hangover enough to process what just happened. "Soda and pain killers... wonderful."

Without being able to much of anything given his predicament, David reached down and took the soda. He began grumbling to himself as he popped the lid of the nearly empty bottle pain killers and took the remaining quantity into his mouth before tossing the bottle over his back into the cylinder trash can. It was hard to remember much of the night before besides the great sex and finding himself in a motel room with two women in his bed, but for him that was the only thing he really cared to remember since the phone call had gotten his naked butt up and moving for the day.

Drinking the sprite with his painkillers was nothing less than disgusting. The feeling of the painkillers' coating dissolving onto his tongue just before he swallowed them down reminded him of those crappy vitamin tablets that the doctors gave you as a kid. "Today was supposed to be my day off. Just my luck."

Entering through the double doors of the meeting room in it's normal ceremonious fashion of key card and handprint, David noticed that he wasn't late nor would he be noticed too much given the talking that made his head feel like it was in a vice. This meant he needed a seat as far away from the speaker until the pks' effect kicked in. Sadly the only seats present were the ones available at an oval table that seemed to stand there in a way that mocked him. The silver table and the light fixtures added that equilibrium of blurriness that made David give a grumbling sigh to himself as he found a seat and eased into it.

He was sure the direction of chit chat would eventually switch to talk about him, but simply ignored such prattle and brought the soda up to his lips to drink it down. Remarkably the sprite was helping ease the headache a bit - or perhaps the painkillers were kicking in? Tilt his head back, David brought the back of his free hand to cover his eyes and he gave a soft groan of disatifaction.

[MST3K 4ever]

Russell Nash parked his replica Mustang hover car in a nearby spot just across the street from the Erasure Agency. A building with no distinct outside markings or anything that made it look remotely welcoming. Russell still had "the wet look" from his quick rinse off after his morning workout and his face was still a shade of light red as he looked at his place of employment. He had received a message while he was in the shower that he was to report Meeting Room B on the second floor and that was all. Usually there was a little more information to work with, so Russell's curiosity was somewhat piqued by this.

He asked, to no one in particular, "Why do I have the feeling that this is gonna be one of those days?" Russell shook his head and rolled his right shoulder back and forth and he winced somewhat in pain.

Russell pushed a button on his dashboard and said, "Sivers."

Sivers replied, "Yes Sir."

Russell said, "Next workout decrease the resistance on the barbells by about 5 %."

Sivers asked, "Aggravated your shoulder injury again sir?"

Russell nodded and replied, "Yeah I think so."

Sivers said, "Sir I have just received a voice message from Miss Andrews. She channeled it directly to your inbox, so as to not to bother since she knew that you would be driving to work at the time."

Russell shook his head and said, "Translation she didn't want to talk to me. Let me guess the message is basically 'it's not you it's me, I need to find out who I am, we need time apart, maybe someday if God wills it we will find one another, I'm a great guy there is someone out there for me, and I can feel free to see other people' is that about the gist of it Sivers?"

Sivers replied, "You are 94% accurate with your assessment sir. Impressive percentage sir. The bottom line, as you call it, you are no longer a couple. Would you care to hear the actual message sir? Miss Andrews does sound sincere."

Russell said, "I'm sure she is old friend. I'm sure she is. I know that she took no pleasure in what she did." Russell thought for a moment and then said, "Delete the message and all photos of us."

Sivers asked, "Including the one from Maine 6 weeks ago?"

Russell had been in his share of fights and suffered broken bones, but that question cut him like a knife. The week in Maine was just Erica and him at a house on the shore. It was one of the best times Russell ever had in his life. They did sightseeing, enjoyed the beach, watching the sunset, and spent endless nights being in love. One morning Erica woke up before him and was watching the sunrise. She was wearing a sapphire blue silk robe, leaning against the rail of the deck of the beach house, and the ocean breeze was moving ever so gently through her brown hair. Russell grabbed a camera and called to Erica. She turned her head and part of her upper torso ever so slowly and just gave him a look. A look from those beautiful brown eyes that was both intoxicating and as though Erica was inviting Russell to look into her soul in that one look, and a smile that Russell would've gone to war to defend. Russell thought he had seen the most beautiful creation that God ever made and it was standing right before him, so much so he almost forgot to take the picture.

Russell said, "Bring it up on my monitor."

Sivers replied, "Sir I don't...."

Russell said, "Do it Sivers that's an order."

Sivers brought the image up on the monitor and Russell stared at it and felt for one brief moment the power of her eye contact coursing through his entire being right into his soul. He reached to touch it, but stopped and bowed his head.

Russell said bringing his hand back, "Sivers."

Sivers replied, "Sir?"

Russell said, "Del...no. Keep it. It'll remind me that for one moment in time I had it better than any human being had a right to ask for."

Sivers asked, "Sir do you wish for me to inform your superiors you are in no frame of mind to work?"

Russell shook his head and replied, "No absolutely not." He waved his right palm in front of his face three times as though he were wiping something away. Russell said, "I gotta job to do, and it's time get to it."

Sivers said, "Sir I don't think wearing these are a crime right now." Just then a compartment opened up and revealed a pair of sunglasses. Russell smiled and said, "Thanks old friend."

Sivers replied, "You're welcome sir."

Russell put on the dark glasses and undid his seat belt. He said, "Sivers. You've been wanting to link into the National Archives database for some research. Why don't you go offline until about 6 tonight and have at it."

Sivers replied, "Sir what about your lunch?"

Russell said, "I'll get takeout today have a good time."

Sivers replied, "Thank you sir." The screen went black and Russell took a deep breath and said, "Okay Nash. Time to get to it." With that he exited his car and made sure his black leather duster was just so. He did smirk at the way his red turtleneck looked with his duster as his black boots echoed on his way to the Agency. He entered the conference room and still didn't remove his glasses. Russell didn't recognize the gathering in the room but that didn't bother him. He fixed himself a glass of water sat at the table, propped his feet up and began to have his drink.

[Rockette]

Well, wasn't this just the sorriest bunch of fucks she had ever seen.

This had to be a joke, a faux pas, a jest surely to remedy a sense of vengeance against something she had committed; an outrageous sin, a slandered dalliance, or a wound she left open and bleeding on someone unfortunate to meet the vermillion of her keratin claws. There were numerous possibilities and various occasions where one would seek after a penance to impose upon her fortified will of hate; she would be more surprised if such an attempt hadn't been made after the years she had spent chasing after psychoactive revelations into the warped subconscious’s of what she called her countless victims.

But this was just going out of the way.

Simone proffered one sneer of her lip and promptly turned on the heel of her boot, a soft clack of her departure; for there was no way in Hell - if there was ever such a place- that she was going to subjugate herself to be allied with piss poor looking individuals beneath her talent, and promptly everything about her striking dominance. With her locks a carefully and intensely disarrayed style of long tresses spilling around her thin shoulders and eyes a dark and swirling mess of browns and blues, her very presence was one of careful grooming - every thing about her gleamed to a self rioted perfection, to the expense of her coat, to the cherry of her lips, down to the fabricated style of expensive foot wear. She even walked with a show of grace, her saunter a rolling expedience whilst appearing crude in the brisk exiting from the central cue.

She didn’t make it far though.

An arm struck out across her chest, catching the brunt of her with a harsh, nearly bestial growl of displeasure as Simone snaked out her scarlet slashes and dug them into obsidian threads and threw it.
“I am not doing this.” Snaked out from her lips in a candied bite. “It’s stupid, I won’t work with those people up there and Central can kiss my ass.”

The irony was not lost upon her, for everything Simone was brilliant at, in ever execution and performance, teamwork was where she stood at a standstill and refused to partake. Partially because no body could mimic her flawless tendencies and others because they couldn’t put up with every directed slander to their own appearances, habits, and the overall cruelty Simone practiced in her everyday life. She used people to her own beneficial desires and threw them away just as carelessly without a flicker or shadow of remorseful reflection.

Perhaps is was just an Archembault thing. If you knew the family, the politicians, the dictator that heralded over the linage with just as much rancor, if you knew them and how nefarious and astute their demons were, you simply didn’t last long enough to scour out their true origins.

“They asked for you, requested it, just like the-”

“Of course they did, but that doesn’t meant I have to agree to it.” Her vermillion nails left irritated tracks through a sheathed arm, much to the annoyance of her pursuer and objector. A man of equal narcissism and abusive natures, her once upon a time partner and sometimes passionate -if not ravenous and harmful- lover shoved back with equal irritation and glared into hazeled blue.

“Must I remind you of the parameters for this arrangement?” He procured the parcel of her utter demise, slips of digital hate that detailed and illustrated her end in the Erasure deeds. An unassumingly, harmless sheaf of electronic creations, man made, digitalized into blue fonts and casting azure glows, all the more ominous in the textual release of her enlistment should she actually refuse this particular assignment. Simone grasped hold of the detailing and chucked it at the ground in clear spiteful and intentional harm, the screen merely cracked in the assault and she beamed a biting smile.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Simone…” He paused, a slow, deliberate thought wormed across the expanse of nerve clusters and his direct knowledge of the particularities of Simone Archembault. And he grinned, for while was she true evil depicted in the soft sensualities of a woman, she was also easily manipulated upon that fairer front of gender tendencies.

“Why not use them then?”

Her eyes slid over in a cool glance, curious, caught, hooked upon the implication in his baritone.
“What do you mean?” She quired, peeked and annoyed, crossing coated arms over her bust in direct confrontation. Should he fail to displease her, she would leave, dismemberment be damned.

“This could be an opportunity to use the Central benefits, not to mention the members of your,” he cringed at the word. “Task Force. Also in showing your real potential and abilities. They have a reason for doing this I’m sure, just wait it out and see, should you come to hate and find it unworthy, I’ve no doubt you can simply pull away from the horrendous service.”

Her brow quirked, contemplating.

It wasn’t a terribly bad idea, but then it was. Simone still balked and inwardly cursed the gall of her superiors offering her up to this menial task, but there was some truth to the words of her companion who stood at her side, watching. His observations annoyed her and Simone snaked out her palm and shoved his chin away from her, turning into the motion and pinning him to the foyer doors of Central that held her undoing and her spite.

“You and everyone will pay for this degradation.”

And they would, her promise held a sadistic weight to their whispered cadence, slipping past the ruby of her sinned mouth with an edge of cutting purpose.

Now with fresh mars across his cheek, bits of scarlet paint impaled into the abrasions, she then speared claws into his sides and moved him out of her way, stealing into the Central cue once more with the motive to use and abuse the company unfortunate enough to be associated with her now.

---

The sight of these individuals, she counted six, didn’t improve or change into the favoring inclination when she allowed the survey of her hand structure and as she used her quoted keycard probably with more force than actually necessary. Never mind that she had exited previously in a illustrated display of anger and cast off displeasure. She was fuming but did not allow such a stain of emotion mark to the presentation of herself when she poised in graceful structure and tacked down each person, now that she bothered to look, with an eye of hazel and blue that burned and demeaned and mocked.

And was that a child?

Simone scoffed under her breath, worse that she had to work with an aging man who looked bitter and ill-favoring in his ascending age, now they had planted a mere child among their requested ranks. The others of their pitiful assemblage were no better assuming in appearances, at least to her eyes, and she was simply appalled by their mannerisms with booted feet shucked up on the table and one appearing to be in the wails of a hangover by the calculation of his groan and slouching demeanor. And then there was the young puppy little fucker with the blue-blue eyes and he didn’t look much older than the little brat with her books and her optical wear.

At least the appointed room appeared in a proper establishment, silvers, blacks and whites with the cleanliness that Simone could even appreciate. She brushed dexterous phalanges over the ornate winding and spirals of technological craftsmanship of their delegated seats and deliberately chose the obsidian furniture farthest from everyone as she could possibly manage; at the opposite end of the head selected settee. Her posture was straight and refined and yet her own, with crossed arms at her breast and one leg supported over the opposite, her booted foot swinging with the pulse of her irritation and distaste of the situation.

He had said to use them, and Simone intended to, but briefly surveying them once again she could only ponder on how exactly they would be useful to someone of her caliber at all. For Simone took nothing but the best and would accept none other from them.

[Gordian Nought]

Infrared retinal scans. A grimy lock pad sliding out from the wall. Peeling fingernails followed suit.

31 41 59 26. Alphanumeric code accepted. Welcome to the Arcade.

“How fitting, Matthias. How do you like your new lab now within the agency’s third floor instead of our burlesque’s basement?” Hystrix beckoned with a muffled shriek, while pulling back the bleached hood revealing an ashen rictus, worthy of a volcanic eruption. The Turing-like gadgetry littered upon the cluttered linoleum was a feat in of itself, as their Vesuvian creator must have ruthlessly inactivated the self-scrubbing program installed on each floor that ran every janitorial vigil, upholding the integrity of cleanliness and the façade of godliness. Despite tip-toeing, with childlike stealth, through the cemetery of mildly obsolete contraptions, a white sleeve haphazardly jarred an invisible bar, triggering a virtual transparent chessboard to propagate perpendicular to her gaze, wherever she turned, with LED buzzing to life circumferentially.

A voice cried out from the ablazed gizmo wilderness. Then slowly a computer-generated silhouette bubbled into the air. “If it isn’t pomp and circumstance here for another rematch! Xri, yes, what a pleasant surprise! Let’s get started then, e4.” The white pawn treaded forward two spaces, resting on an opaque digital square.

“No, Matt. Okay, e5.” A charcoal piece mirroring the opening advance. “I’m here for our appointment. Yet, your timing always seems to be impeccably cumbersome, as if you know my itinerary before I do. And. Sometimes, a hint of appeasement can be seen through these jovial gestures. You would never lose . . . to gain. Would you, Dr. Übermensch?”

The ordinal inventor’s tones became softer. “Losing on purpose? Pishah! My gosh, what do you take me for? A heartless venus fly-trap?” A slight grin etched across his right digitized cheek. “Speaking of plants, you know, they are just as much machines as any other living thing, even if it be the mold beneath your toes. If you take biotech synthesis to its logical conclusions, there’s no reason why I couldn’t program a vegetable. Oh and knight to f3.”

“F5, then. Now, I promise to heed your ever novel spawn. Afterwards, though, okay? But, first, let’s get to the meat of the matter. Before you release your near infinite applications of everyday matter upon us, how’s the screening process coming along. I only have 10 minutes or so before my meeting on the second level.”

“Must be grandiose, then. Hmm… Likely Elton and David, routine customers of my previous cabaret, were summoned as well. Am I right? How I miss such regulars to my vaudeville! E takes f5.”

“Stop reminiscing. Black knight to c6.”

“Admit it! You love games. Stage. Table top. Bondage. Bishop to b5. At least I do. Combat tourneys, dungeon-crawls, shoot-outs and strategic world-builders are the ancient opiate of the masses. Most do nothing more than turn Chicago’s adolescents into mindless zombies wired for constant stim, but a select few provoke careful thought and encourage players to develop their mental acuity, puzzle-solving skills and critical thinking. These aren’t just wake-up calls for vid-addicts – they’re now recruiting tools, too. I call it TDR, as in “Too Damn Real” utilized to ultimately sift for potential virtual Rambos, harnessing the natural aggressions and frustrations of hormone filled pubescence to refine their reflexes into the next future Erasure force.”

Hundreds of see-through video panes plopped, before Hystrix, into existence, a ceiling fan of today’s adolescents as both curmudgeons and victors. Some screaming in delighted frenzy. Others tearful for the early maturity beset upon them. All in all, human experience was sluggishly and youthfully rotating around the unveiled eye of Xri, like a hurricane of vexed testimony.

“I adore the idea, but what if it generates more havoc than value. Half the Agents in this city are not passionate to the calling society has endowed upon them. Bishop to c5.”

“Trust me. I’m a doctor. Bishop takes c6. It forces gamers to discern on their feet, change the way they decipher problems; the AI, in turn, learns how the person adapts, forces them to evolve more creative and inventive answers. A perfect safety net to not only mold the C-Central’s army, but to entrap psychopathic behavior, as well.”

“Excellent work. Any other propositions do you have for us, before I depart? D takes c6. I'm always late . . . with you.” The wintry witch shuffled her left foot, in angst-ridden nervousness.

“By Crom, yes,” a Schwarzeneggerian chatter stereoed, “Wait . . . before you take flight, your promise, remember, to my new venture. Ready? Here’s the sales pitch on my Kaleidoscopic Repigmentation Organic Memory Module. It uses a fungus that’s been mutated and bred to be incredibly sensitive to certain narrow bandwidths of light. When exposed to a laser of the appropriate wavelength, the mildew instantly toggles colors from a dull green to a bright red or an illustrious violet, generating a quantum bit of sorts. The hue change precisely matches the illuminated area, spreading no more than a nanometer, remaining perceptive even when dried out and dead. White knight captures e5.”

“Bishop takes f5. Have you…”

The simulacra interrupted her, mid-inquisition. “Yes, my mind has been missing for some time. White Queen to h5. Moreover, I have constructed a glass case to cancel the beam’s refraction through each surface, assuring its arrival straight through without deviation. Thus, the prototype system, I’ve engineered, can store 40 billion q-bits in a one millimeter square area, translating to a storage of slightly over 4.5 giga-q-bytes. Using lattice framework to maximize body surface area and mirrors, a 75 mm cubic platform can sieve 150 terra-q-bytes of data in seconds.”

“Pawn to g6. Let me guess. There’s a catch.”

The smirk now incised across both dimples. “White Knight captures g6. Unfortunately, the yeast’s powerful sensitivity to light is also its weakness, instantly reformatting in the presence of any stray ray, that of a light bulb or even the smog obscured sun. This eliminates the possibility of a portable unit. But TDR and KROMM can be renegotiated along with my sentence. If I only had the funding and the freedom, that is.”

“H takes g6. If only we could meet face to face. I have so many questions. But, for some reason, I don’t fully trust you.” Hystrix hissed with her parched uvula.

“White Queen captures h8. We did, except you were in the womb. And, what’s there to fret? I’m in an eternal prison, now.”

“Black queen to e7. I constantly wish that the Erasure Program was fully in vogue so you could have been rehabilitated into our citizenry once more. Not downloaded to some hard drive. Luckily, you still were confiscated into our hands. The good guys.”

“King to d1. Indeed. And. Maybe. Just possibly. Flesh and blood might not be too far off.” The elder imitation eerily mumbled and cackled.

“Bishop takes f2.” A quick mental tango. “Queen captures g8. Check!”

“Now, you’re getting sloppy, Matthias. Black King to d7. I hate when you throw a match away, especially when I’m already tardy.” Via retaliation, Xri vehemently waded in tongue and in boot, towards her exit, crushing semi-sentient objects in her Stygian path.

“White queen to c4. You win again. Checkmate in 2 moves.” The addictive sighing bellowed. The lights were killed, as the invisible bar was jarred once more.

“Rook to e8. Alas.” Hystrix scurried swiftly past the portal of entry, as if consumed by a fresh fear of the dark, as the laboratory entombed the voice. Without hesitation, she scampered to the adjacent stairwell, marching towards the kingdom below.

In her aspiring approach to a conference room buoyant of Camelot ideals. Gathered together.

As a task force.