Friday, 29th August, 2075; 1045, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

It took a while to be sure he was awake.

That was because he couldn’t see anything. He could think of a couple of reasons why that would be the case.

One was that he was pretty sure his eyes were closed. He tried opening them, but couldn’t. Actually, he couldn’t really move at all. Not even his throat to swallow. Or gag - he panicked as he realized there was a tube down his throat. A steady beeping sound he hadn’t noticed picked up its pace, there were footsteps and he calmed down and....

Friday, 29th August, 2075; 1932, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

Awake again.

Maybe.

He’d dreamt quite a bit before. Maybe he was dreaming now.

In his dream he’d heard a lot of chanting. Reminded him of some monks he’d stayed with at this Cistercian monastery in Austria, Heilingerfreud or Hielringkrautz or something. Winter of ’57. Those cats would put anyone up, no questions asked, but handy as it was, they were always chanting. Like to drive a feller batty.

There’d been a lot of that in his dream, only those monks were always on key. In his dream there had been lots of voices, but all different, and some hadn’t hardly been able to carry a tune at all.

Saturday, 30th August, 2075; 2201, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

He’d never been able to see the chanters. That was because they’d always kept all the lights off. The only thing he’d been able to see was the Akita. Sometimes in the corner, sometimes real close. He wasn’t sure why he could see her and nothing else. Her coat glowed some. Maybe that was why.

He couldn’t see her now though. But he thought he might like to see something. There was the beeping again. But his eyes still wouldn’t open. Then he remembered that someone had poked them out. So there really wouldn’t be any point in opening them.

His whole body hurt. Nowhere specific. Just everywhere. A lot.

But it was a faraway sort of pain. Nothing to stop him going back to sleep.

Monday, 1st September, 2075; 2345, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

“...telling you, omae, this geezer knew this was going to happen to him.”

The voice was male. There was a female voice too, but he couldn’t hear it very well. Both fairly young. They didn’t talk like hippies.

“...is why he’s still alive. Part of why anyway.”

The girl talked, but she was farther away.

“Sleepy much? How’d you finish nursing school? It’s a trauma patch. Not cheap.”

Footsteps. He could make her voice out now. “So who put it on him, the sideburned scarecrow in the wet rockabilly T-shirt?”

“No one put it on him. They found it in his ass.”

“Start again.”

“Seriously, way up his rectum. Good place for it really, lots of...”

“Wait a minute, that makes no sense. You can’t apply it there. Even if you peeled the cover, it’d hit the system on first contact with the...”

“No, no, no, that’s the wiz part. The seal was ruptured in corpus.”

“Okay, how?”

Al figured he must be getting better, because he was tracking on their conversation. Getting sleepy, though. Tried to talk, mouth still wouldn’t work. Realized the tube was gone, which was some comfort.

“He blew it up.”

“Like a balloon? What?”

“No, like a bomb. I mean, with a bomb.”

Sleepier, but wanted to hear this.

“A butt bomb? A very small, very very small butt bomb? You are so full of shit. No pun intended.”

“No shit here, girlfriend. These, um, tribals, they’re all teched out. After the first time I moved his bowels...” Al winced. There’d be no more of that. “...I found this and gave it to them. They told me later there’d been a super-tiny charge in there. With a timer. Activated by a radio. All microcircuitry stuff.”

Al drowsily congratulated himself on how clever he was.

“So he’s got this thing up his butt, someone sent the trigger signal, then instead of going off right then, it goes to timer. And then blows up in his ass.”

“Popping the patch, and keeping him from dying until the other old guy could drag him here from wherever he fished him out of the water. He’s just lucky he didn’t pop a vein in there - that part was Russian roulette, for sure.”

“Okay, right, and I saw he’s got an internal air tank.”

“There you go. But get this. There’s some custom work on his implanted biomonitor - it interfaces through a hardwire connection - so weird not wireless - to the internal air, starts it automatically if he stops breathing or whatever. Plus his blood. Platelet-rich.”

“Factories?”

“Right in one.”

“Dad got those for my moms for her birthday.”

“Sure, but his are fresh. Infused no more than a week ago.”

The dog was curled up next to him, which made it even harder to stay awake.

“So your theory is that he wouldn’t have set all that up if he hadn’t known someone was going to beat him within an inch of his life and then drop him in the ocean?”

“Plus, all this...us...the mage types hanging around. I hear he pre-paid all that. Freaking day of. Adds up.”

“Yeah. It does. If he’s crazier than a...”

Sleep.

Tuesday, 2nd September, 2075; 0907, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

He’d been thinking. He figured one reason he couldn’t move was because they’d immobilized him with drugs. Damned hippies. Another reason was that he had casts and braces over most of his body. Plus he was pretty sure he’d been in a coma for a while, listening but not really awake.

He was awake now. Some genius was putting his new eyes in his head. How could he sleep through a treat like that? Apparently most the the cybernetic microinterfaces were still intact - it was the modular stuff that had to be swapped out with the upgrades he’d ordered. Kid’s hands were shaking so bad Al was sure he’d sever an optic nerve - or whatever the bad thing was to sever in there. Apparently the resident Al’s diver-doc pal had sent down as they’d agreed was terrified he’d be killed once the work was done.

Well, he would be if he got this wrong.

Tuesday, 2nd September, 2075; 1700, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

It was nice to be able to see again. He wasn’t sure if it was seeing that woke him up, or just that sight had convinced him that he really was fully conscious. The nurse they’d hired in was easy on the eyes - a pleasant enough inauguration for his new optics.

Oyl had come to him once he was awake. Not necessarily because she was the queen of bedside manner. More likely because the first words out of his mouth had been to ask for a cigarette. And he might have gotten, well, a bit insistent with the imported nurse.

The ork woman had come in and pinched the line feeding him his pain meds between a slightly hairy thumb and forefinger, and he’d quieted down like a kitten. And apparently she’d decided that as long as he was here she might as well brief him on her condition.

“No pins.”

She waved her hand expansively over the array of casts and braces covering his excruciatingly itchy body.

“I called in every magical healer I knew. Selfish really - I’d always wanted to try an MRI-guided effort with that number of participants to coordinate. Long story short, everything will eventually heal. Once the boneknitting therapies run their course...”

She paused as his brow furrowed.

“Mostly pharmaceutical, and absolutely no nanites. I remembered your instruction, of course.” She paused, wondering if she should continue down that path. Decided. “Your request struck me as odd, so I poked around just a bit. I might have found hints of why you were so adamant.”

“We should compare notes sometime.”

“Yes, but not today. You need at least another week here, though the casts should start coming off in a couple of days.”

Al stroked the Akita behind the ears.

“Well, I thank ya kindly fer lettin’ her be here.”

“Oh, she’s the least of the expenses. Just a med student from U-Dub, funding dried up. We can trust her. Cousin of a friend.”

“Not her, the dog.”

Oyl looked at the tiny man, torso and all four limbs bound up in fiberglass and aluminum. “There have been no dogs in my clinic.”

“The hell they ain’t. She done been here all along.”

Her tone became more businesslike, more medical professional. “In addition to the arcane treatment regimen and the orthopedic therapies, you’ve been on a wide spectrum of meds to control bleeding, prevent infection, facilitate muscle regeneration. And manage pain. Allow you to sleep. Hallucinations are not an uncommon side effect.”

Tuesday, 2nd September, 2075; 2314, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

“No, you can’t...the patient is resting...”

Al opened his eyes. He’d been dreaming of the nurse. This was a different one though. Not as cute. He wanted to go back to sleep.

Oyl’s voice, half-shouting from across another room. “It’s all right, Jody. Just join me in here for a bit.”

Jody left.

Esposito and Pratt entered.

Now he really wanted to go back to sleep.

Pratt looked exactly the same as always - his skin competing with his pocket protector and the leather holster of his Ruger Thunderbolt for darkest shade of black. In stark contrast to a shirt so white it glowed. He seemed like a genuinely nice kid. Now he looked so...disappointed.

Esposito had a different colored sweater vest sheathing her bulk. Periwinkle, this time, though Al thought of it as just an elfy shade of blue. She still had on a greatcoat over it, wet with gritty Puyallup rain. She had trouble moving in the tiny room, crammed as it was with machines that go ping. She opened her mouth. Eyes bulging with fury. Looked as if she couldn’t decide what to say. No. More like she couldn’t decide which of several pre-rehearsed tirades to use, now that the moment had arrived.

Finally, she said the first thing that seemed important, which was none of the things she’d planned. “It won’t be long before he knows you’re still alive. And if we can find you, so can he.”

Al tried to shrug, but the casts prevented it. “Yeah, but this time he’ll only have me ta come after. An’ the rules of engagement, they’ll be changed up a speck.”

“It could have been over. We’d have taken care of it.”

“No, you’d have taken care of him. Maybe. Then things’d just have got worse.”

“But eventually better,” chimed in Pratt. “We have to play the long game.”

“No, you gotta play the long game. Ol’ Al’s livin’ in a mite smaller world.”

“Where’s my prototype?” Esposito asked.

Al tried to gesture with his left arm, managed enough of a jiggle to get their attention. “Feels like it’s still right here. I’ll mail it to ya.”

“Used?”

“Reckon.”

“Just destroy what’s left of it.” She sat down in the one chair. It creaked. Massaged her forehead. “We don’t have a lot of friends. I called in all my last markers, got K-E Seattle’s top hostage rescue team for you. And you send us on some wild goose chase, sitting for hours in hides around an empty address.”

“Well hell, Officer, it were just a slightly tricky job. Had ta know where all the pieces was, had to control ever’thing.”

She stood and edged her way over to the door. Turned on the way out. “You could have told us your concerns. They could have been addressed. You could have been out of there, unhurt, you, yours, and Seattle all winners. Instead you put yourself through...all this...”

Al closed his eyes, ending the meeting.

“Never did meet a lawman I could abide.”

Wednesday, 3rd September, 2075; 0132, Infirmary, Mechanicals Compound, Puyallup Barrens, Seattle

They’d left in such a huff. Al had chuckled himself to sleep.

“I liked them.”

It was the first time she’d spoken to him.

“Me too, but I ain’t gettin’ in bed with ‘em.”

“Fair enough. You choose your friends.”

“An’ then stick by ‘em.”

“That’s right.”

“Been over it an’ over it.” Al was crying.

“And?”

“An’ I don’t know another way I coulda played it.”

“But?”

“But I know how I shoulda. How I wish ta God I had.”

“You wouldn’t be here today.”

“Reckon I’m glad ya unnerstand that.”

“Wouldn’t be talking otherwise.”

“Did I do good here?”

“You won.”

“So we’s good?”

“We were good before. You weren’t good. You weren’t sure you could hack it. Now you are.”

“Don’t reckon I’m much good to ya now.”

“You’ll get better. Just like when you were fourteen.”

“That were the Lord.”

“Yes. But I was in the cheering section.”

Al congratulated himself to sleep. Now he had not only the voodoo gods but also his very own injun totem in his corner. Hollywood was just around the corner.

Friday, 5th November, 2032; Recovery Room, Red Army Medical Station, Warsaw, Poland

The view from the cot centered on dull plaster ceiling tiles, but a look around revealed that some of the walls still held mass-produced posters in cheap plastic frames tacked up to the fabric walls of the cube. The office had been converted to handle patient recovery overflow just in the past month. Poland's surrender had made it the new front line against Germany, and Warsaw had since become a supply hub and surgery center more than a city. Many of the local service workers had been conscripted into supply detail, but there was a real shortage of trained medics; Nicolas couldn't even remember what a doctor looked like.

He could hear the sound of people approaching. The footfall was regular and calm, not like a medic in a hurry or a patient shuffling along. At least a couple sounded heavy, either trolls or just army grunts wearing too much field gear. As the men entered his cube, he looked them over without moving his head, then returned to looking at the ceiling. The two big ones, both trolls, wore dark gray BDU pants and plain t-shirts under armored tactical vests--clearly not army, probably private security--and the one in the center was a young-looking human or elf dressed in a finely-pressed suit with red accents. She looked good enough to be an elf, but Nicolas wasn't always good at telling the difference. She seemed to be waiting for something, but he sure as hell didn't feel like trying to figure out what.

After about a minute, she waved her hand in front of her and focused her eyes on his. "It says here you're scheduled to be returned to Moscow on Monday for medical discharge-" she paused, making a small gesture in the air in front of her, wearing some kind of black glove with wires running up her sleeve, "-without pension." she added.

Nicolas nodded slightly.

"What happened?" she said, turning to look at where his lower legs should have been, now gone at the knees and wrapped in bandages.

"A land mine." Nicolas answered, turning his head away and drinking from a glass bottle.

"That's what the report says," she responded, "But it also says your entire company died crossing that field. Including you."

Nicolas laughed half-heartedly, then took another drink.

"How is it that you survived?" she inquired, looking over the top of her glasses.

"Well," Nicolas began, "We knew the mines were there. They told us they were disarmed, but a few of us boys knew better." He turned his head to look at her. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

The woman looked clearly unsatisfied. "So what did you do?"

He sat up a little to take a bigger drink, swished it, then swallowed and laid back down. "Well, the ground was frozen, so most of the boys were trying to stay with the grass because it was less slippery. I found the thickest, slickest ice I could find and slid my way across--at least until the machine gun fire." Nicolas pushed himself up into a sitting position, using his hands to remain upright. "Then it was a dead sprint for the treeline."

"But you didn't make it." the woman concluded.

"No, we didn't. The mines and bullets killed most of us. But there was also some kind of... маг. I made it about forty yards before this happened." Nicolas said, gesturing with one hand to his missing legs. "Half of the explosion got trapped in the ice. I was unconscious for 14 hours. When I woke up, I used my knife to drag myself the four miles back to camp."

The woman looked suitably uncomfortable. "And the маг?"

"Who are you again?"

"The маг, comrade?" the woman insisted.

"I didn't see him, but I did see a man shoot his captain in the back before turning his gun on himself. He asked me to help him, just before the shot took his helmet off the top of his head. I saw other men burst into flames. And something was turning back our bullets."

"Strange times." the woman said, writing something hastily on a tablet she'd taken from the troll on the right. She shoved it back into the troll, who took it and clipped it to his vest. "Nicolas Kostiy, I am here to offer you a re-enlistment opportunity to enable you to return to Germany and continue fighting for your country."

Friday, 5th November, 2032; Recovery Room, Red Army Medical Station, Warsaw, Poland

Nicolas smirked, but the woman didn't appear to be joking. He glared, then frowned, looking down at the synthetic fiber carpet caked with dirt and blood. He looked up with resentment and rebellion in his eyes. "My country already took my legs. How much more do you want?"

The woman's words were cold and sharp, cutting the air like a scalpel. "The risks of service are made clear upon enlistment. Perhaps you feel you have nothing left to give to your country?"

Nicolas stared her down, then ran one hand through his hair as he lowered his head. " 'All persons over the age of 17 afflicted with exceptional oral or cranial bone expressions consistent with metahuman syndrome must enlist in military service or face incarceration or deportation.' " He said from memory. "I didn't volunteer. I didn't give anything. You people took it." he said pointing his finger at her, then bringing his hand down to the premature end of his leg.

The woman pulled her glasses down a bit to look over the top of them again. "Comrade Kostiy, you may return to the streets of Moscow as a cripple with no money and see how you fare, or you can re-enlist and perhaps retire with a generous pension. Do you want to return home a hero or a beggar?" She inquired somewhat impatiently.

"Alive." Nicolas scoffed. "But I'm not getting much support from the army with that."

"Don't waste my time comrade. Either sign or don't. No one is going to force you this time."

He started to chuckle. "Alright, yes, sign me up. Just hand me my boots and I'll march right back to the line." He held out his hand expectantly, waiting for the irony to strike.

The woman responded, "My name is Alina Zhirov, and I am the director of the Cybernetic Soldier Rehabilitation Program." A slight smile stole across her face for the first time. "I am prepared to offer you some very expensive new boots, comrade."

Monday, 8th November, 2032; Inpatient Processing, CSR Facility, Smolensk, Russia

Nicolas sat in a wheelchair against the wall, filling out paperwork he was almost certain nobody would even reference. All around him, other wounded soldiers or disabled veterans were standing around reading magazines, seated or lying on benches, some milling about on crutches or struggling with clipboards, papers, and pens while having only one hand. Every two minutes or so, a nurse would enter the room, call out a name, and help some eager person out into the hall. About every two hours, a new truck would pull up with another load of war victims. Nicolas had been there since 6 AM, well before dawn, and as it was nearing noon he was starting to get a bit hungry and impatient. But eventually, finally, a nurse in a small red skirt with a white apron entered from the hall and called out "Nicolas Kostiy?" He wheeled himself over to her and she turned to catch the door for him without saying another word.

Alina had been convincing. She promised full recovery, and that was something no medicine or physical therapy could do. She'd promised a very agreeable pension as well, and for a metahuman, that was something exceptional. But perhaps most importantly, she'd promised he could leave the service forever; immunity to conscription. War wasn't something Nicolas enjoyed, even if he was better at it than most his age. All he really wanted was to be a truck driver. There were truck drivers in the army, but those jobs seemed to be reserved for humans. And since the goblinization, his dreams of being anything had essentially shattered; nobody pictures themselves in the future with tusks coming out of their mouth.

The nurse led him to a room with some kind of lab technician and a great deal of equipment. The technician took a number of measurements, including biometrics, a blood draw, vision and hearing tests, reflex tests, allergy tests, and others Nicolas was fairly certain were nonsense. By the time it was all over, Nicolas was feeling a little dizzy and a lot more irritable. "Does this shithole have a mess tent?" The technician looked up from his instruments to glance over at Nicolas, then the nurse. "Take him to the cafeteria. Then get him on the next truck."

As the nurse wheeled him down the hall, Nicolas objected to what the technician had said. "What was he saying about the next truck? I am supposed to have surgery. You people are supposed to help me!" he demanded, slapping the handle of his wheelchair with one hand.

"We have to analyze the tests. Not everyone is a suitable candidate. Some people are less... compatible." the nurse said with a forced smile.

"Compatible? What the hell does that mean? Where's Alina? Get me Alina. She made me a promise." Nicolas insisted.

The nurse turned the corner as they approached the cafeteria. "Miss Zhirov is unavailable, but I’ll let her know--”

Nicolas grabbed the wheels of his chair and drove himself into the cafeteria, leaving the nurse standing abruptly in the hallway. ”Like hell you will.” He remarked back as he cruised towards the food line.

Once he’d gotten a tray full of the day’s slop, he wheeled himself up to the end of a table--the sides all had benches, and those just weren’t very accommodating. He was pretty hungry, so he didn’t really notice or care who he was sitting next to, much less introduce himself. But a few bites in and he’d lost more appetite from flavor than fullness. ”What is this shit?” Nicolas said gruffly to no one in particular. A small bearded man wearing gray scrubs to his right spoke up.

”Well, what you got there is the latest in vat-grown soy protein food emulators. What you’re thinking of as beef and mushrooms, well that’s soy strips and mushrooms. More nutritionally complete than a real cow, and the texture and shape are engineered right in. Cheaper than American beer.” the man concluded with a tap of his fork on Nicolas’ tray.

”Well, I survived a landmine…” Nicolas shrugged and continued eating, making no attempt to conceal his distaste for the "food".

Monday, 8th November, 2032; Barracks C5, Red Army Regional Headquarters, Smolensk, Russia

The ride to the barracks was long and unpleasant. Sudden starts and stops paired with no seatbelts and no lower legs made staying upright a constant struggle. Luckily there were about seven other active or retired soliders flailing about to keep each other stable, or if not, at least in equal company. As the truck came to an unsure stop on the wet roads, a grinding gear shift and yelling soldiers briefly preceded the doors being opened and an MP motioning everyone out. It took some time to manage getting so many disabled safely to the slippery street, especially Nicolas himself. Three men lowered him into the wheelchair, dropping him so unceremoniously he and the chair nearly tipped over. He followed the others, each managing their crutches or slings, until they reached the entrance of the barracks and escaped the chilling drizzle outside.

It didn't take him long to get a bunk assignment. Being a guy in a wheelchair can leave you in a lot of people's way, and eventually someone will find somewhere to put you. Nicolas was glad to have a place to lie down as he still wasn't right after surgery. Or, really, after being blown up. He looked around at some of the active soldiers milling about, noting that most of them were human. He couldn't tell if they were staring because he was a meta or because he didn't have half of his legs. He decided to stare at the bottom of the bunk above and pretend like nobody else was there. "Insensitive Мудакы." He pulled his hat over his face to avoid eye contact.

Wednesday, 27th October, 2032; Minefield, German front, South Bradenburg, Germany

The ice was cold under his bare feet, but not painful. Nicolas could see his breath, the ice on the tree limbs, and the soldiers all around him, just standing there like they were waiting for something. They didn't speak or move, they all just stood looking forward into the trees. There was no sound, no birds or wind, trucks were still and silent.

Exhale. Inhale.

The sky above was grey and dull. The clouds, if there were any, were all blended together. There was no sun, just light filtering through the plain grey canopy. Nicolas looked down at his uniform, and couldn’t help but notice that his boots were missing. So was his rifle, his knife, his sidearm, his pack, everything. His pants were rolled up to his knees. But he didn’t feel cold. The ice felt cold, the air felt cold, but he wasn’t cold. He could see partially through the ice: the ground, the grass, the matte paint of the landmine trigger.

Exhale. Inhale.

The ground tore away slowly under the ice, and the ice raised up, cracks crawling their way out from the central point beneath his feet. Centimeter by centimeter they slithered across the ice below the battlefield. The soldiers remained idle, still, standing and facing forward. The cracks spread beneath boots and truck tires, then trees; they spread up the tree trunks, into truck tires, onto boots; they wrapped around branches, covered sheet metal, and crept across red army uniforms. The soldiers began looking towards Nicolas, their eyes turning first, then necks slowly pointing heads. Cracks spread across faces and hands, across the air, and the grey canopy above. Everyone was looking at him now, as the cracks gave way to the force of the blast, coming from every direction, breaking the world into a hundred thousand fragments cascading towards him. But where were his boots?

Exhale. The pieces blow away. There’s nothing left to breathe.

Tuesday, 9th November, 2032; Barracks C5, Red Army Regional Headquarters, Smolensk, Russia

Nicolas woke reflexively at dawn. He felt the air rush into his lungs as he took a sudden breath. He sat upright, a bit surprised to see he wasn't in the German field. He looked around and found other soldiers just starting to get ready. He also found his hat by the side of the bed. He tried to sit up, and found that he had no legs. At least, no whole legs. He turned to one side and propped himself up, shaking the shadow of the dream from his mind. "That better not happen twice."

"Comrade Kostiy?" Came a voice from behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder.

"Yes sir." He replied firmly. He picked up his hat.

The man stepped forward in front of Nicolas. "I have orders to return you to the CSR Facility as soon as you're ready. Your rehabilitation application is under review." Nicolas saluted him and looked around for his wheelchair. "Did you lose something?" The man asked.

"I came in on a wheelchair. Someone must've taken it while I slept. Мудак." Nicolas complained.

The man smiled a bit in spite of himself. "I'll have one brought to you right away."

"Right away" ended up being 20 minutes, but Nicolas was in no particular hurry. He spent his time glaring back at anyone who didn't have the discipline to stare with peripheral vision. Once he got his wheelchair, he made his way to breakfast, which made him considerably less cranky. He even tried his best to hurry afterwards to accommodate the driver waiting to take him to the facility. He wasn't sure how he felt about this "application for rehabilitation" business, but the government was never easy to work with. Hell, they'd dragged him off to Germany with barely any combat training and thrown him in a minefield. That thought made this whole experience seem altogether pleasant. He smiled as the truck bounced along the road and he did his best to hold on.

Tuesday, 9th November, 2032; Private Office, CSR Facility, Smolensk, Russia

Upon arriving at the facility, Nicolas has been met by a nurse and wheeled directly into a carpeted corridor that felt less clinical than did the other part of the facility he'd experienced. She took him directly into a small office and as she positioned him in the corner, she stated "The doctor will be with you shortly." The room was a bit confusing, as it seemed to lack any significant medical equipment. There was no bed, no scale, no cabinet full of cotton swabs. Rather, there was a large hardwood desk, a side table on which was mounted a skeletal metal hand in a display case, and a few charts depicting human muscle and bone structures next to what appeared to be hardware schematics. Whoever this "doctor" was, he appeared to be doing well for himself; the back wall held a liquor cabinet, the chair behind the desk appeared to be upholstered with genuine leather, and the videoframe included scenes of a very expensive-looking American car.

As Nicolas looked around and got a bit lost in his admiration of the room, the door suddenly opened and in walked a man in a white lab coat. He hung it up on the back of the door as he entered, then turned to Nicolas and reached out his hand. "Ah, Nicolas Kostiy?" He inquired politely.

"That's right." Nicholas responded simply, clutching his chair to avoid falling forward as he shook the man's hand. The "doctor" appeared Asian, and wore a crisp button-up and slacks under his white coat. "And you?"

"I am Doctor Kyou Saito of Tokyo Cybernetics. Are you familiar with the corporation?" The doctor asked before moving past Nicolas and behind his desk.

"You make prosthetics for millionaires, right? Robot arms and things?" Nicolas asked, though he was half-guessing.

Dr Saito paused and squinted a bit. "Yes... but there's more to it than that." He began rifling around in the liquor cabinet as he continued. "The first several models we sold went for a very high price, but super-rich amputees aren't a large market." he said, putting a glass on the desk and pouring something clear into it from a German bottle. "Nor a growth market." He held out the glass to Nicolas. "Drink?"

Nicolas thought about asking what it was, but metahumans didn't get offered drinks by humans very often, so he decided he'd better just enjoy it. "Sure." He did his best to lean forward, but had to meet Dr Saito in the middle. "Thanks."

Saito nodded and continued. "A lot has changed in the field of cybernetics over the past few years. We've cut costs of production considerably, and we've increased responsiveness and dexterity." He produced another glass from the cabinet and poured it two-thirds full for himself. "As well as battery life." He smiled and took a sip. Nicolas sipped his own.

"So do you make legs?" He asked bluntly, gesturing down at his obvious situation.

"Yes, of course. Legs were actually our first development. We can replace nearly any simple musculoskeletal system. And the potential applications of such technology are... exciting, to say the least." The doctor seemed to drift off as he stared at one of his diagrams on the wall.

"Well I already signed my life away to the army brass, so I hope you're here to tell me you have some good news." Nicolas prompted.

"Very good news indeed, Mr Kostiy. Not only are you compatible with our program, but you seem to have an unusual tolerance to the neural interface technology. I'm pleased to tell you that, thanks to your friends in the red army, you'll be receiving a brand new pair of lower legs. Our new state-of-the-art mass-production candidate, with some requested military-grade performance modifications. " Dr Saito said proudly.

"They're not my friends." Nicolas said bitterly. "But... I'm really going to walk again?"

"Not only that," the doctor acknowledged, "but you'll run faster and jump higher than ever before." he said with a slight grin. He finished his drink.

"Hm." Nicolas sat for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing his tusks along his top lip. He threw back the rest of his drink and handed the glass back to the doctor. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow." Saito said with some excitement. It was refreshing to see someone passionate about putting people back together, rather than tearing them apart. A knock on the door belonged to a nurse ready to wheel Nicolas out to a waiting room where a few more tests and were run and he was eventually brought lunch. For the afternoon he was left to himself with a media tablet and an IV drip of some sort of drug. He tried to use the tablet, but it was a newer model with "pop-out" 3D holo projection, and he eventually gave up in mild exasperation. "What will they think of next?" He wondered idly to himself, closing his eyes and listening to the hum of instruments and busy staff out in the hall somewhere.

Wednesday, 10th November, 2032; Pre-Op, CSR Facility, Smolensk, Russia

The night passed before Nicolas knew he was asleep. He couldn't remember any solid dreams, just fragments and vague flashbacks. He was fairly determined not to let this landmine business define the rest of his life, so he did his best to send a clear message to his subconscious to go suck a lemon while he got some new legs installed and carried on. But he wasn't much of a shrink, so he didn't really know how to say things to his own mind. All the same, at least he hadn't had that dream again. So maybe he was listening to himself after all.

The nurse came in early in the morning to change out his IV, informing Nicolas that he was scheduled for surgery late that morning. Nicolas nodded and closes his eyes again, but the nurse shook him. "You'll need to change into this." She said, holding up what Nicolas was fairly certain to be a napkin. He looked at her with a light blend of suspicion and incredulity, but she simply laid it on his bed and walked back out into the hall, closing the door on her way. Nicolas held up the small folded cloth, which unfolded into some kind of apron apparently made for a stripper. He considered it for a full ten minutes before making the attempt.

It was a few hours before the surgery, and Nicolas was fairly certain they were already drugging him with something. He didn't give it much thought as it mostly just made him drowsy and a bit numb. He tried to use the tablet again, but this time his fingers didn't quite work right. Ironically, this seemed to make the experience go more smoothly for him. He toyed with it for a while, not sure if the 3D holo pop-out was that much more fun than the previous day, or if perhaps the tablet was off and he was on better drugs than he first realized. Eventually, however, he inadvertently activated some kind of voice command.

"No, wait, go back. I wanted to watch the news." He said out loud as the world got a bit strange.

"Navigating back." The tablet spoke. "Did you want to: watch the news?"

Nicolas held it at arm's length, staring suspiciously. "Uh... yes."

"Confirmed. Displaying nationally-approved news feeds." The screen split into a few scrolling windows that appeared out of thin air on one side and fizzled out on the other as they went by. Each displayed images and talking people that grew louder as that window came into focus and faded out as the window moved on to the far edge of the projected screen.

"...taken to slang terms like 'troll' and 'elf' for certain varieties of metahumans. UCAS matrix review boards are considering 'hate speech' appeals as..."

"...leaders attending the Metaphysical Climate Summit to discuss the impact of carbon pollution on mana storm patterns with experts from..."

"...Army to begin conducting free mandatory testing for exceptional genetic and supernatural traits in urban populations, with the hope of..."

"...broke down into open violence in the streets as metahuman refugees clashed with UCAS authorities over access to public housing and transportation..."

"...German forces to enlist awakened mercenaries in preparation for a counter-offensive from Berlin. Growing military presence in the area has..."

"Stop. That one." Nicolas commanded. The window in the middle expanded to the entire projection area and began playing at full volume. Nicolas watched silently as the drugs took him in and out of lucidity.

"...concerns over German operatives infiltrating parts of Poland and inciting rebellion in an otherwise contented populous. Routine screenings are being conducted in an effort to detect mental influence by supernatural mechanisms, officials confirmed, after the Warsaw suicide attacks. More information..."
The nurse entered the room, noting with some consternation that Nicolas was still semi-conscious. She adjusted a setting on the IV and left again.
"...reports of shared hallucinations by soldiers in the field. Some eye-witnesses claim to have seen sudden weather shifts, and the Army Center for Communications Research is busy investigating sudden unexplained matrix dead-zones appearing..."
Two nurses and a technician entered the room. Nicolas was asleep on the bed. The tablet blared on in his lap as they wheeled him into surgery.
"...a new era in warfare. Army officials have announced plans to begin mana experiments on metahumans within the coming weeks in order to support the ongoing..."
Nicolas was taken into the operating room. Doctor Saito himself stood waiting in scrubs and surgical gloves, myriad machinery humming with electric life behind him and to one side. The door to the operating room was closed.
"...the place of metahuman veterans in society. Do they have something to offer as civilians? Or should they remain conscripted forever? Citizens flood regional offices with safety concerns about metahuman reintegration..."
Doctor Saito waved the tablet off and a nurse set it aside on a table. The operation had begun.

Friday, 12th November, 2032; Post-Op, CSR Facility, Smolensk, Russia

When Nicolas awakened, the sun was just starting to stream in, gray light bathing the room in a cold morning glow. He felt mostly numb and quite groggy, like he was underwater but could somehow breathe. He couldn't remember anything and wasn't aware of anything at first, but slowly it all came back to him: his enlistment in the army, his combat training, his assignment to the front lines, the camp, the march, the battle, the explosion... "Oh that's right. No legs." the thought struck him as oddly clinical, like he didn't have any strong feelings about it one way or the other. He looked down idly, noting the sheets draped across his legs and where his feet would have been. Where they were now.

It took a moment for the realization to set in. "Wait, what...?" He struggled to sit up, only to find a multitude of wires and a few tubes plugged into him in various locations. He began peeling patches and pulling out needles, much to the objection of his bedside machines. It took more time than he might have otherwise been patient for, but he didn't feel any particular sense of urgency. He mostly felt calm, if not sleepy. The patches came off slowly as he forced his clumsy, numbed fingers to work. The needles came out without any trouble or excessive bleeding. At least, it didn't seem excessive. He couldn't remember how much blood needed to stay inside of a man. But he was practically in a hospital, so he concluded it was someone else's problem.

Once all of the wires and tubes were out of the way, Nicolas pushed himself up with his arms, slowly, weak from the drugs he assumed. Once sitting up, he clutched the sheet with his stiff hand and slowly pulled it back out of the way. From just above what used to be his knees, extensive bandaging extended a few inches to wrap the tops of what appeared to be metal objects--shiny, polished, plated steel. He kept pulling back the sheet and saw the progression down to a metallic ankle, a multi-bearing joint around which pistons and hydraulic tubes connected the leg to the foot. Three metallic toes tipped the structure, and the other leg had the perfect mirror. "Oh that's right. Surgery." There were cables hooked up to these metal attachments, but he couldn't work the releases with his hands the way they were. He was glad to have disconnected the drugs already.

When the nurse arrived, a flurry of reprimands and instrument operations, Nicolas was trying to move his new feet. They didn't want to budge. He was told they'd be operational, like his old legs, but right now they seemed to be glorified stilts. As the nurse got the last machine to quit beeping, Nicolas turned to her and reported, "Nurse, my legs are broken." She gave him an impatient smile and exited the room, leaving him to wonder why she was being so rude. He turned to his new legs and thought for a moment. "Electronics have an 'on' button, right?" Then he remembered the tablet from before. "Uh... legs on." Nothing happened, and as he turned a bit red, he was glad to see that nobody was around for that special moment in his life. "Must be a button..." he thought as began fumbling for an "on" switch.

Saturday, 12th October, 2075; outside Knight-Errant holding facility, Tacoma

Al was smoking in the cab of his Gaz across the street from the K-E lock-up on North 21st and Stevens in Tacoma. Processing was running late. As usual. But he’d brought tacos and plenty more smokes, so he didn’t mind waiting.

He had one eye on his mirrors. This was essentially enemy turf. He was pretty sure Arty’s boys hadn’t yet tipped to him being not dead, and the longer it stayed that way the more relaxing his life would be. His other eye was on the door - not the big double glass doors at the top of the wide steps, but the small orange door over near the corner, where they kicked loose any releases that hadn’t ever gotten as far as sentencing. And today that would be Mordecai. Again.

Mordecai Sparks could tie one on with the best of them. But he was a peaceful drunk. Hell, he could be downright respectful, in a pinch. He’d probably learned there was no percentage in tussling with the rollers long before Al ever knew him. So when the drunk wagon rounded him up, he would chat politely, answer questions, be apologetic, even obsequious. If more miscreants and evildoers knew that one simple trick, the prisons would be half empty. Thing was, they probably did know it. But there was something about being a criminal. And there was something about being drunk. Made knowing real different from remembering, and another world away from doing.

But Mordecai, he had it down. And that’s why they always let him out the next day.

And they’d shared smokes. So Al was generally there to pick him up.

Sunday, 14th November, 2032; Recovery, CSR Facility, Smolensk, Russia

With two more days of bed rest, Nicolas was getting restless. He had already broken his tablet somehow, and was now reduced to eavesdropping on passing nurses, techs, and the occasional doctor. He picked up small tidbits about the war, how victory was assured but slow, as well as discussions about compatibility, cybernetic limitations, and glimpses into the fates of some other patients kept elsewhere. Not many nurses entered his room, and when they did they kept telling him ”The doctor will be in to see you soon.” It didn’t take many of those for him to start losing faith.

Finally, just when he was weighing his chances at stilt-legging it out of there, doctor Saito arrived. Nicolas was just finishing his lunch, poking at the so-called “gell-o”. He put down his fork and looked up at the doctor, but Saito spoke first. ”So, how is the patient feeling?” In general, Nicolas didn’t appreciate being addressed as an object, but he was more sensitive about being metahuman than anything. Besides that, he needed answers, and bristling wasn’t going to help anything. ”The legs don’t do anything.” he complained.

”We haven’t installed the power packs into those units yet. It’s best to make sure there’s full cellular integration before we start stressing anything.” Saito explained.

”Sorry, once more, in plain Russian?” Nicolas said with a wince.

”Cellular integration. The metal of your cybernetic prosthetic is fused to a synthetic bio-material that removes the risks and complications of installation onto an otherwise closed amputation. Less infection, no fluid leaks, and most importantly, full tissue cooperation. It will feel, from your perspective, like your real legs.” Saito shrugged. ”More or less.”

”Well… how do I get some power packs? Who do I have to kill?” Nicolas said with a tusky grin.

”You’ll have to talk to Ms Zhirov about that. But I can get you your power packs.” Saito said, making his exit and catching a nurse out in the hall. Nicolas cocked his head and gave a quizzical look at Saito’s remark. ”Wait, what?” Out in the hall he could hear Saito instructing the nurse to remove the bandages. She entered his room and began unwrapping his legs. He started, ”Hey, the doctor just said…” but then he remembered how poor these nurses were for conversation, much less information, so he let it go and watched in silence.

Sunday, 14th November, 2032; Recovery, CSR Facility, Smolensk, Russia

Nicolas looked down at his new legs with curiosity more than anything. He'd already sort of come to grips with losing them, and had just spent the past few days accepting he had them back, or new ones rather. But of course they didn't work yet, and they'd been partially wrapped up until now. Of course the foot had been visible the entire time. It was plain, little more than a shiny metallic shoe with a complex joint assembly at the ankle and some barely-visible wiring and tubing buried under the shifting plates. The bottom had a number of small to medium circles, like perhaps some kind of tread, but it didn't look like it would help much on tile or, for instance, ice.

As the wrappings came off, for the first time since the minefield, he didn't see stumps below his knees. The skin was once again unbroken, continuing into what looked like thick-woven cloth stitched through it. This canvas covering ran down a quarter of the length of his lower leg where it was tucked into a bracket that extended the rest of the way to the ankle joint. He touched it, but couldn't feel anything past his skin. Still, the canvas material seemed both tough and pliable, and as Nicolas shifted his knee, the material shifted and stretched with his own skin. "Must be that bio-material stuff Saito was talking about." Nicolas thought to himself.

There, on the back of the leg below the artificial calf, previously obstructed by the wrapping, was some kind of door. It was very small and seemed to lead up into the middle of the artificial leg. Nicolas figured this was where the power pack went, though he'd kind of expected something bigger. As the wrapping on the other leg came off, he noted the same door. In fact, both legs were refreshingly identical, if mirrored. The nurse left unceremoniously, dumping the wrappings into a bin on her way out. Nicolas ignored her and continued to examine his legs. It looked like there was still some mild inflammation around the transition area, but he figured that would work itself out. Not wanting to wait for the good doctor, Nicolas hoisted himself out of bed and--standing, after a fashion--down to the floor. The legs held his weight, but it was awkward without any ankle control and still with no feeling below the knee. He was surprised after a moment how much it didn't really hurt, however. He hadn't been on any painkillers lately, to his knowledge, so this surgery must be top-notch.

Saito walked in to find the scantily-gowned Nicolas staggering towards a cabinet. "I know they stashed my pants around here somewhere." He said with determination in his voice.

"Your old uniform has already been confiscated and re-issued. You'll receive a new uniform from Ms Zhirov at a later date. For now, you can use these." Saito set down the small briefcase-style container in his hand and rummaged through a high cabinet, producing off-white cloth pants and a simple matching shirt. He tossed them to Nicolas. As he began putting on the shirt, Dr Saito picked up the container and set it on the bed, popping the latches and laying open the side. Within were four long white and blue rods with metallic end caps. One end of each seemed slanted, while the other had some kind of plug. "Sit down." the doctor instructed. Nicolas was happy to oblige.

Doctor Saito picked up a rod with delicate fingers and held it up. "This is a power pack, a poly-alloy storage filament surrounded by capacitive gel and chemical catalyst. It holds enough power to keep your legs operating under high-stress conditions for two days, or a full week of normal usage in a typical combat zone. If you're just out for a stroll here and there, almost a month." he explained as he handed it to Nicolas. "Try not to stand in a fire though. They're sensitive to heat." he added as he picked another rod from the case.

"Why not?" Nicolas asked, curious. "What would happen?"

"Leg up." Saito said, indicating Nicolas to bring up one of the cyberlegs onto his lap. "It will explode. And burn." He added in answer.

Nicolas brought up his leg as instructed. "Oh." he replied simply.

Saito pushed the plug end of the rod against the door on the back of Nicolas's new leg, and it slid in with a *click*. The slanted portion on the exposed end lined up perfectly with the artificial calf, leaving an almost seamless surface. ”You try the other one.” Saito instructed. Nicolas put his leg back down, and noticed that his foot moved. He gasped slightly, rocking his foot back and forth on the ankle. He noticed Saito waiting, looking a bit condescending, and brought up his other, still rigid leg. He did what the doctor had done, and with a satisfying *click* the power pack was in. He put that leg down with the other and spent a moment moving his feet around.

”Everything seems to be in order. If you’ll head up to the front desk, you can check out at your leisure. Your ride will be here in a few minutes.” Saito instructed. He also hit the “call” button on the bed.

”Just like that? I can walk again?” Nicolas asked, still a bit stunned at his functional legs and feet.

”Just like that.” Saito replied with a confident smile. ”Welcome to the wonders of cybertechnology.” With that, the doctor exited.

Nicolas sat there for a bit, still uncertain. He finally lowered himself back down to the floor and stood. It was easy. No crutches, no leaning on the bed, he just… stood. He still couldn’t feel anything, but there he was, on his own two feet again. He took one step, then another. His ankles responded exactly as he’d remembered with his real feet. Walking numb was still a bit jarring, but he made it to the door just as the nurse entered, almost knocking him over.

”Oh--sorry, I’m here to escort you to the front desk for checkout. Congratulations on your recovery.” the nurse said politely.

”Thanks.” Nicolas said after a slight pause, wondering if this nurse had finished her un-personality training yet. He followed her down the hall.

Monday, 15th November, 2032; Orientation, Secret Subterranean Military Installation, Smolensk, Russia

The entrance to the place had been thoroughly disguised as a mining operation, or perhaps had at one time indeed been one. However, the elevators were much too smooth and finished for something so crude. No tones or lights gave any indication of floors or depth, but Nicolas estimated they were roughly 500 kilometers below the surface. The four armed escorts had led him and three other cybernetics recipients into a small conference room. There were about twenty seats, but four had already been taken by the time Nicolas and his group arrived. For the next hour they waited, joined by another set of 4 every several minutes until the room was full. A sign at the front of the room simply read “remain seated and silent until your instructor arrives”. Two well-armed, bulky metas stood in the back of the room wearing full combat armor. Nicolas decided the sign probably wasn’t a suggestion.

When she finally arrived, it was the first time Nicolas had seen Alina Zhirov since she’d put him on a transport for Russia. She wore the same suit, glasses, and black gloves, but this time her hair was up--no pointy ears--and she appeared to be wearing boots instead of heels.

”I thought we were going back to the front line.” Nicolas remarked as she approached the front center of the room. Some others nodded or voiced mild agreement.

”I said you were going back to Germany, comrade-” she paused, pointing at him briefly then turning the back of her hand towards him, spreading her fingers a bit. She appeared to be reading for a moment. ”-Kostiy. Not the line. But if you speak out again without permission I will put you on the next truck.” Her words were sharp and impersonal, and she barely bothered with eye contact.

Nicolas sat back in his chair, suddenly wishing he had something to fidget with. He ended up crossing his arms and remained silent.

Alina addressed the room. ”You will all find a package under your seats. Open them now.”

Beneath each chair sat a single parcel, a plastic clamshell package containing some kind of headband. The room’s occupants looked awkwardly at each other as they all realized they had no knives or other means of opening the packages. Some began squeezing or twisting their packages in an effort to open them.

”Let us take this opportunity to address weapons.” Alina spoke in a condescending and authoritative tone. ”You will notice none of you have any potential weapons, not even a pen knife. This is intentional. No weapons are permitted during any portion of your orientation or training in this facility. Any weapons you attempt to smuggle in will be found and used against you in the most creative way possible.” she said without the slightest hint of humor. ”A knife will be passed around for your convenience. Do not waste time and do not get blood on this floor.”

The others looked at Alina with varying levels of fear, bewilderment, and resentment. Nicolas looked at his package and thought a moment, then simply pierced it with his tusk and pried it open. He grinned a wide, tusky grin at Alina, who returned an icy stare. But Nicolas was fairly certain he saw the corner of her mouth jump up slightly, the hint of a smirk flashing across an otherwise stone face.

”Within your packages you will find a monocle. This object is critical to your training. If you should misplace or damage it, you will be expelled from this program and left on the street with nothing but an invoice for the cost of the equipment, payable within 60 days to avoid criminal charges.” As she finished speaking, she swiped a gloved hand at the air in front of her.

Nicolas pulled out the headband and put it on. It wore like an eyepatch, except instead of a patch, a circular, contoured plastic frame held a tinted glass optic in the center. As he fit it over his right eye, suddenly the world changed. Where there had been simply a blank wall, now there was a screen. Text and images were plastered across it in a light digital blue. Alina stepped to one side and commanded, ”When you have finished reading the information behind me, tap the contact point on the right side of your monocle.” A few minutes passed as Nicolas and the others read in silence. A human in the back threw up. He was escorted out. ”Do not get vomit on this floor either.” Alina stated flatly. ”So the count is 19.”

Saturday, 12th October, 2075; outside Knight-Errant holding facility, Tacoma

Right on schedule. Damn pawns could read a clock, that was for sure. Mordecai’s scarecrow form was the fourth one out. He was skinny and he was tall and he was blinking in the sunlight, which made his muttonchop sideburns twitch. Al had a beer in one hand and a hot sauce-dripping taco in the other, so he didn’t bother waving. Just let the other guy look around until he spotted him. Licked his fingers off and reached over to open the door. Mordecai settled into the seat without a thank you or even a how do you do.

Al checked his mirrors and slipped out into traffic, as usual eschewing his autopilot’s assistance. Sparks said, “Zoe’s got the bar tonight.” So instead of heading for Humpty’s, Al headed nowhere at all.

Saturday, 12th October, 2075; Carl's Bad Cavern, Renton, Seattle

Renton, which was where Mordecai said he had somewhere to be later. And it was way off the beaten path of anyone that might know Arty Gianelli. Some creative genius had done a sort of papier mache attempt at some stalactites and so forth around the entrance to the place, but the theme thing stopped there. Al had told the waitress he thought she ought to wear some animal skins, like a cave girl, and had gotten a blank stare, followed by an uncertain, tip-hungry attempt at a smile.

It wasn’t quite an all-goblin bar, but there were plenty of orks around. But Al and Mordecai were modern gentlemen possessed of enlightened attitudes, so drinking with a few tuskers didn’t bother them a bit. They drank and smoked in silence for a while. Courage fortified some, Mordecai spoke first. “Never again, Al. Never again.”

“What? The holocaust?”

“Never again.” And he’d drank some more.

There was a poker game going at a nearby table. Some working stiffs, including a guy in a suit, no tie, whiling away their after hours over a friendly few nuyen. Al pegged them for crew at the nearby soy processing plant, with the guy in the suit some kinda third-tier salesman - used cars or factory-second furniture.

“Never again,” Mordecai started up again. His words weren’t slurring much yet.

“Care ta elaborate?”

“Never again is this Southern boy spending another damned night on a piss-stinking puke-slick floor of another Knight Errant drunk tank.”

“Well, s’pose you’ll have ta leave off drinkin’ ta excess.”

Mordecai gave a stuttering, squinty-eyed sarcastic ‘yeah, like that’s gonna happen’ nod.

“Well, then what’s yer back-up plan?”

The taller man kept nodding, only earnestly now. Convinced and increasingly confident. “You’ll see. Tonight. I’ll show you tonight.”

“Well, we got time ta play some cards first?”

Sunday, 21st November, 2032; Hand-to-Hand Combat Training, Secret Subterranean Military Installation, Smolensk, Russia

The training for the past several days had been long and exhausting, with augmented-reality classroom sessions interspersed with physical exercises. Tactics and advanced firearm training were all conducted primarily through helpful overlays on the monocles that demonstrated proper form or target locations. Human instructors were also present, barking commands at whoever showed the greatest ineptitude for each course. Alina had been present for handgun training, but automatic weapons was taught by a slick Russian officer who had a way of making you feel like an idiot, and small artillery was led by a grisled field veteran sporting his own cybernetic arm.

After a lecture on anti-magic defense measures, the class was ushered into a room with a padded floor and several training dummies. By this time the class was down to 17, having lost a member to a smart mouth and another to an emotional episode related to his battlefield experience. There were 3 people to a dummy except for one, which only had two. Nicolas made sure to be one of the two, so he could squeeze in some extra practice time. Monocles called out target locations and showed attack arcs while Alina glanced around from a corner of the room, scrolling on a tablet and writing notes with a stylus.

Nicolas made a point to try to catch Alina's glances, though he wasn't sure if he was flirting or bucking authority in his own subtle way. She mostly ignored him, but there were times where he was certain her gaze was lingering in his direction. Today she was wearing leather pants and a fitted leather jacket, unzipped to show a tight black undershirt. Her hair was up and her gloves were on, as usual, and she still wore combat boots. The all-black outfit made her look like some kind of spy impersonator to Nicolas, but he didn't actually know what her job had been. For all he knew, she actually was a spy.

As the class continued, Nicolas took advantage of the extra dummy time to advance to the next training level again and again. While the others were still trying to get kicks to land in the right place, Nicolas was doing punch, clinch, and knee combinations to the satisfying approval of the monocle. He caught Alina staring with her tablet at her side. She set it down and made her way over, taking off her glasses and tossing them behind her on the way.

"Comrade Kostiy," the woman began, managing to still look attractive in spite of her rigid gate and professional demeanor. "Is your monocle functioning properly?" she asked, clearly questioning his apparent progress.

"Hmph!" Nicolas grunted in indignation. "It's working just fine."

"Let me see it." Alina demanded. Nicolas took off the headband and handed it to her. She looked it over for a moment, then looked closely into the optic. She handed it to the other class member at that dummy. "Show me what you have learned." she said, taking up a fighting stance opposite Nicolas. He eyed her up and down, putting up his fists in the way the monocle had shown. After a moment she waved him forward and he decided she wasn't kidding, so he threw a combination at her like he did the dummy. She blocked them all with astounding speed and finality, even making his wrist a bit sore from the interception. He pulled back into his ready stance and looked at her, waiting for further instructions. "Now show me blocking." She commanded.

Nicolas shifted his weight back and forth, waiting for the strikes. Alina was still and cold as steel, waiting for her moment to strike. The punches were swift and sudden, but Nicolas managed to deflect most of the force. Another jab and a kick were blocked with reasonable success as Alina tested for weaknesses. After she pulled back, Nicolas kept his hands up waiting for another strike. Alina simply put her arms down and pointed at his feet casually. "Your footwork is wrong." she said flatly. Nicolas looked down between his arms at his angled stance, noting the position of the legs and feet. By the time he saw her moving in his peripheral vision, it was too late--suddenly he was looking at her from the floor, a smug grin on her face as she stood over him. "The course will teach you where to put your body, but you must decide where to put your mind." With that, she walked away and picked up her glasses. His classmate tossed the monocle on his chest and took advantage of the moment to take over the practice dummy, clumsily throwing wide punches at the body. Nicolas simply laid still a moment, trying to figure out exactly what just happened.

Tuesday, 23rd November, 2032; Class Barracks, Secret Subterranean Military Installation, Smolensk, Russia

Nicolas sat on a bunk with a scratchy grey blanket neatly over top of plain brown sheets. A lamp secured to the metal corner post of the bed cast the only illumination in the room, short of the mid-level evening lights streaming in through the window from the hall outside. Most of his classmates were already asleep, but some had disappeared to the cafeteria, serving as the only functional analog to a bar this far below the surface. Nicolas left his metal feet on the ground, his elbows resting on his knees as he paged through the old journal. More and more field gear seemed to be going to synthetic leather, so it was nice to hold genuine, aged, cracking animal hide in his hands. The monocle had text highlighting and limited night-vision, but it felt nice to just read with his eyes for a change.

Although he was completely against the draft, his conscription into the Red Army certainly simplified some things for Nicolas. Since he'd exhibited the sudden onset of "meta" symptoms, tensions at home and been steadily on the rise. His family didn't know how to react to his condition, at first considering it a medical concern, then a disability, then a religious sign. The cultural pressure to fear and hate him and others like him only grew as more and more metas were born or discovered. When he was "transported" to a military training camp, he took little besides the clothes on his back. One thing he did take, however, was his grandfather's journal. If his father had known, he'd have blacked his eye over it. But as it was, he was essentially out of contact with them anyway. So the journal was his now, and whatever his father might feel about it was his business.

It was strange to read about the world before. No matrix, no metas, no holo tablets or cybernetics. People replaced legs with rods and springs, they read from paper or fixed screens in boxes, and their only connection to the world was their neighbors or libraries full of paper books not unlike the one he now held. Nicolas marveled at the simplicity. He wondered if life would have been better for him then, without tusks or monocles or wars. He stroked his chin as he considered the words, black ink scratched into soft paper, and the world they described. Cold, plastic, confined reality intruded again when the door opened wide, but instead of letting in more light, the room was darkened by the bulky silhouette that walked in.

This human would only introduce himself as "Ice", but nobody was too sure why. He almost looked more like an "ork", as they were apparently now called, than did Nicolas. His large frame and powerful build contrasted with his withered intellect and social skills, and he seemed to always be the last to finish reading in class. This was made more obvious by the fact that he mumbled everything to himself as he read. Everyone knew better than to make fun of him though, because in addition to his impressive stature, he sported a cybernetic arm that supposedly had some extra punch to it. As though Ice needed extra punch.

The unsteady stance and slow, wandering expression told Nicolas that Ice was drunk. His breath confirmed it after his eyes locked onto Nicolas and he staggered over to get in his face. "Hey, you, I got words for you." the big man said, slapping the journal out of Nicolas' hands. "Outside." he added after noting the other sleeping classmates and slowly processing the situation. Ice staggered back outside and left the door open, looking back over his shoulder. Nicolas picked up the journal and closed it, tucking it under the scratchy blanket. With a sigh, he stood up and walked towards the door.

Tuesday, 23rd November, 2032; Hall Outside Barracks, Secret Subterranean Military Installation, Smolensk, Russia

Ice stood like a bull on its hind legs. He was about that stable in his current condition too. When Nicolas closed the door, Ice put a finger right up to the bridge of his nose. "You been showing off in class. Trying to show me up? Get me kicked out?" The smell of cheap alcohol was almost suffocating at this range.

Nicolas responded, "I don't have Дерьмо with you, Ice. I'm just here to pay off my cyber and get out of the army with some change in my pocket. Nobody's trying to make you look bad." He turned his head slightly to one side and coughed into his hand in response to the man's breath.

Ice was clearly gunning for a fight, but confused that Nicolas apparently wasn't. "Well, uh..." He thought for a moment, twisting his face. "You make fun of me behind my back, don't you? I know it. I hear you whispering about me in class. Making jokes. You think you're better? This training too easy for you?" he said with a snarl.

"Listen Ice, I got drafted into the army, I got my legs blown off by a land mine, and then I got stuck in this bunker as an alternative to living on the streets. I've never been great with words, so just ссать off before you get us both kicked out." Nicolas said with finality and reached for the door. Ice caught him by the shoulder and pushed him back. Nicolas staggered for a second, but caught himself before the dull metal fist came surging through the air where his chest had been. He stepped back a few steps and took up a defensive stance like he'd learned in class. Ice drunkenly lumbered forward and came in with his real arm for a left cross. His left was slower, probably because it wasn't battery-powered and computer-assisted. Nicolas pushed it aside and closed the gap, jabbing Ice in the ribs as momentum brought them together. Ice brought his left elbow down to try to catch the blow, but was much too late. He did, however, continue the leftward motion to bring his cyberarm down like a sledgehammer towards Nicolas' head. Nicolas ducked and rolled behind Ice, grabbing his leg from the back and putting his shoulder into the man's knee. Ice went off-balance and crashed into the wall, sliding to the ground. Nicolas stood to find an angle of attack, but took a kick in the gut instead. Ice was strong, but the kick was wild and poorly executed. In the time it took him to get up, Nicolas was already shaking it off.

The fight went on for another minute, Nicolas delivering real blows but constantly having to dodge the cyberarm and getting put into bad positions. A well-timed shot hit a nerve in Ice's shoulder that seemed to shut down the left side. But the cyberarm came back, and although Nicolas blocked it, he felt the blow resonate through his arm. He stood a pace away from Ice as they shifted side to side, both in the best stances they could manage given the circumstances. Then Nicolas remembered his footwork. "Oh Дерьмо, it's Alina!" He said, looking over Ice's shoulder and making like he was going for the barracks door.

Ice turned around and looked down the hall. "She's not--" He started to say as he turned back, but Nicolas was already in the air and his foot came into hard contact with Ice's face. A spray of blood hit the near wall as Ice grabbed at his mouth and stumbled back. A quick strike to the gut and a hammer fist to the back of the head and Ice was a pile on the floor. He was still conscious of course; it looked like it would take a lead pipe or one more drink to knock out a guy like that. But he seemed to have the motivation knocked out of him, and that was good enough for Nicolas. He turned back to the barracks and went in, pressed the intercom, and called a medic.

Saturday, 12th October, 2075; Carl's Bad Cavern, Renton, Seattle

There was a Zeke Harris tune playing, and Al decided ork country music was probably the worst idea in musical history, and certainly the worst thing about being in a tusker bar. But he wasn't here to pick a fight. He had been here to drink. Now he was here to win some money.

The three orks he'd decided were plant workers and the human he'd marked as a salesman of some sort were happy enough to make room at the table for new blood and new money. They were playing for cash, which always felt more like real poker, and the sums were definitely small enough to be covered by the quantities of scrip working stiffs might happen to have cluttering their pockets. Nothing anyone was going to get too upset over, so the atmosphere was congenial enough. Certainly not enough to cheat for, and Al always played clean against anyone he could see trying to put in an honest day to keep bread on his family's table.

Which wasn't to say he didn't intend to win all their money. He lost some but won more, and before long the table was really all about him and the guy in the suit. They were playing California draw, and Al had drawn the mother of all crap hands. So he'd bet small and drawn only one card, because he'd noticed the guy was a sucker for a reasonably well-planned bluff. Allowed a faint smile to cross his lips when he saw the card, which was almost real because it did at least give him a pair of sixes.

The other guy bet big, so Al did too, going all in, hoping to scare him off quick now that he'd committed enough to make the risk worthwhile.

Well, the feller called. Or tried to, because he couldn't cover it with what he had on the table. Al figured he'd rather lose a little lunch money than win that way, so when the guy said he had the forty nuyen he needed out in his car, they trusted him for it and showed their cards.

Al turned over his pair of sixes with a chagrined shrug, not even bothering to look at the other man's hand until he heard the man curse softly. He didn't even turn his cards over, just waved his hand indicating Al had won.

Saturday, 12th October, 2075; behind Carl's Bad Cavern, Renton, Seattle

Could have tipped Al off his chair with a feather. The guy hadn't eeemed that bad at cards. But when he rose from the table he nearly lost his footing - looked like he was drunker than he'd seemed. His loss, Al thought as he gathered his winnings. The man tried to wander off, but Mordecai caught a handful of his shoulder.

"Whoa, there, kemo sabe. Little matter o' forty nuyen, an' since that equals twenty cheap beers, reckon I'm inclined ta collect," Al said.

"Yeah, sure, I was just going to the little boys' room. I wouldn't rip you guys off."

Mordecai, pretty drunk himself, looked like he wanted to follow the man in, but a nearby ork said, "It's alright - no window in there."

They waited, and the man came out, drying his hands on the sleeves of his suit coat.

"I'm right behind the bar," he said.

They went around back. The alley was piled with garbage and there were no lights, but that wasn't an issue for Al's fancy eyes. There next to an overflowing dumpster was a beater '54 Mercury Comet that looked like its ancient steel gasoline-chugging chassis was held together by duct tape and baling wire. The guy opened the passenger-side door, reached into the glove box, rummaged around for a moment, and came out with a couple of notes. He handed them over, but as Al reached out his hand the money winked right out of existence and there was a dark blotchy tentacle extending out of the guy's sleeve and quick as a flash it was coiled tight around Al's wrist, dozens of suction cups holding it fast in place. It started to pull.

Mordecai looked on quizzically, until the other sleeve produced two more tentacles that came at him. He backed up but hit a wall, then started batting them away. "Al...this guy's got tentacles for hands," he announced as if it was breaking news.

Al tried to resist being drawn in, but he just wasn't that strong - hadn't been for years - and the dug-in heels of his Docs started skidding towards the guy, whose head had turned into a bulbous blob sporting two huge eyes.

Mordecai batted away another tentative tentacle probe, saying, "Fuck you, octopus guy. Al...this guy's got tentacles for hands," as if perhaps his first news flash had gone unnoticed. Sadly, the hand-tentacles had been mere feints, and another suckered appendage had writhed its way out of a pant-leg. It latched onto Mordecai's right foot and yanked hard, dropping him onto his back with a crack.

There were no more clothes now. Just a big-ass octopus dragging Al's heart towards a sharp-looking beak of some sort. He pulled his knife with his left hand and slashed, but the blade had no effect on the rubbery flesh, and another tentacle appeared out of nowhere and dashed the blade from his hand. He grabbed anything he could find off the garbage heap, tossing old shoes, broken crockery, and an old bicycle tire at the thing, with unsurprisingly little effect. Mordecai was doing a little better, having wrapped an arm around the wheel of the dumpster. "Fucking tentacles, Al."

The creature's needle beak inches from his heart, Al took his cigarette from his mouth and thrust it into the thing's right eye. it bellowed with a moan they heard, but not with their ears. They never could explain it to anyone. It just pulled harder, but it gave Al a chance to swing up and plant his boots to either side of the beak. He still wasn't strong enough, but pushing like only a man about to have his balls skewered by a giant octopus beak can push, he bought himself enough time to fish his Zippo out of his pocket and bring the flame to the tentacle that had his wrist.

That did the trick - the thing bellowed again and let him go - only to launch itself bodily toward the prone Mordecai. But what Al lacked in strength he made up for in speed, and just as the thing bore down on his friend he slammed the open door of the Comet onto a straggling tentacle, bringing the thing's beak up with a jerk just inches short of the old roadie's face. Al grabbed a soiled disposable diaper, winced at the odor, pulled off the car's gas cap and shoved the synthetic white fabric in. It'd burn slow, he thought as he held the Zippo to it, but it'd burn. The monster turned on Al, but the little man skipped back easily. He glanced tellingly at the burning diaper, and the thing let go of Mordecai to dislodge its caught tentacle from the car door.

The two men sprinted to the alley mouth and got around a corner before light and shattered glass flashed out into the street with a dull whump. Looking back, they saw the flames of the burning car quickly ignite the surrounding refuse heaps, turning the entire alley into a blazing conflagration.

"Shit. You think it got out?" asked Mordecai.

"Hell if I know. Reckon it opened the door when it looked like a human, it could do it again. But if'n it could run fer shit it wouldn't've needed to go to so much trouble to lure a couple o' drunks back in there inna first place. Give 'er fifty-fifty."

"Al, that thing had tentacles for its fucking hands."

"It sure did, amigo. An' I'm out forty nuyen an' a damned good knife."

Wednesday, 24th November, 2032; Alina's Office, Secret Subterranean Military Installation, Smolensk, Russia

"You've gotten blood on my floor, comrade." Alina's tone was cold and indifferent. She stood in front of her desk facing the back wall, her back turned to Nicolas from the moment he entered. Two men were also in the room, but not meta security. One looked like perhaps an aid or assistant, while the other looked like a high-ranking officer--presumably her superior, but Nicolas still didn't know her exact position or the full extent of her authority. The officer looked at Nicolas with a sort of tired pity. The aid looked nervously at Alina and seemed to be keying in something on a tablet. "I told you not to get blood on my floor."

Nicolas cleared his throat and responded. "Actually, so said that floor."

Alina turned her head, almost looking over her shoulder at him. "You think cleverness will save you here, comrade Kostiy?"

Nicolas looked straight ahead into the air as he replied, "I wasn't trying to be clever. Only precise." The officer shook his head.

"You assaulted a fellow class member outside of a sanctioned sparring area. Do you understand the severity of this infraction?" Alina asked, almost looking up. Though with her glasses, she might well just be reading something more interesting than their current conversation.

"He did the assaulting. Come on, you know Ice." He said with an empathetic hand gesture. The officer scoffed and looked down, apparently being all too familiar with the man who called himself such.

"Comrade Gheata was discharged from the program this morning. He will be serving on the front line." Alina answered. "But we are not here to discuss him. We are here to discuss you." The aid looked at Nicolas with a worried expression.

"I acted in self-defense. I'm sure you have video of the whole thing. What would have been a more correct response?" Nicolas asked genuinely.

"You called a medic with the intercom, yes?" Alina asked in a leading manner. "Considerate of you." She added.

"Yes I did. My intention was to make him someone else's problem." Nicolas responded.

Alina paused for a moment, then tilted her head down and continued. "Which is what you should have done to start with."

"What?" Nicolas asked, confused. He could be clever or sarcastic at times, but a lot of implied meanings escaped him.

"You should have used the intercom to call for a superior to mediate your dispute." Alina explained.

Nicolas was silent for a moment. He scowled, even turning a bit red as the frustration built. He hadn't even considered that option. It never once occurred to him. "With all due respect, comrade Zhirov, nothing in our training has given me the idea that I should call someone else to fight my battles for me."

Alina turned around to face him. Her face was expressionless, her gaze unwavering. "This is why you are not leadership material, comrade. Fighting your own battles is brave, but avoiding conflict when possible is strategy." She silently turned her head to look the officer in the eyes. He sighed, then nodded. Alina continued, looking back to Nicolas. "We have decided not to promote you at this time. Well fought, comrade."

Nicolas made eye contact, not even disguising the confusion written all over his face. Alina leaned in and spoke in a low tone, "You walk away from this one, comrade. Don't let it happen again." She stood up straight again and looked into nothing. "You are dismissed."

Saturday, 12th October, 2075; Smithers Road, Renton, Seattle

Al and Mordecai were already unsteady on their feet when they made it to the next dive, where they switched from beer to whiskey and got down to business. Half an hour and seven shots apiece later, Al asked, “So tell me now…”

“What?”

“What you was sayin’ afore…” Al’s cigarette slipped out from between his fingers, and he nearly fell off his chair retrieving it.

“About the….umm…” Mordecai crossed his eyes as he focused on forming words with his lips and tongue…”about the tennacles?”

“No no no nononono….” Al nodded off but just for a half a second. “No…no….NO. The never again thing. Never goin’ the drunk tank again, ya said. Whatcha wanned ta come out here for.”

“Shit in the bed, Guthrie, s’posed ta’ve been there at…what time is…bitches fer breakfast, we gotta go.” And Mordecai was up and staggering out the door. Al followed as best he could, colliding with two tables and a door frame on the way out.

They were on South Third, which was fairly busy at the witching hour on any night, but being Saturday had some good traffic. There were girls out, and cars driving by slow enough to shop. Couple of Knight-Errant’s finest keeping an eye on things from the comfort of their car. Other men competing with Mordecai and Al for having the least business being on their feet. The ground was wet from a quick rain that had fallen while they were inside, and a passing Jackrabbit sprayed them as it coursed through a nearby puddle. After two blocks they turned left, headed south on Smithers. There were less people around, except for some wannabe artistes loitering in front of a jazz bar - more interested in being seen outside then hearing what was happening inside.

And then they were standing outside a place called Ink Emporium. Mordecai stood himself up straight and patted a pocket to make sure his credstick was still in place.

“Ink gon’ keep you outta the clink?” Al asked.

“They do more than tats here, Al. Lots more, if you know who to ask.”

“Heh heh. Ink with a happy ending? Reckon I’m jist ‘bout drunk enough…”

“No man, they do…you’ll see. Costin’ everything I got set aside, but fuck them cops. I got an appointment. Called ‘em from Carl’s when you went to the head. Be out inna few hours.”

“A few hours?” Al was sleepy enough now he wouldn’t have minded laying down right there on the sidewalk to wait. Maybe have a little nap. But he said, “I sure as hell ain’t waitin’ out here a few hours.”

“Get a tat then, man. They got those too.”

Al’s right hand went to his left upper arm. Under his brown leather jacket and running down from his shoulder were the names of ten different women. Annika. Charlene. N’shonge. And so on. Each, including the tenth, had a neat black X inked through it, leaving it legible but indelibly deleted. He’d been thinking about adding an eleventh for a while now.

“Reckon I will, kemo sabe. Reckon I will. Lead on.”

Inside there was a lounge, flash everywhere on the walls and in AR. Several people were waiting. Two women that were obviously enthusiastic patrons as well as employees greeted them. Mordecai gave one his name and was told he was late. Al explained what he wanted. Both men were invited to wait It wouldn’t be long before they could go in.

The seating was soft. So was the lighting. And they were both out of cigarettes.

Sunday, 13th October, 2075; alley behind Smithers Road, Renton, Seattle

Daggers were stabbing Al’s cybereyes, right past his flare comps. Experienced with this sort of thing, he factored in his splitting headache and deduced that he was waking up hung over in an alley with his face towards the late-morning sun. As he gradually grew aware of the smell of garbage, the sound of traffic, and the feel of wet pavement, he didn’t need to lift his eyelids to be sure he was right, and silently congratulated himself for his keen reasoning and powers of observation. None of that explained why his hands hurt, which was a strange thing since it was nowhere near August fifth.

“Al?… Al…Al!”

It was Mordecai. Still no need to open his eyes. “Right here, amigo.”

“Who’s Alyce? With a Y.”

“Long time ago, kemo sabe; Galaxy far far…what?!” He sat bolt upright, banging his forehead agonizingly into the corner of a hanging dumpster lid. Sparks flew on his periphery but he looked down at his arm. His jacket was still on…he looked over at his friend and there was the mutton-chopped old guy holding up his left arm. And there was her name.

“What the…” Once again, he didn’t have to look. There was no sensation of fresh work on his own left arm. He reached for his ‘link, chuckling. “Well, alrighty,then, let’s see what they charged ol’ Al fer puttin’ her name on your redneck…waitadamnedminute…twenny-two grand?”

He was on his feet, hangover forgotten, looking for whatever back alley door they’d been thrown out of. “They’ll see what happens they try’n roll ol' Al Guthrie…”

“Al! Al! Hold up, cuz.”

He turned. “What, you comin’?”

“Okay, now jist hold yer horses a sec.” Al shifted foot to foot impatiently. “Right, just sit down there on them steps,” said Mordecai. “I think I know what happened.”

Al sat down on the cast iron grates that formed steps up the back side of a dingy brick building.

“Now put your hand out flat there.”

Al knit his eyebrows quizzically, but did as he was asked.

“Now close your eyes a sec…no, don’t argue, just do it.”

He did so, and a few seconds later there was a crashing clang and pain seared across the back of his hand. His eyes flew open. Mordecai stood in front of him. He had just smashed a cinder block down on Al’s burn-scarred hand. Where the mottled flesh wasn’t bloody it was already bruising, which generally took some doing through all the scar tissue. The bones had obviously been crushed, fingers sticking out at odd angles.

“What the fuck, Sparks! What in Creation would….” Al cursed and Mordecai raised his hands placatingly and things were almost tense for a while but eventually Al calmed down enough to speak, hand held gingerly at his side, horribly misshapen.

“Now, does it hurt?” asked Mordecai.

“Does it…damn right it hurts!”

“Does it hurt like a bitch?”

“Well, yeah…...yeah it does hurt like a bitch.”

Mordecai gave it a minute so sink in. “But does it hurt like a son of a bitch?”

Al fell silent. Finally, “Naw. Naw it don’t. Hell, it don’t hardly even smart no more. Not much.”

“Now make a fist.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

“Hell, it won’t even work…”

“Just try it.”

And Al did. And his fingers closed right up and he made a tight fist. Then opened his bloody hand, fingers splayed, all perfectly in place.

Now it was Mordecai’s turn to cuss. And he did for a few minutes. “They done swapped out the bones in both yer hands with mixed rigidity smart materials, souped up your tendons some, and spliced in localised pain dampers.”

“Never again,” Al said.

“That’s right. Never be in handcuffs again. That was the idea anyway. Hell, containment manacles won’t hold those things.”

“So now I’m out twenty-kay on yer crazy idea o’ proactive emancipation.”

“Well, you always say you’re never going back to jail.”

“There is that. More important, these’ll really help with my magic tricks.”

“I won’t tell no one.”

“Damn straight you won’t. Now let’s go git some breakfast, an’ I’ll tell ya ‘bout the lady yer gon’ have on yer arm the rest o’ yer life.”

June 2071, Forty, home in the Puyallup barrens

Forty looked down at Sylvia’s bloodshot eyes and demanded “Frag it, did you stay up all night AGAIN?”

Sylvia’s gnarled hands smoothed down her housecoat, she tossed her gray hair defiantly, and replied in a disconcertingly girlish voice “I’ve been dancing with Hikado all through the ball, floating like a butterfly. He’ll be back in a moment, he’s just getting us more champagne.”

Forty hissed as she bounded across the room, grappled her sister and deftly yanked the BTL chip from her datajack—all before Sylvia even reacted. Forty managed to channel the hiss into low, fierce, words “Fragging hell, you promised to get some sleep, to keep this crap out of your head,” Forty took a sniff and added “and to take a shower while the fragging water was working—I’m out of prison, I shouldn’t have to live with so much human stink anymore. I’m going to hide all your damn chips, I swear!”

At that threat Silvia finally came to life, bucking and scratching, screaming incoherently. With casual contempt Forty tossed her sister onto their futon. Towering above, fury turning her tan skin ruddy and highlighting the pale stripes of old scars, the elf looked every bit the ex-con that she was. She spat out “Do I need to have a spirit sit on you again?”

Silvia froze like a rabbit that has seen a hawk’s shadow. She whispered back “No. No, not that. Don’t make the Kami see me like this — please!” Tears started leaking down her face and she tried to stifle a sob lest it set her sister off again.

“Then don’t keep slotting so much drek into your head.”

Silvia’s response was flat, defeated “You can’t understand — with the chips I’m young, vital, wanted. What is so good about this?” Her gesture encompassed both the worn one-room apartment and her own worn and wrinkled body “that I should want to come back to it? You wouldn’t understand —you’re an elf, you’ll be young long after everyone else I know is dead.”

Forty snarled silently and she cocked a fist, then she checked herself. Two deep breaths and she reminded “You were young once — and free. You’ve loved, worked, danced all night, and made the choices that left you an old broken chip-head. I spent all that time in prison, just surviving.”

“But you still have a future.”

Forty responded in a flat, cold, voice “And you have a past worth remembering, and could have a lot of years of future still, if you don’t cook your brain first. Most of my memories are of prison, and the ones from before that are only a bit better. Remember hiding in the closet while Dad hammered on the door, waiting to see if he’d break in, waiting to see if Mom would really shoot him if he did? Good times, good times, right?”

Silvia licked her cracked lips, and said nothing.

Finally Forty turned away with a jerk, and picked up a bag from where she’d dropped it inside the apartment door. “I brought food—at least that’s what they said it is. Go see if the water is still running—I don’t care if it is cold now—and get washed up, then come eat something. Maybe you can sleep a couple of hours before you go to the shrine for the daily babysitting — Wait, before you wash up, were there any phone calls? Messages, AROs, whatever they call them now. Were you even aware enough to notice?”

“There was a call on your link, the parole system. I entered the code saying it was you, and that you were here.”

Forty slumped in relief, and admitted “That can’t have been easy, to remember how to deal with that when you were chipped in.” She gave an awkward, self-conscious bow to her sister, and in stilted Japanese stated “I am grateful that you helped me save face.”

Silvia smiled and responded more fluently “Your Japanese is getting better, thank you for practicing it. Also thank you for your acknowledgement of my humble contribution to your well-being.” Sylvia’s smile drifted into a sly expression, and switching back into English she continued with barely suppressed eagerness “I had a call too. There is a new episode of Butterfly Princess! Radiant Shadow has a few copies of the ‘good’ version but she might sell out soon, maybe I could get it?”

Forty slapped the wall, then snapped at her sister “I don’t even have next month’s rent, we’re eating third rate soy, and you want a new fragging BTL? What the hell sis! And the first decent moment we’ve had between us in four days and you turn it into … into … Frag!” Forty spun on her heel and strode the few paces to the far side of the apartment.

Silvia begged “Angela, please!”

“Don’t call me that!”

Sylvia cringed, but continued wheedling “Forty, please! I’ve slotted the old ones so many times, they don’t work right anymore! I was thinking, we could sell Mom’s gun, I don’t think I could manage it anymore and you aren’t supposed to have one anyway—that should pay for it, maybe leave a bit left over, you could go and…” She faded out, then said in puzzlement “You cut off your hair?”

Forty nervously ran a hand through her dark brown buzz-cut. “Yah, it was a rough night. I’ll tell you about it over food, after your shower, OK? And we aren't selling Mom's machine pistol -- that and Mr. Bonsai are the only things we have left from her. Look, maybe after we eat we can bring down Mr. Bonsai and adjust his gravel, its been long enough, don't you think?”

Once the shower was running Forty swore, then muttered “Being a junkie is the worst kind of prison. At least with real prison they were paying to imprison me.”

Then she looked around at the four gray-beige walls of their apartment, swore again, kicked the ratty futon, and admitted “From one box to another. And there ain’t nobody going to let me out of this place, unless I do it myself.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

While Sylvia used tweezers to minutely adjust a few pebbles, Forty explained her night “I knew it would happen sooner or later — one of the sleazebag customers made a slur that I couldn’t let slide, and I told him exactly what sort of slime-mold he was. The Blob called me to his office and reamed me out. I managed to keep my temper that time, but he was talking about my hair being a mess, so I went to the dancer’s change room and found some scissors to cut it off.”

Sylvia made a questioning “Hmmmm?” noise while she focused on the miniature rock garden.

Forty shrugged and admitted “The whole time I was prison, one of the things I looked forward to was being able to grow it long, without it being a danger in fights. But three months out and I decide to cut it even shorter than in prison. Go me.” She ran her fingers through the short, dark, remnants of her hair and added “Anyway, I like how it feels. I think I’ll keep it this way.”

Sylvia asked “I’m not sure if this pinkish pebble is right, where it is. What do you think?”

Forty stared at the tray for a while, breathing slowing down, until she admitted “I really don’t know. It doesn’t look wrong, but I don’t know if it is right either?”

Sylvia nodded and explained “Mom always had issues with that pebble too, it just never seemed to quite fit anywhere.”

Forty stared at the pebble some more, then suddenly started out of her reverie “Oh, subtle sis – not! Anyway, I was telling about my night. One of the customers in my section didn’t like my new haircut, and felt the need to tell everyone nearby that he’d need to have his buddies put a sack over my head before he raped me – not his exact words but his exact meaning. I replied that his wife said he couldn’t find his dick with both hands and an ARO, but that if he wanted I could tell him how I get her off better than he ever did.”

Sylvia turned away from the miniature rock garden to exclaim “You said that to a customer?”

Forty shrugged “I thought it was pretty funny, but I guess they don’t like it at The Zoo when the 'animals' talk back. A bouncer took me back to see The Blob again, he yelled about my hair, yelled about my attitude, fired me, then offered to hire me back as a pit dancer for even less money than I’ve been making slinging cheap soy-beer.”

“Did you take it?”

“Frag no! I told him we should take a walk outside in a thunderstorm, that he was such a greasy ball of lard that lightning would set him off like a bonfire- – that I’d happily dance around that, but that was the only way I’d ever dance for him. The bouncer took exception to my opinion, but he’s all vat muscle and no speed and I was already revved up. I could tell when he made his moved, avoided his lock, tripped him, then had my lightning taloned friend manifest.”

Forty smiled at the memory, and mused “Maybe they believed me about lighting igniting The Blob? Anyway, the bouncer stayed down, so I grabbed a bottle of cheap-ass whiskey off The Blob's desk and took off—although The Blob was already comming for help as I went out the fire escape door. I had my spirit cloak me before anyone got eyes on me. Then I hiked home from Loveland.”

Sylvia mumbled a quick prayer in Japanese, thanking the Kami for watching over her sister, then switched back to English to chide “Oh Forty, why can’t you be more patient? What if he calls you in to Knight Errant? You don’t have a license for using magic! They’d lock you up again for sure, but this time they’d know, they have ways of locking down magic you know.”

“I know, last few years I was in a more mixed prison, there was this elf-wannabe whose a shaman or something, she said. Anyway, they had her locked in special cuffs the whole time cause of her magic, so I guess it is true. She managed to teach me a few things despite the cuffs, but she couldn't really do any bippety-boppety-boo stuff herself.” Forty rubbed at her own wrists and shivered, then returned to the topic. “I’m pretty sure I’m safe from The Blob calling me in, he breaks too many laws, and doesn’t pay enough bribes to want a lot of law attention. Anyway, that was my night—except that I found an all-night Snack-Shack and traded what was left of the whiskey for some so-called food, then hiked home. Best night of fun I’ve had since I got out., to be honest.”

Sylvia shifted the pinkish pebble, then reproved “But you lost your job.”

Forty shrugged “Yah-but it is all good. It was never going to pay our way out of this hole anyway. I’m going to find ways to do better.”

Sylvia frowned, but kept her voice gentle as she riposted “Serving beer at The Zoo was the best job you’d found in four months since getting out. With your criminal SIN … I know it isn’t fair, but I know the discrimination, just being your sister made it hard sometimes. I was so lucky to get hired at Shiawase.”

“Yah, real lucky. What was it, thirty five years with no real promotion because no matter how much you studied Japanese and Shinto your only a quarter Japanese, maybe? The guy who said he loved you ended up divorcing you so he could get promoted, and then they fired you the first time you actually screwed anything up. Fragging saints they are.”

“That is just the way things are.” Sylvia looked at her now shaking hand, and with a sigh put down the tweezers. “And you wonder why I love my chips? Why can’t you just leave me to enjoy things with them?”

Forty made a ‘time-out’ sign with her hands, then passed a snail shell to her sister, and held up a sunflower seed. “While you were in the shower I coaxed the spirits — kami — to give us blessings. Focus for you, thinking for me. They won’t last more than a minute or two, but maybe we can have a good conversation in that time. One-two-three: be strong Sylvia, be sensible Forty.”

Sylvia sat up straighter and said “Thank you. Now: how are you going to get a job even as good as the one you lost with your temper?”

Forty explained “I’m going to stop playing the game that is rigged so that no matter what, I lose.”

Sylvia shot her a concerned look, and replied “No, no, no! You promised, no criminal stuff. They’ll put you back in prison right away.”

“No they won’t, Sis.” Forty emphasized the last word of the sentence. “Your little Shinto shrine at the end of the street, and the fragging kids who you teach when you can remember your own name -- how much good would it do all that when people found out your sister was going back to prison? No, you can’t afford to go through all this again, so you aren’t going to tell, you are going to go on covering for me. And I’ll make enough money to get you your new chips, and maybe enough for us to move somewhere a little less horrible, maybe even enough to put some lights in the shrine.”

Forty stood up, stretched out her arms, and waited a few seconds while a storm cloud in the shape of a huge hawk materialized behind her. “It’s the small time crime that would do me in. I need to go after bigger game. Now, give me the phone number of your BTL dealer.”

“Nobody uses phone numbers anymore, Forty.”

“You know what I mean, the code, digits, whatever. Something Shadow you said she was called?”

“Radiant Shadow. But you can’t threaten her! She’s a pretty connected dealer, people trust her, she has connections. She promises she’ll never sell anything she hasn’t slotted, nothing that will burn your brain out.”

“Chill Syl. I’m not planning on killing her or anything, just looking for a job, she sounds like a reasonable woman, for a human.”

“She’s not human, she’s a dwarf.” Sylvia sighed as the magic faded, looked at the trembling starting up in her hands, then added “She said not to tell you, but she was in prison with you. She says you did her a favor, and that is why she’ll supply me, even if I’m small time.”

“Kate? Kate is your dealer?” at Sylvia’s blank look, Forty added “Big birthmark on her left cheek, sweats a lot, sounds kind of spaced out?”

Sylvia nodded tentatively, and explained “I’ve only ever seen her with full face paint on, and she’s pretty fat so if I’ve seen her looking sweaty I just thought it was that, and if she sounds spaced out I always thought it was all the chips and drugs she tries …..”

Forty gave her surprised sister a hug, and said “That is definitely Kate! I told you things were going to look up soon.”

Tuesday January 14th, 2031, The Crossroads mall in Bellview

“Pull in there, pull in there!” Angela laughed, more than a little tipsy. “I want to go look at the birds!”

“Aww come on Angel, we gotta be out of Belleview before dark, you know how the cops get. And I’m carrying way too much cash for them not to take it, at best.”

“You scared of some cops, Ethan? ‘Cause I ain’t afraid of cops.”

“Angel, I’m afraid the cops will decide you are so fucking sexy and drunk that they can take you off to the station house and gang bang you and get away with it.”

“What, jealous of the cops and their big sticks? Maybe I should try it, find out.”

“Angel, shut the fruck up, you’re going all crazy talk again.”

“Turn around and take me to see the birds, and I’ll stop.”

“Fruck! Fine. Whatever. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because I’m about the hottest thing on two legs you’ve ever seen, and you need a gun to watch your back.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As a middle-aged man and a young boy came out the exit door of ‘Fur, Feathers, and Scales’ Angela pushed her way inside, her backpack smacking the door frame with a clang as she slid past the humans. At the sound, Ethan, following close behind, started to say “Fruck Angel, you didn’t bring …” but was cut off by an agitated store clerk.

“Excuse me miss, absolutely all entrance must be through the mall.”

Angela looked down at the young man, rolled her eyes, and sneered “Like I’m going all the way around to the entrance and waiting to get through security. I just want to look at the birds for a minute.”

“Ma’am, all customers must go through security screening before entering the mall or any of the stores. It is for everyone’s safety.”

“Do I LOOK like a frucking gun toting orc? Pull that poor parrot out if its prison for a minute, I wanna to pet it.”

A middle-aged woman came to reinforce the young man. She looked over Angela’s hair and clothes, and gave an audible sniff to the air. “Miss.” she made the word sound like something scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “You need to leave the store right now and come back through the mall entrance, or else I have to call security to enforce procedures.”

Making air quotes, Angela mocked “‘Enforce procedures,’ oooh, you think you are so tough, bitch. Not getting enough at home, is that why you’re such a bitch?”

Ethan lay a hand on her arm “Angel, come on, let’s go. We don’t want trouble.”

Angela shook him off, and swung around her backpack. “Fruck that! You know what? Maybe I do want trouble, and I still want to see that damn parrot out of its cage.” She swore under her breath as she fought with the backpack briefly, then she pulled out a machine pistol and waved it in the air.

Silence fell on the store for a moment, until the parrot cawwed. It seemed to break the spell. Someone screamed, someone else dived for cover behind the counter, and Angela screamed “Bring out the frucking parrot! In fact, bring out all the birds. This is a god-damned frucking PRISON BREAK!” She squeezed off one round into the ceiling toward the front of the store, freezing the young man who had been sidling toward the door.

“You, shut that frucking door, I don’t want the birds going into the frucking mall. Ethan, open the exit door. You, bitch-face, open the cages, send the birds outside.”

The younger clerk cleared his throat, fell silent as the gun swivelled to point at him, but then he screwed up his courage and said “Those aren’t wild birds, and they aren’t from here, they probably won’t survive out there.”

Angela froze for a moment, then snarled “At least they’ll get a chance to live free. Now move!”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ethan was swearing a blue streak as they raced through the darkening streets of Redmond. Finally Angela snapped “Would you chill? All we did was free some poor birds.”

“Fruck Angel, how can you be so dumb?” Ethan started pounding the steering wheel in frustration but just then they hit a cavernous pothole and he had to get both hands on the wheel to get the van back under control. “You pulled a frucking gun Angel, in god-damned tight-ass fruckin Belleview! That isn’t JUST anything. The cops are gonna be looking for us for sure!”

“Come on, that was fruckin awesome! A hold-up, did you see Bitch-Face? I think she shitted herself.”

Ethan swerved around a burnt out car and absently replied “Shat.”

“What?”

“It’s ‘shat herself’, not ‘shitted herself.’”

“Fruck, whatEVER!”

“No, it isn’t ‘fruck, whatever.’ It’s ‘fruck, we gotta get the van out of sight, and lay low ourselves.”

Angela sighed, pouted, but capitulated “Fine.I’ll ask the wind to help hide us. How long, a couple of days?”

“Longer than that, week, two, minimum. And the wind does NOT listen to you.”

“It does, and you fruckin know it. You seen it.”

“I saw nothing, we get fog here all the time.”

“You just don’t want to admit I can do something you can’t. I’m gonna do it anyway, you can’t stop me, ain’t nobody can stop me, I’m like a frucking super-hero.”

“What? Oh never mind. Look, we’ll go to that burnt out Oil-Changers. I don’t think the roof is coming down just yet. I’ll go out and get the sleeping bags from our crib, some food. Everyone was looking at you, I’m probably safe for a few hours, you …. Just stay in the frucking van, OK? And no drinking the goods, the last thing I need is you more drunk.”

Friday January 17th, 2031, shell of an Oil-Changers location, Redmond

Their discipline had lasted for most of three days, but just before noon on Friday they cracked open a forty-ouncer of high test moonshine from the cargo they’d been supposed to deliver a few days earlier. Ethan had finally admitted “If Doug catches me, he’s about going to kill me anyway, might as well pass the time.”

That he knew Angela got more sexually adventurous when drunk may have played an unspoken role in this decision. Then again, Ethan’s life choices were not always the wisest -- after all, he was sleeping with Angela. Whatever the reasons for or the wisdom of the choice, that afternoon they started drinking, and trying out some of the positions and activities of the digital Kama Sutra which they’d deemed not feasible over the previous, sober, days.

Perhaps good police work finally led the investigators to their hide out. Maybe a local had sent in a tip. Maybe Angela’s requests of the wind to hide them had been making a difference, and that she was too drunk to remember to renew her request after the sun went down was the cause of their discovery.

Whatever the reason, the rocking of the van suddenly stopped when high-beams suddenly lit up all around the shell of the building, and a megaphone bellowed out “Come out with your hands up, if you want to live.”

Angela was so drunk that she didn’t understand what was happening at first, other than that Ethan had left her alone. After several seconds she stumbled after the sound of his swearing, grabbing a couple more bottles of moonshine on the way. Seeing him stealing glances out the hole that had been the office window, uzi in his hands, Angela giggled “That isn’t the gun I want! But if you are too tired of what we were doing, I have an idea using bottles.”

Ethan shoved her back with an elbow and snapped “Get it together Angela, it’s the cops. Fruck, what are we going to do? What the fruck are we going to do?”

Angela peered through the hole of the window before Ethan snatched her back out of line of sight. But he quickly lost his grip on her naked skin, and she ran back to the window and flung one of the bottles out at the lights, screaming “PIGS!”

Ethan all but tackled her away from the window, but Angela recovered her footing and gave him a hard shove away from her, mumbling “I wanna fruck over the cops.”

As Ethan stumbled into the light pouring in through the broken window, a red dot momentarily appeared on his shoulder, then his shoulder seemed to explode in a red haze as multiple bullets tore through it.

Angela started screaming, in raw, primal, rage. She dove to where Ethan was lying, but realized she had no idea of what to do to save him. Still screaming, feeling like she’d never stop screaming, she flung the other bottle up through the window, then snatched up the fallen uzi and held it up over her head to fire out through the window, stopping when return fire flung it out of her hands.

Then she called on the wind. Up until then when she’d called on the wind, she’d thought of it as birds, that she could cup in her hand and whisper to, who would take flight and cloak her in their cloudy wings or protect her from accidents. But in her rage realized that there was something else that could be called, something red in beak and talon, an avenger, a storm of violence and death.

The calling left her too weak to stand up, even if bullets were not zipping buy over her head. But she found the strength to keep screaming, and the spirit was screaming with her, or in her head, and her scream told it “Strike them down.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The police report said that she threw molotov cocktails at the police cars. The first one had failed to ignite at first, but the second bottle had somehow resisted breaking on impact, but blew up several second later, also igniting the puddle of alcohol that the first bottle had left under the engine of one of the cars. The resulting intense fire ignited fuel in one of the police cars, causing a secondary explosion which killed three of the policemen, and causing varying degrees of injury to five others.

It was in fact only the two most veteran officers who were unscathed, as they had stayed farther back to direct the operation. They were the ones to finally enter the building, and their discipline meant that Angela and Ethan were arrested, rather than shot ‘while resisting arrest.’

Angela never corrected them, that it had been a mighty lightning bolt which had ignited the moonshine, and that additional bolts had struck at the besieging officers. In fact, she said very little at her trial at all.

Ethan’s trial was delayed until it was clear he would survive the loss of his arm, and he was clear on how the entire hold-up of the pet stores had been Angela’s mad whim, and that she was the one who had thrown the first bottle, and that he had been out of action for the rest of it. Never having believed that she could talk to the wind, he never mentioned it.

And nobody saw a need to call for a difficult, expensive, and unreliable assessment of magical ability for an extremely minor street-punk, no matter the deaths that she had caused.

Angela received a life sentence with no chance of parole for forty years, Ethan received only seventeen years -- however it ended up being a life sentence for him, as he died during riots at the prison six years later.

Being an elf, Angela had every expectation of resuming her life on the outside eventually.