Our Ruin, Our Truth - Prototype Human Weapon Quest

[Gargulec]

"We could have won the war," mutters Colonel Aulon Raad, commander of the Project Sophia Special Research Station. He keeps running his fingers over the order on his desk, as if hoping to erase the intricate, holographic scrollwork of the Great Seal of the Realm stamped at the bottom.

He sounds heartbroken, bitter; Amanda Olwen, the King's Counsel for Truth and Transparency only smiles, and she would be smiling even if men like him haven't given her the nerve damage that permanently printed the grotesque smirk on her face.

"We still can," he pleads, hunching over his desk. "We only need a little more time."

"The prototype is to be immediately released into the Commission's custody," she replies, leaning, leaning in. Her hands fold on the top of her cane; she lets the weight of her body rest on it. "Alongside any and all relevant equipment and documentation. The station itself will be decommissioned, following a thorough review of its operations."

Each word she says makes his aristocratic face twitch. He is not used to this kind of powerlessness; he doesn't know how to roll with it. The vicious part of her, the one that has never learned how to forgive, enjoys this tremendously. Thankfully, her face can't show it.

"People like you," anger breaks through the surface of his voice, "will bury this kingdom."

"While you are signing the release," she smiles back at him, "I would like a quick tour of the facility."

He hesitates for a moment, then calls in an aide and, in a flat, dead voice, directs her to show Olwen around. The King's Counsel stands up from the desk, careful not to put too much strain on her bad leg. There is still some pain. She shuffles out of the office; when she looks over the shoulder, she sees the colonel still bowed over the orders, face hidden in his hands.

"Lead on," she says to the aide, trying to sound pleasant. "I will be a little bit slow. I apologize."

In truth, she doesn't need this tour. She has had full access to this project's files for quite some time now; in all likelihood the ensign guiding her around knows far less about it than she does. But for Olwen, it is not really a matter of knowing – it is about standing witness. Some day, when the war is truly over and the truth truly out, she will make a record of her kingdom's sins, out of that naive hope that they may not be repeated in the future.

But first, she has to be shown the pride of the station. Hangar decks filled with fighter craft, and the space group commander proudly describing the complement as large enough to repel a full Republican assault. Control rooms for the network of early warning substations feeding their data into a shroud of defensive railgun batteries deployed in space around the station. It wasn't enough for the military to hide Project Sophia in the dark reaches of the system's secondary asteroid belt; it had to be turned into a veritable fortress. And soon, Olwen notes, not without bleak satisfaction, the station will stop housing pilots and gunners. They will be replaced by work-crews toiling at turning all of this pageantry into recyclable scrap.

Still, she is not here to admire the guns and the ships; what concerns her is buried deep into the station's body, behind layers and layers of security. It strikes her, but does not surprise her, how much of it reminds her of a maximum-security prison: a place built as much to keep the world outside as to hold whatever inside contained. The same thick doors, endless security stations and unblinking camera eyes pointed at every surface; the same obsessive need to plaster every free part of the wall with warning signs, commands, bans. Even the air tastes similar, stale and a little bit rotten. But past all those checkpoints, under the watchful eyes of countless security guards with their batons and shock pistols, populated by a troop of scientists and technicians, lies a different kind of a hell from the stockade she has spent years in.

Olwen passes by a row of glass tanks, each large enough to house a human body; they are empty now of the amniotic fluid, disconnected from the dead readout screens surrounding them. Dozens of laboratories follow, filled with blinking lights, forests of wire, and machinery reminding her of the Security and Order Bureau's interrogation rooms. The similarity is coincidental, or at least they have scrubbed blood from the needles and restraints well. There is a medical ward, its surgical suite state of the art; there are training facilities, a firing range, an obstacle course, a fighting ring. There are more surveillance stations, and sparse living quarters, mostly empty.

Even though she knows what to expect, the armory still manages to make her pause. It is one thing to read the reports, and another to see the sleek suits in their display cases. Disattached from the organic components, seeming little more than opalescent gossamer spread on a frame of fine vein-like wiring, they make it hard to believe in what their real capabilities are. It feels like a slightest touch could make them fray and fall apart, and yet those are the weapons that were meant to shift the tide of a losing war. Olwen counts five suits, three of them looking mostly complete.

"What happened to the other prototypes?" Olwen asks the ensign, to see how she will respond.

"Lost during testing, ma'am."

And afterwards recycled, Olwen remembers, so that as little of the invaluable technology that went into them is lost. They have cleaned up the facility very well; she would have to spend months here to find a stain or a mark attesting that happened here. But even they couldn't strip the atmosphere here of the air of violence.

"I have seen enough," she declares, stopping. "Where is the prototype?"

"Solitary confinement, ma'am," the ensign replies, and Olwen exhales sharply.

It hurts to hurry deeper into the facility, her cane tapping out an anxious pace on the steel floor. But she can't help herself. Her datalink buzzes; her team is messaging her. She will take a look in a moment. But first, the small, brightly lit brig, it's walls and ceiling spotless white. The locked cell stands out immediately. Feeling her hands curl into fists, Olwen approaches, the ensign trailing behind her, surprised by the sudden rush.

The security screen nearby displays the feed from the other side of the armoured steel door. It is a sight that she knows by heart. A metal cube, nine by nine feet, drowned in searing white light, reflecting off the polished walls and floor until it hurts to keep your eyes open. A single metal bed, a blanket, a toilet, and of course a camera in every corner, their black domes standing out so that they are never forgotten. And between all of that, sitting with her hands folded on the edge of the bunk, there is the person being tortured: a young woman, barely out of her teens. Thin, wiry, a dusting of white hair cropped regulation-short on her head. Olwen knows that if the girl was to open her eyes for a moment, they would stand out just as much,…

Article:

[ ]...molten silver.
[ ]...luminescent red.
[ ]...neon blue and pink.

There are dark circles beneath them; of course she hasn't been allowed to sleep. The beige jumpsuit hangs loosely from her shoulders, a size too large. Olwen wonders if it is a part of punishment, or if they just never bothered to give the prototypes proper clothes; the thought adds to the mounting fury building up in the pit of her stomach. Where the solitary cell's blinding light touches the girl's exposed pale skin, it draws out fine, golden lines, as if someone had printed her like a circuit board. Which is precisely what they did, because that is precisely what she was to them.

"Why?" Once again, Olwen is thankful for the smile, and everything that it hides. But that is not enough to strip the accusation from her tone. "Why was she put there?"

Article:

[ ] Incapacitation for Duty From Drunkenness

A metal mug and two fingers of a cloudy moonshine. The tech serving her is genuinely amazed she can hold it down; it's foul even by military standards. But for her, it is what loosens a knot inside; and for a moment, there is a warmth in the world. For a moment, there is a life in her life.

[ ] Unauthorized Use of Government Computer

With the armistice in, information security has gotten lax. But a prototype weapon shouldn't be getting caught communicating with the outside world, especially not through a commanding officer's workstation. But the person she's matched with called her cute, and that means so much more.

[ ] Reckless Endangerment of Government Property

There are places on the station where she shouldn't be. Not because it is forbidden, but because it is dangerous, and she is valuable. But being there – among exposed machinery, in tight access tunnels, inches away from the cold void outside – is a kind of freedom. Even if it means risking death. Especially if.

---

Article:

Welcome to Our Ruin, Our Truth, a narrative quest about a prototype human weapon and her struggle for meaning and survival in a distant star system in a distant future.

This quest is heavily inspired by the Petals series by @Gazetteer (Petals of Titanium, Petals of Carbon Steel), both narratively and structurally, although the particular brand of sci-fi I am going for is significantly softer.

For clarity's sake: although the first few updates of this quest will be written from the point of view of Amanda Olwen, King's Counsel, she is not the main character of the quest: that would be this, for now nameless, prototype girl in solitary confinement. Take good care of her, and of yourselves! You will need it.

There will be blood.

Source: A/N

 

[Gargulec]

Spoiler

[x]...luminescent red.
[x] Unauthorized Use of Government Computer

"You put her in solitary over what?"

The words come out of Olwen's crooked mouth like the crack of a whip, carrying enough force to make the ensign flinch. More yet builds up on the tip of the King's Counsel's tongue, but she bites down on them, and on the burning fury too. How young was that officer when the war began? Five? What does she know of a world that is not obedience and hierarchy? Olwen releases the air from her lungs in a quiet sigh.

"Open the cell."

"Yes, ma'am," pale, the ensign rushes to the door, punches in a code. The light on the lock turns green; the massive slab of steel swings open without a sound.

Old memories wriggle in the back of Olwen's mind as she steps inside; the staleness of the air, the blinding light. She pushes them aside. It's not about her this time. The girl inside does not immediately react to her approach; she sits statue-still, back ever so slightly hunched. Close to her, the King's Counsel curses her busted knee; she would prefer to kneel down, not tower over her. Still, she summons her softest voice.

"Hey," she whispers. "My name is Amanda Olwen. I'm here to help."

Finally, the prototype girl seems to notice; she raises her head and opens her eyes. Against herself, Olwen gasps. "Luminescent red" is what they have written in the reports, and the words seem small and flat compared to what she faces. Shades of red and pink swirl in the irises, from rose to crimson, from coral to cinnabar. Where they flow into each other, the currents of the gyre come alight with an inner glow, ever fading, ever returning. There is a part of Olwen that could admire this for hours; amidst all that atrocity, beauty, and a reminder of her work's real stake.

"You're being transferred," she continues. "I'm getting you off-station."

Briefly, a foolish hope grips her heart that she will see a gratitude well up in those eyes, and a depth of relief. All she finds is exhaustion; and why should there be anything else? Her datalink buzzes again, incessant, but she really can't be distracted right now. Carefully, she extends an open hand; the prototype girl stares at it, expression blank. It's difficult not to wonder whether they have tortured her like that, offering a false saviour to dash the hopes of escape. Maybe that was a part of that they have called conditioning? However far-fetched, she can't discount the possibility. Or maybe it is even worse. What if "the prototype" has never been approached like that, like a human being? Does she even know what this gesture is supposed to mean?

"Am I free?"

The question is a knife; it slices through Olwen's saviour fantasies. She came to this station for a reason; with a great effort of will, she does not look away. The guilt still follows.

"I'm going to take you somewhere safe," she says, perhaps overly sheepishly. "You are not going to be hurt again. And no one will hurt you for trying to find a date."

The familiar, ugly fear rears its head: how do her words come off, spoken through that rictus grin, spoken from the position of authority to someone who has nothing? But the red eyes reflect no disappointment, and no relief; the more Olwen looks into them, the less she sees.

"I see," the prototype girl says without moving her head; her tone is dull and distant. Yet, she closes her hand over Olwen's. The King's Counsel feels her heart skip a beat; she tightens her own hold, helps her up. The fingers are cold to touch; there is a hint of a static buzz building under the pale skin.

When they step out, the datalink rings again, and this time Olwen can no longer justify ignoring it. Without releasing the hold on the prototype girl's hand, she checks the communicator. Her heart skips a beat again; this time for a good reason. Boss, a secure channel communique announces, we may have trouble. There is also a video feed to go with it, displayed from a drone hidden in the ceiling of one of the hangar decks. One of Red's, no doubt, operated quietly from the Commission's shuttle visible below. But now a different craft sits next to it: a large, blocky military transport, the star-in-crown insignia of the famed 2nd Deep Space Fleet prominently displayed on its bulky armor. This alone is bad news. The person standing in front, surrounded by an honour guard of naval commandos, is far worse. The fact that she is currently deep in conversation with Colonel Raad is probably catastrophical.

It is not hard to recognize her, with her crisp blue uniform and short salt-and-pepper hair: it's Vice Admiral Askalon Yana, the Wolf of the Belt herself. Olwen doesn't have to see the woman's angular, androgynously handsome face to imagine it; untold propaganda works have intimately familiarized her, and most of the kingdom, with its image. From the cities of the Home Moon to the remotest observation posts and asteroid mining rigs, it would be a challenge to find someone unfamiliar with her, and her countless exploits. It was her daring command during the Main Belt Offensive three years ago that broke the thrust of the Republican attack and saved the Home Moon from coming in range of direct orbital bombardment. Of the few victories won by the Kingdom over the last three years, fewer still were won without her involvement. For the kingdom, she was not just a war hero; she was the face of victory's hope.

Victory. The word has a bitter ring for Olwen. What do people picture when they hear it? A military parade through the fortress-cities of the Second Moon, the arrogant Republicans finally brought to heel? A moment of pride, and triumph? For her, it is fifteen thousand dead in an instant when a railgun shell shatters through the habitat's dome. It is people who have never known peace watching helplessly their oxygen deplete, their corpses-soon-to-be thrown across the empty firmament. It is every small kindness of the world ploughed over with an iron plow, mercy weeded out to let the victory's bitter crop grow.

That victory is also something that Yana believes herself eminently capable of achieving. Against all odds, and in spite of enemies, within and without. The former, it seems, worry her more. She reacted to the news of the old king's abdication and his enthroned brother's suing for peace with a famous speech deriding the people of the kingdom for their "fear of triumph". Ever since, she's been toeing the line of direct insubordination, barely hiding her contempt for the armistice and its architects. When others called her a warmonger, she called herself a patriot. And so, the question increasingly became not whether she was going to rebel, but when, and how.

Considering the fact that Olwen has not been forewarned of this visit, and especially that Yana was supposed to currently be on a medical leave on the Home Moon, the King's Counsel takes a kind of bitter satisfaction in finally finding an answer: here and now. The likely scenarios quickly unfold in her head. If it is a trap, she and her team are already dead. Of all the people in the Kingdom's military, Yana is not one to ever forgive the King's Counsel for leaking the Atrocity Dossier. She will be lucky to only catch a bullet to the head. But if it is just an awful coincidence, and not a fully-blown conspiracy, she can see a way out that she can navigate. She looks at the prototype girl, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. She doesn't mouth the sorry. There will be time for that later, if there will be a later at all.

"Take us to the armory again," she says to the ensign, hoping against hope that the young woman is not involved in whatever plot is currently being drawn on the hangar deck. "We need to retrieve the other component of the prototype."

The stifled "yes, ma'am" that follows is some of the sweetest things that Olwen has heard in a while. As they make their way – quickly, but avoiding a suspicious rush – to that chamber, she keeps one hand on the prototype girl, the other quickly thumbing a series of commands. Prioritize your safety is the first one. Keep me updated is the second. If only she could call in reinforcements right now, maybe alert the High Command. But the station is remote, and there is no way to beam those warnings out without being noticed and likely shot to pieces. Yana, of course, must be aware of this; whatever she is here to accomplish, it will be done long before the actual patriots take notice. Especially with Colonel Raad turned to her side; considering the way he spoke to Olwen, he probably jumped at the opportunity.

They are leaving the hangar, Red reports, her tiny drone following after the armed column. Olwen keeps glancing at the ensign; for now, the youth appears as clueless as one can only be. The armory isn't far. What about the other guards? They pass by them with idle curiosity; the King's Counsel feels their eyes on her. But they are not being stopped just yet. So, in all likelihood, not a conspiracy. Makes sense: Yana's communications are closely monitored; she shouldn't have been able to reach Project Sophia remotely. The air around Olwen feels thick, heavy; it's not fear, she is just having trouble breathing. The vice admiral's sudden arrival, then, must be a gambit, a bold attempt to seize an opportunity.

"Gods of my ancestors," she mouths without a sound, trying to not crush the prototype girl's hand in a worried grip, "whose names I have forgotten, and whose prayers I have never learned, please, guard us. Please, grant us mercy."

The doors to the armory slide open, just as Olwen's datalink rings again. The security is going on alert. They are surrounding the shuttle, Red conveys. Survival first, she responds, stepping into the dimly-lit room, and giving one more empty prayer, begging whatever is out there from security personnel bored enough to amuse themselves with summary execution. Maybe the King's own insignia on the shuttle will give them some pause.

The ensign is close behind her, crossing the threshold; the doors close with a rustle. Olwen still holds onto the prototype girl; notices her head turn towards the cases, where the kingdom's most powerful, untested weapons hang loosely suspended in anti-grav.

"Ma'am?" the ensign asks, a hint of concern in her voice. "Is everything alright? You seem very tense."

"Oh, it shows?" she replies, shaking her head; she shifts her grip on the cane, hoping that the young officer doesn't notice the slight crackle of a building stun charge. The datalink is quiet. For a brief moment that feels like an eternity, nothing happens.

And then, finally, the station's PA systems crackle to life. The voice they carry is firm, well used to issuing both commands and challenges. And there is not a single soul here that does not immediately recognize it.

"Attention all personnel. This is Vice Admiral Askalon Yana. For reasons of national survival, I am temporarily assuming command over the station."

The ensign's mistake, if it can be called that, is that moment of star-struckness when the war-hero's voice rings in her ears and she lifts her attention from Olwen, listening raptly. The King's Counsel jabs the top of her cane hard into the woman's stomach, the shock panel explodes in a blinding blue flash, cutting a scream short. The awful stretch of burnt flesh fills the armory as the ensing crumples to the floor, a thin trail of acrid smoke rising from where the force of the shock fused the synthetic uniform to carbonized skin beneath. Olwen tries not to retch; the woman will live. She turns to face the prototype girl, her hand slipped from her grip in the commotion. Again, she only stares, wide-eyed, tired-faced, silent. Even now, the King's Counsel can't help but to wonder what really is going on behind those red swirls of her eyes. Sadly, time is too short to consider this at length.

"I come here not to disrupt your work," Yana continues over the loudspeakers, amazingly firm and confident, "but to preserve it. It pains me to say it, but we must not shy away from the truth, no matter how repulsive: our leaders have betrayed you. Have betrayed us!"

The override codes to the station's security system that Olwen has requested still work, thankfully. The lock on the door turns cherry-red. It will probably take a plasma cutter for the seditionists to get through; so they have a moment. Now comes the awful part. She turns to the prototype girl, and the suits behind her.

"We have shed rivers of blood and buried a thousand comrades. Through storms of steel, we have endured on our posts without a word of protest, and for what? So that they can trade it all away for comfort and complacency?"

It's such a well-delivered speech; the word's don't even matter much, it is all about the ringing indignation, honest anger, hard-won camaraderie. Yana speaks from her heart, horrid as it is. Olwen keys in the override codes; they work again. The cases open; the suits are within touch now. Their filament-thin surfaces waver across invisible currents of reprocessed air.

"There can be no peace without honour, and no honour without victory. And victory we shall have, with the weapons you forged. I come for them, and for you, so that you finish the work of your lives. For victory! For the true King!"

The prototype girl's glowing eyes move from Olwen to the suits. They all look so similar, drab shreds of synthetic fabric. But this appearance is deceitful; she knows how different they will look once activated. There is still nothing on her datalink, but she can't grieve right now. She can't allow herself to be afraid. She can't even accept the guilt for what she is about to do.

"And to the traitor come to poison our triumph," the PA booms again, and an awful chill runs down Olwen's back. "We see you, little rat. Remember: space is cold, and justice, patient."

So Yana wants to take her alive, and space her. She has always been a bit of a traditionalist. That is, in a way, good news. They won't just fill the armory with toxic gas. That would be too impersonal for the Vice Admiral. Her mistake. Olwen breathes out.

"Are you really a traitor?" the prototype girl asks suddenly, and it occurs to the King's Counsel, perhaps too late, that there is a good chance that Project Sophia managed to successfully indoctrinate the girl over the years. Even with all the torture; especially with it, maybe. But if that is the case, Olwen is dead anyway, so there is no point in worrying too much.

"Only in the eyes of those who would hurt you," she replies. It's true, though she doesn't add and all the people who think that revealing the crimes of the military was some grand act of sabotage. "Do you know what will happen if they get me?"

The prototype girl nods, almost imperceptibly.

"They will take you to their war," it's shocking how calm she manages to sound, especially considering what she is about to do, "and you will never know what it means to be loved."

Her face is blank, but she listens attentively. There is some kind of a commotion outside of the armory. Olwen ignores it.

"If you ever want to feel a friendly touch on your skin," she continues, unwavering, "and to have sweet names whispered into your ear, if you want to ever grow sick with desire, you must help me make it out."

Someone beyond the door is shouting something about blowing the doors up; someone else shouts too, reminding him that this is a space station. The prototype girl leans towards Olwen; hunger glints in her eyes.

"You want me to wear the Existential Weapon," the name is heavy on her voice, and when she speaks, finally there is some shadow of emotion to her. If only the King's Counsel could tell what emotion, precisely. Disappointment? A hint of an accusation? Resignation? Maybe reverence? The prototype girl is a clouded mirror. "You want me to kill for you."

"Not for me," she shakes her head, and it almost isn't a lie. "For yourself. For a chance to not be lonely."

Again, the prototype girl nods. She steps closer to the cases, one of the suits twitches as if shot through with an electric current. As she touches its surface with the tips of her fingers, the fabric coils around her wrist like a living thing.

"For a chance to not be lonely," she repeats, resolute.

Article:

The Existential Weapon is a startling piece of technology that operates well beyond the established laws of war, and physics. Once integrated with its biological component, it becomes an environmentally-sealed engine of destruction capable of operating in most circumstances.

By default, it comes equipped with palm-mounted short-range pulse lasers, extendable mono-filament cutting surfaces, and a simple radio-optical camouflage package. It is also highly resistant to small-arms fire, fire, electricity and other common battlefield dangers.

Furthermore, it comes with several more exotic features:

[x] The Entropy Inverter: The power source of the Existential Weapon is nothing short of miraculous; as long as the biological component is present, the suit will never run out of power, and will actively repair minor damage suffered. Its endurance in the field is limited only by the state of the biological component. The exact principles behind the Entropy Inverter are not well understood even by the people who designed it; by all accounts the technology is a singular black box that will never be replicated at a larger scale.

Pick two. This is a block vote!

[ ] The Limbo Drive:The Existential Weapon is capable of briefly dematerializing by shifting into an alternate matter state which, for all intents and purposes, does not exist. While in this state, the suit is fully impregnable to harm and able to move through solid obstacles.

Side effect: Something lives in the space between seconds. It speaks to her, sometimes. It wants to help. It does not belong.

[ ] The Tempered Will: The Existential Weapon's cutting surfaces are capable of detaching and operating independently at range, held aloft and manipulated at range. The biological component finds that it can utilize several such surfaces at once without significant decrease in focus. If destroyed, the blades regenerate after a short while.

Side effect: What does it mean to put your consciousness into an animate blade, and feel it tear through flesh and reality? She cuts with her mind; it's the intimacy of violence.

[ ] The Ignition Equation:The Existential Weapon is able to generate and exert precise control over heat and flame, from creating spontaneous bursts of flame to projecting white-hot cutting jets. With sufficient focus, fires may be started anywhere in range, up and including inside other bodies. The suit is fully immune to heat.

Side effect: There is a spark inside everything; she can feel it. It is the fragility of the made world: what exists today, tomorrow will be fire.

[ ] The Fury Engine: Microscopic needles line the inside of the suit, integrating even more closely with the biological component. In combat situations, they flood it with a mix of potent, experimental performance-enhancing drugs that eliminate fear and provide incredible strength and endurance, far in excess of what a body should be able to do.

Side effect: It's not an artificial rage. It's clarity. It's lifting the haze of doubt from her thoughts, and laying the truth of the world bare before her. Of course she frenzies.

[ ] The Unbecoming Shroud: Integrated with the biological component, the Existential Weapon emits a disruptive field scrambling electronics around it. At range, it makes the suit invisible to sensors; up close, it makes technology malfunction and glitch out in spectacular ways. With direct touch, it can infect it and seize control of it before ultimately burning it out.

Side effect: Shielded from networks, from the digital eye, she is truly alone, and truly free. No algorithm can contain the full extent of her; models describing her fail.

 

[Gargulec]

Spoiler

[X] The Limbo Drive
[X] The Unbecoming Shroud

With the way the prototype girl approaches the Existential Weapon, it is difficult to see it as anything short of its own living being. She removes it from the case gently, the gossamer fabric flexing towards her, its veins stretching and twisting towards the pale flesh. Its touch on her exposed skin is a kind of an embrace; the lights in her eyes dim, their vivid reds and pinks fading in thick, deep maroon. Olwen slumps back onto a pile of crates; she stares in reverent silence, body tense.

Boss, her datalink buzzes. It's Red – at least she is alive, even if she's not bringing in the good news. We're running out of options. Please tell me you have a plan.

She looks back at her plan. White sparks arc from the golden threads embedded into the prototype girl, reaching out to the fabric of the suit. It no longer behaves as anything remotely of this world. It sticks to her, oozing alongside her skin in thin, wring trails, leaving behind a matted, dark surface. The armory's faint light vanishes into this strange weave. The prototype girl ushers it forward, with gentle sweeps of her palms stretching the viscous matter all over her body. Her chest heaves and shivers; her eyes are shut, face hard with focus.

Just last a little bit longer, Olwen types. The message goes through, and as it does, the datalink's little glass display starts to flicker. Black static falls like snow across the screen. The lamps above blink slowly, going in and out in an uneven rhythm. A pressure builds in the King's Counsel's ears; air flows sluggishly into her lungs. What she sees in front of her is transfixing, and terrifying. She wonders if Yana can see it on her cameras. She wonders if the vice-admiral is afraid, too.

The prototype girl goes abruptly stiff, half-covered in the Existential Weapon, its tendrils slashed across her like spilled ink. The voices on the other side of the door change their tenor; they too must feel that something is coming. The Existential Weapon is here before anyone knows. With a wet snap, it envelops the prototype girl completely. Her back arcs as it bites into her implants; a distorted hiss leaves her mouth as an inhuman crackle. The lights go out. When they are on again, low and dim, she is on her knees, the Existential Weapon rippling across her skin.

An awful, sharp guilt rakes through Olwen's fear. This must hurt, she thinks, biting down on the stupid are you okay. This must really hurt. And she is putting this girl through this; it's her fault. Even if it is necessary. She glances towards the door, expecting to see a cutter-jet blaze through the thick steel. But that too must be malfunctioning now.

The rest is a blitz. One more quake goes through the surface of the prototype girl, and when that wave passes, the Existential Weapon is jet-black, streaked over with a web of crisp white veins, pulsing and undulating to the beat of an invisible heart. They are the only thing that remain fully tangible about her, trailing from a porcelain-like masking enclosing her face. A shimmering haze shrouds the rest, the body only barely there. Red eyes stare back at Olwen; their beauty inappropriate and wrong.

"What do I do?" the prototype girl asks, her voice muffled, words broken by static hiss.

"If you can disable the station's defense systems," the King's Counsel's face can't show fear, but her voice still wavers. "Then, maybe, we can get out."

As far as plans go, this one is hardly the best, but what else is she going to say? Kill everything? Could she? Could the Existential Weapon really do it? It's becoming a challenge to breathe; sweat beads on her forehead. The prototype girl gives her a nod, just as slight as the ones before. It's comfortingly hers a reminder that she is still that strange victim of a horrible project. Remembering that, of course, has its own weight.

The person the King's Counsel has come here to spare from violence turns towards the door, and towards the fearful voices on the other side. Then, she vanishes. For a split-second, there is nothing. Then, the pressure in Olwen's ears pops sharply, right in time for the sound of shots on the other side of the door: a brief cannonade of dry crackles as several shock pistols are discharged at once. And after that, there are screams.

At first, they are mostly of terror. With her stomach bound into a tight knot and throat completely dry, Olwen picks out individual words from snapping cries. Words like get back or no. But they do not last. Soon, the screams are names, followed by the unmistakable, horrific wails of dying men. Gunfire intensifies, then ceases. Voices crack as vocal cords snap; all other sounds drown in the roar of the massacre. For how quick it is, it feels like it's going to last forever. Yet, the fragile quiet that follows is almost worse. There is no such thing as a good death, she knows that, but what she has unleashed is worse than most. The King's Counsel sits with her head hunched, turning the jammed datalink over in her hands idly. Years ago, she would have been stunned; now she has clarity. Times like these, it doesn't feel like a good replacement. Her eyes rise to the door, almost expecting to see blood pool underneath. None comes. Instead, she can only listen. First to the slaughter, and then to what comes after. Fighting is over quickly. The Existential Weapon has probably moved on. But death itself takes a more leisurely pace. Dull cries continue long after shouts have ended.

Her datalink comes back to life again; a few messages come bombarding in. They're hesitating. They are pulling back security from the hangar. The station's going haywire. And then, the last one of them: Amanda, what the fuck?

It's still a risk, but at this point Olwen feels too strung out to hold herself. She tries to call Red; the woman picks up almost immediately, the datalink displaying her cybered-up face against the backdrop of the shuttle's conflict.

"Amanda," she demands at half-shout, "are you okay? What the fuck is going on?"

"Red," Olwen stammers, worry suffusing her voice, "are you okay? What about Lynx?"

"We're fine," Red barks back, still too loud, her biological eye rolling in its socket as if this was the least important thing to ask about. "Lynx threatened to detonate the ship if they tried to breach it. Gave them pause. And then something," she furrows her brow, "called them back before they called our bluff. Again, what the fuck is going on."

"The Existential Weapon," the King's Counsel admits, ashamed. She still hears the agonal moans outside.

"Good start on preventing its use, huh?" she shakes her head, but Olwen doesn't pick on any genuine accusation in her voice. "Well, that would explain the comm chatter I'm getting. It's not pretty. Is it on our side?"

The creeping realization that Olwen gets, like an insect slithering up her spine, that maybe there is no exaggeration in the name of the Existential Weapon. That maybe it is not just military bluster meant to pad out the already bloated skunkworks budget. Of all the things she is worried about right now – and they are many – the prototype girl is not one. Memories of elaborate security measures she's read about come back to her. Equip the prototypes with exploding implants. Inject them with slow-acting poisons and store antidotes off-station; maybe it wasn't only idle cruelty, but the only way they could conceive of controlling those…

She tries very hard not to finish the thought on things.

"I've sent her to disable the defense systems. You should be able to take off soon. Alert the high command."

"Lynx already did," Red shrugs, "after that bomb stunt. There really wasn't that much point in trying to pass as unthreatening afterwards."

"So help is on the way."

"Maybe," Red mumbles again, profoundly unconvinced. She opens her mouth to speak again, but stops, staring at something off-screen, her cyber-eye going into a steady blink. "Wait," she utters, voice raising a pitch. "Shit. I think that this weapon of yours has just done something, the defense grid is dying, and…"

As if in response, the station's emergency sirens blare to life all at once, interrupting the conversation with a flood of a cold, robotic voice bringing bad news.

"ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL," it announces with a dispassionate urgency. "PROJECT SOPHIA HAS BEEN COMPROMISED. IMMEDIATELY PROCEED TO DESIGNATED EVACUATION ZONES, AND PREPARE TO ABANDON STATION. DO NOT ENGAGE THE EXISTENTIAL WEAPON. THE ESCHATON PROTOCOL IS NOW IN EFFECT. REPEAT. THE ESCHATON PROTOCOL IS NOW IN EFFECT."

There is only a limited amount of adrenaline and fear that Olwen's body can process at once; the information moves through her brain, and though it means they are all probably going to die in nuclear fire, she notices that this awareness does little to make her feel any more tense than she already is. She has found her limits. All the shame, the guilt, the frustration recedes, leaving behind only the bare clarity of fighting to come up with a way not to die. Everything else can wait until later, if there is ever going to be a later. Her fingers curl around her cane, knuckles going white.

"Is this what I think it is?" Red dropping into this very deliberate kind of calmness that masks sheer panic.

Olwen nods wordlessly. Of course Yana, that spiteful warmongering bitch, would rather go for the big red button than pull out gracefully. She inhales, staring at the door; if only she could contact that prototype girl, redirect her to the Station's central control. But no. The Existential Weapon is loose, and Project Sophia's ultimate safeguard is in effect: a thermonuclear device, to bury the failed experiment, and all the sins that went into making it errant. Fortunately, she has the override codes. Unfortunately, they are not good for anything from where she is.

"I-" she stops, gathers strength before speaking again, "maybe I can shut it down," she mouths, struggling to her feet. "I think. Can you…" her voice hangs for a moment, "can you delay the evacuation?"

Red's face goes still; she knows what that risk is.

"Fuck you," she whispers, without heat. She allows herself a moment of silence. "How much time do you need?"

King's Counsel brings up the station's map on her device, tries to plot out a route from the armory to the command center. It's not that far, if no one stops her. And if someone stops her, she is probably dead. Maybe the prototype has been thorough in its slaughter. Maybe there is a chance.

"Great," Red purses her lips. "Fuck you," she repeats, not a swear, but a prayer. "Love it when that happens, Amanda. Red, out."

The datalink goes dead. After a second, it buzzes again: see you on the other side. Olwen breathes out, feeling her bad leg shake. Another burst of hurry will hurt, bad, but that is the least of her worries. She trundles towards the door, and unlocks it, half-expecting to come face-to-face with a barrel of a gun on the other side. Instead, she only finds the aftermath.

Mangled bodies of the station's security line the corridor outside; their blood joins scorch marks in painting the walls into abstract patterns. Not everything is in one piece, most of anything is not where it should be. The fetid stench of blood, urine, and shit chokes the air; the moans of the dying disappear under the wailing of the alarm sirens. It is another of the sights that Olwen will never allow herself to forget. Even as she hurries past it, her memory etches it into the collection of her stills from the war, from the crowds torn apart by fragmentation explosives, from blue bodies drifting bloated in space, from…

"Help," someone begs; she stops by that young woman, leans in, picks up her slick shock pistol. It's still fully loaded; she hadn't managed to fire a shot before the Existential Weapon spread her guts across the width of the corridor. "Help," the girl cries. She is no older than the ensign Olwen left in the armory. "It hurts…"

The sirens blare; Olwen moves on, and tries not to think. Her feet track blood. The command center is not far; the prototype girl somewhere out there. The time is short.

Article:

For all of its capacity to slaughter men like cattle, the Existential Weapon is not ready for deployment. Further into the station, its assault has run into the issues preventing it from being a fully viable weapon. The consequences of what those issues are may or may not affect Olwen immediately, but they will continue to haunt this story moving forward. Perhaps that is how it must be: what is out of this world does not belong in it.

These are the potential flaws of the Existential Weapon. Pick two. This is a block vote:

[ ] Nemesis, Incarnate

The voice that she hears, the one thing guiding her in the silence of her unbecoming? It is getting closer. Shifting in and out of the limbo, she opens a path for it to emerge bodily into the living world. It wants to find her.

[ ] Malice of Made Things

The Shroud does not take control of machines. It poisons them, injects them with malicious code, a digital poltergeist that holds the world in contempt. It wants chaos, and it wants destruction. Before it burns out, it will hurt whatever it can.

[ ] Our Other Home

The limbo into which the girl shifts is not an empty void. Her jaunts instead are a travel through a decaying ruin of the world, a reflection of its ultimate descent into ruin. Though it will never bar her way, it is far from safe, both physically and mentally.

[ ] Doomed Sisters

From the blood she spills, from the shadows she trails, from the limbo she trespasses, the Existential Weapon calls forth imperfect copies of itself, short-lived simulacra that wither within moments, but not before having a chance to hurt others, or the girl herself.

[ ] The Consequence

The Existential Weapon is a violation, and the consequences of its presence are not easily removed. The effects of the Unbecoming Shroud persist for a long time after the Weapon is deactivated; its continued presence in any given place brings it permanently closer to the limbo, haunting the living world.

 

[Gargulec]

Spoiler

[X] Nemesis, Incarnate
[X] Our Other Home

At first, Olwen attempts to ignore the warning signs coming from her leg. She promises herself she will just power through whatever, teeth gritted.

"I've been through worse," she declares to the abattoir-like air, and for a time it even rings somewhat true. The first few dozen meters are quick, and surprisingly manageable. And then, she lands her feet at the wrong angle; bends her bad leg the wrong way. For a moment, the world is a blinding flash; her teeth bite deep enough into her tongue that she tastes blood. Afterwards, it's no longer easy.

The problem with pain is that with enough of it, it becomes a physical weight, sometimes too heavy to carry. Olwen's hand finds the edge of a door; without it, she would fall, with very scant chances for lifting herself up. The corridor ahead is bathed in red emergency lights; they pulse with the rhythm of bursts of pain threatening to rip her leg apart. A few stray tears well in the corners of her eye. The blaring of the alarm sirens disappears in the booming rush of her own heart struggling to keep the body up. A few ragged breaths is all the rest she can allow herself, but she must rest, and must not allow herself to trip.

She inhales, air burning its way into her lungs.

There are no more screams reaching her, and only one body smeared over the empty corridor ahead of her. The long bloodstain behind it gleans strangely, the red lights reflecting and refracting into a spectrum of purples and violets. Compared to what she has moved through moments ago, the display is modest in its gruesomeness. The station personnel must have stopped trying to fight the Existential Weapon at some point. Or maybe Olwen has just strayed from the route the prototype girl took. The command center demanded a different fork in the path; thankfully, the inner plan of the station is not too complicated and Olwen can follow it from her memory.

There are many small things that occupy her mind as she catches her breath. For example, trying not to think about how any moment can be her last; if the Eschaton Protocol fires she may well not even get a chance to feel the nuclear pulse swallow her whole. Likewise, she pushes off her worries about Red and Lynx, hoping that they will be alright in spite of the overwhelming odds she has pitted them against. Mostly, however, she just works towards whimpering the pain away, with little result.

Her datalink buzzes, but checking it would require taking a hand off the wall, or off the cane. That is a risk she can't take. As quickly as she can only allow herself to be slow, she starts shuffling forward again, each step a fresh new nail driven into her ruined joints. The corpse draws closer now; it is not the station's security. Ragged claw-marks streak across the plates of its combat armor; its arm, bent at an odd angle, still clutches a high-performance combat rifle. One of Yana's commandos, forever stripped of identity by the blow that ripped their face clean off. As Olwen passes by it, the purple refractions in their splattered blood bend into shape, a reflection looming a step behind. Startled, she whips her head around – but it was just a trick of the pulsing glow, and of her strained mind. She swallows spit and blood, hoping that her mind will hold for a while longer.

Rows of doors line the corridors, opening to laboratories and storerooms stacked with baffling machinery. In the dim light, their metal shapes rise into grotesque shadows. Some of them are gutted, long strands of wiring hanging loose from where macro-data storage units have been hastily ripped from their sockets. Olwen knows why, but through the haze of hurt and fear, the realization barely registers with the impact it should have. Perversely, this may be a benefit of pain. The more it overtakes her, the more each step stokes the fire burning through her nerves, the less anything means, or matters. All the fear, all that worry, all that is briefly swept away with each step, and then again, and again, and again.

There is no one to hear her, so she doesn't even try to bite down on the voicing. Any bit of reprieve helps. The station is increasingly a blur, a sea of light and sound splashing against her senses; they sink deeper and deeper beneath its surface. She keeps moving, past more doors, through the spiral path wound across the station's central spindle. The labyrinth, she has to hope, will lead her to the right place, eventually. Maybe even in time, too. Red saturates her vision; she is no longer sure if it is the stress, the hurt, or just the lights.

There is a peculiar, burnt smell in the air; she doesn't recognize it. Fine flakes of ash flitter through the air around her; when they touch her jacket, the stains they leave are purple too deep to be real. The lucid part of hers assumes them to be hallucinations, her brain going haywire under tension. She can't fault it, she only wishes it will hold on just for a few moments longer. She needs to keep moving. Losing touch can sometimes help; it wouldn't be the first time she's been through that. Her senses dim and start to shutter. She would give a world for the right to sit down and not move. A part of her, one that has kept quiet for a very long time, snakes up from the recess of her mind, letting her think just how much relief the nuclear fire would bring.

The "no" she tries to utter into the red light and siren's wail is a garbled, ugly sound. But there is writing on the wall: an arrow pointing forward, and after a brief fight, she even manages to read the text above: to the Central Command Center. It's like a light. She is on the right track. Only a little bit longer. Only a little bit…

There is a touch on her shoulder, and it is cold, laden with a static charge. Her fear is sluggish to register; it doesn't fully bloom before the blow comes, and after that, all is moot. It's swift, delivered right into the crook of her good knee. For a split-second, her bad leg carries the weight of her, and then the world explodes into uniform white; her scream cuts as she tumbles down, her head banging against the steel floor. In the grand scheme of hurting, that barely registers. Nothing does; she is unmade. For a moment, there is no world, and no word, only the endless, burning expanse of a body in pain.

The thoughts that come are not in order. Purple ash. Snow? The sirens sing her a dirge. Amanda Olwen, King's Counsel will receive a beautiful burial, much preferable to the indifferent cold of the firmament. In a second, she will be in the heart of a still-born star, a light blinking across all the skies. She could have done much worse. It's a shame about Red. Shame about Lynx. Shame about that prototype girl. Shame she didn't even get her name. Shame. Guilt. Pain. Nothing.

How very familiar. A blurry shape sits astride her, its form little more than a smear in Olwen's fading vision. It's him, she decides, the man from the Security and Order Bureau, about to ask her again who is her Republican handler. They have never released her. It was all a trick. Her mouth forms the familiar mantra.

"For the soul of our country," she repeats, and smiles. She always smiles when she says that. "I work for no one but the soul of our country."

But no, it's not that man. There are no pliers. No wrench. Or maybe he brought it down moments ago? So maybe it's him? Her head lolls to the sides, and finally remember that no, it is not the man, it is just- something. It would be so nice to have better memories to relive before dying.

A cold hand lands on her cheek; pushes her head up. The creature atop her is cut against the red of the vanishing world, but its eyes are cold blue, deep as the Home Moon's sky.

"She," it snarls in an almost familiar voice, "belongs to me alone."

It raises its hand. Light refracts purple and blue on the claws. At least it will not be the Bureau to finally end Olwen. Or the dying birth of a star. It will be-

There is a crack of light, and an explosion in front of the King's Counsel's face. It's too much. Her consciousness finally gives, for one blessed moment. Like most good things, it is not allowed to last.

A touch brings her back, sticky and warm. There is a gloved hand on the back of her head, holding her up. What it touches, smears ugly red. It takes a second for Olwen's vision to come back. The first thing it registers is the pair of red lights swirling right above her face, set into a porcelain-white faceless mask.

"You are alive," the Existential Weapon says, voice too far-away to come cleanly across as either relief or disappointment. But the touch on Olwen's cheek is not violent.

The pain is still there, but it has ebbed, leaving behind only a dull, overwhelming hurt, instead of the world-undoing fire fire. If this is not some vision of hell, the station hasn't blown up yet. The King's Counsel's thoughts race to Red and Lynx. They are doing well; and the fact that she registers that worry is a good sign. Her own mind is still there. Somehow.

The Existential Weapon looks bad, busted up. Blood flakes off her suit in long strips; the haze that shrouded her is now thicker, obscuring her meager frame. An odious, bitter stench clings to it, thick and alien. The lamps above her dim in sequence, their light distorting, turning pale. Static hiss turns the howling alarms into the agonal moans of dying machinery.

"You saved me," Olwen mutters, trying to pull herself up against the wall, and her thoughts in order.

"I found you," the prototype girl says, as if that answer was enough.

"There's something here" she murmurs, remembering the twin blue fires, and the arcing claw. "It attacked me."

"It was her," the blood-crusted Existential Weapon shakes at the mention; for once it is not hard to pick at the note of fear in its voice. The word oozes danger in her mouth.

"Her?"

"I lured her away," she doesn't explain. "To the other home. There is time."

"Thank you," Olwen offers in lieu of more questions. There are so many, but if there is any time, it is not for them. She allows herself a few ragged breaths. It's funny, really. She came here to save someone, who has now saved her twice. And it's not even over yet. If there will be a later, she will be good to her. "You need to help me get to the command center," she adds, her throat barely able to let the voice out. "I can't walk."

Without a wasted word, the Existential Weapon crouches by her side and wraps an arm under her shoulder. Too hastily, too raptly, she lifts the King's Counsel up. The woman yelps as the ruined knee makes itself sharply felt again, but she doesn't complain. Their destination shouldn't be too far. It's clear that the girl has never helped anyone walk; she shoves her forward instead of letting her walk, at times almost starting to drag her. But her hold is strong and secure, so at least there is no risk of tumbling down again. For the moment, it's enough for Olwen. And the command center really isn't far. Just past another bend in the twisting path, and there it is. A large door, shut closed. The King's Counsel reaches for the lock to input an access code, but before she can do that, the Existential Weapon swipes her hand across its panel. The door opens with a puff of acrid smoke sputtering from the frame.

Monumental station display is a scrambled mess, as if someone has taken a hand to the holograph and erased parts, leaving behind a shimmer of blue and purple scale. Empty workstations shine with walls of static, or cascading rivers of code pouring from under gutted graphic interfaces like blood from an open wound. But the central access panel is still functional, stamped with layers of red warning announcing the imminent immanence of the coming eschaton. The prototype girl ushers Olwen into the seat in front of it, then steps back. Terminals around her blink out.

Each warning in front of the King's Counsel is marked by a countdown. Some still have minutes left. Most less than that. Some have ticked down past zero, and dive into the negative time. The controls respond sluggishly, the interface acting painfully slow. Whatever is going on in the system is breaking it fast, and it will never be fixed again. Still, Olwen tries. She fights through the error messages, and through the stiffness in her fingers.

AUTHENTICATE OVERRIDE the terminal demands. Olwen starts to input the code.

"Hey," she says, remembering the string of letters and numbers, "what is your name?"

It is probably absurd to keep the in case it doesn't work, and we die here, I'd like to know to herself. But it is difficult to think of the Existential Weapon as anything but a child to be spared the horrors of the world. Under any other circumstances, the King's Counsel would laugh at her own hypocrisy. Another terminal window dies, cutting her code in half. Hurriedly, Olwen tries to restart it. Numbers and seconds tick down; far away, the last evacuation craft are probably getting ready to leave the station, or leaving it already.

"Sophia-108," the prototype girl responds, the code cold in words.

"Sophia. That's just the series number" Olwen replies. The command line opens up; she starts inputting the first code. "But what did you put in your profile, out there?"

OVERRIDE ACCEPTED the screen prints out. TRY AGAIN.

It's funny. There really isn't much fear left in Olwen; if she lives, she lives. If she dies, at least the leg will stop hurting so bad. She tries to put the code in again.

Finally, the prototype girl resounds.

Article:

[ ] Zoe
[ ] Sophia-108
[ ] Sophie
[ ] Ten-Eight
[ ] Sky

"I like it."

The code is in. The numbers are running down towards the flatline of zeroes, and the sharp impulse of fission and death. Olwen's finger hesitates. Then, she drops it. Seconds keep ticking down. The terminus is reached. Nothing happens. There is no eschaton greeting them with fire.

It's over.

Article:

Vice-Admiral Yana has not achieved her goals regarding Project Sophia, and Amanda Olwen along with the prototype girl have managed to prevent the Eschaton Protocol from being enacted. Still, no victory is full and absolute. Pick two from the list:

[ ] Vice-Admiral Yana's forces did not manage to recover any valuable data about Project Sophia.
[ ] Most of the specialist Project Sophia personnel did not evacuate with Vice-Admiral Yana.
[ ] Enough of the station's security recordings survived to provide indisputable evidence against Vice-Admiral Yana.
[ ] Amanda Olwen's team has not suffered serious injury.
[ ] The Existential Weapon has not suffered serious physical or mental injury.

 

[Gargulec]

Spoiler

[X] Sophia-108
[x] Enough of the station's security recordings survived to provide indisputable evidence against Vice-Admiral Yana.
[x] Vice-Admiral Yana's forces did not manage to recover any valuable data about Project Sophia.

And afterwards, a kind of peace.

Slumped in the chair, the lights of the control terminal slowly blinking out to her side, Olwen watches the Existential Weapon slough off Sophia-108. First, the deep black and glossy white fade into dull gray; the suit itself goes slack, its fabric peeling off in long stripes, gold filament severing and coiling back into the pattern in the prototype girl's skin. With each quiet pop, she gives out an almost inaudible cry. Flakes of dried blood shed from the suit, falling off and scattering over the grated floor.

"Does it hurt?" the King's Counsel asks, through the haze of her own pain and building exhaustion.

"Usually," Sophia responds, the way one would answer a test survey.

The shell of a mask is the last to go; she pulls at it and it snaps off her head, the solid white dissolving into inert matter flowing between her fingers like silk. Pulled from Sophia's body, Olwen observes, the Existential Weapon is no more substantial than a handful of crumpled cellophane that one could easily fit into a shoebox. It is not the weapon that holds her attention, though. What little remains of it is on something else now.

The prototype girl looked worn down when retrieved from that cruel cell; but now that the suit is off her body, what remains of her is a wraith, skin blue-pale, eyes sunken deep into skull, shadows between them no longer a metaphor, but crescent bruises impressed into her face. Sweat, cold and sticky, covers her head to toe, making for a sickly sheen in the station's dim lights. Olwen looks for blood, for some kind of a wound, but finds none: just a body dragged far past the point of exhaustion. Only Sophia's eyes still burn bright and vivid, their strange glow almost fevered. She sways on her feet, hand finding support on one of the screens, but only barely enough to hold her up.

"Are you hurt?" the King's Counsel mutters, her voice all that she can offer.

"I…" Sophia begins, and stumbles on the word that comes next. There is something pleading in her look.

But Olwen can no more rise from her seat than the prototype girl can support her own weight. Her bad leg still burns with a low fire threatening to explode into another white flash at a single wrong move; the flurry of fear and adrenaline drains from her system, and where it leaves comes a numbing crash that will soon swallow her whether she wants it or not. She checks her data-link, but the little pane of glass is well and truly dead, its display frozen on ragged peaks of visual distortion. She hopes Red and Lynx have also made it through. She hopes that they too are now hunched somewhere among the debris of a battle, too tired for words.

Carefully, Sophia guides herself to the floor alongside the long edge of the display screen, until she too is sitting. Her head slumps forward once she does; Olwen can't tell if the stifled sobs that follow are grief, pain, or just the prototype girl's body trying to cope with the rapid crash. Probably some mix of all three, or maybe something else entirely. The King's Counsel doesn't know, and her own thoughts are getting too sluggish to determine; only the idle wish she was able to embrace the crying prototype girl remains, floating on top of an exhausted, dulled consciousness.

When relief finally comes, it is wearing the drab field grey of the Grand Army of the Realm.

A search party medic rushes to her, another to Sophia. Someone asks if she can walk, she babbles in response. Gloved hands move her to a stretcher. It doesn't even hurt too much to be moved; she tries to say something about the prototype girl, or the Existential Weapon, but words turn to damp mush in her mouth. She allows herself to be handled from there on, watching the station's roof dissolve into a blur of light above. The air she breathes is stale, laced with the stench of death, fresh and old. For a time, nothing makes it past the fog of her mind; perhaps she sleeps, and certainly her awareness cuts at times, but it is a battle to keep track of it, and herself with it. The battle results in a loss, though the result can not be properly called rest.

Waking up is a slow and laborious process of puzzling together the world from little pieces of lucidity. Like words, in an oddly familiar voice.

"I don't care," it says, "just give her the shot, I need her right now. It's an order."

There is a hand on her shoulder – rolling her sleeve? – followed by the prick of a needle. And then, moments later, consciousness returns in full force, breaking through the haze with searing clarity, and absolutely no sense of recovery. The stimulant burns its way up to Olwen's brain, bringing all the little damage to her body into sharp relief. Dulled pains wake and throb; all the physical strain registering as red cracks across the surface of her. She blinks a few times, trying to get the flittering shadows out of her vision; she is still lying down, still on a stretcher, still in her clothes. Guessing by how hard the surface is below her back, someone stacked her on some boxes, or something like that. So, still in the field.

"Counsel?" a voice calls, impatient. A sheet of paper is pushed into her hands, alongside a pen. "Sign this."

"I'm not signing anything," she croaks, pushing back, a reaction driven more than a reflex ingrained bone deep, rather than any kind of a lucid thought.

With her mind still clawing its way back up to a kind of clarity, she turns towards the voice. One of the station's hangars comes into view, emptied of its usual complement of defense craft, and instead filled with the ungainly bulk of the Army's transport ships. Grey uniforms shuffle to and fro in an unceasing rush, orders barked over the whine of engines kept running. Grey is also the colour of the uniform of the man standing in front of her stretcher, grey lined with gold. Olwen recognizes him. It's hard not to remember a face like that.

Hairless, wrinkled, with large ears bent to the sides and tiny, watery-blue eyes hiding under thick brows, right above a nose squashed flat, general Radko Dvorkovic is only made more hideous by the caricature of a grin stapled to his scar-split lips. Among his soldiers, the King's Counsel recalls, he is known as "the Mole", with the attendant joke that the only thing uglier than his face is his character.

"Just sign it," he sighs, shaking his head.

"What is it?" Olwen mumbles. "Where is the prototype? Where is my team?"

"This is a sworn statement," annoyance is already seeping into his voice, "confirming that you have been personally attacked by vice-admiral Yana and all that shit. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda."

With a grunt of effort, and aided by the drug driving her system into a destructive override, manages to drag herself up on her elbows, pushing her back against the wall and body into a kind of a sitting position, feet barely above the floor.

"I am not signing anything before I've had a chance to read it," she repeats. "Where are my people?"

The general slides a hand over his face, foot tapping as if even a second of delay of his plans was too much to bear. Still, of all the people who would push her documents to sign, he is one she would trust the most, as loathsome as he is to interact with.

"That spacer woman is currently having her data downloaded, so you better not disturb it," he finally says, clearly frustrated by having to do so. "The prototype is currently sitting with a medic somewhere, refusing to cooperate and asking for you. It…"

"She."

"...has the Existential Weapon clutched in hand, so," even if he noticed her interruption, it wasn't nearly enough to make him react to it, "considering it's your responsibility, and the mess it made ouf this station, I really think you should want to sign this stupid paper and get on your feet quick, Counsel."

"What about the rest?" she asks, thinking about Lynx.

"Somewhere, probably. I don't know," Dvorkovic waves his hand angrily, the other digging out a tin cigarette holder from his uniform's pockets. A scratched emblem of the Royal Engineering Corps is printed across its lid. "Can you walk, or do I need to get you a wheelchair?"

Olwen leans in; she pulls herself closer off the edge of the stretcher, looking for her cane. Thankfully, whoever loaded her up on the stretch back in the command center had the foresight to pack it with her. Tentatively, she grabs it, and tries to see if she can lift herself up again; the results are mildly promising, and speak well of the efficacy of military drug policy. It doesn't even hurt too much, yet.

"I'll walk," she offers, breathing heavily. It is probably, most definitely a stubborn mistake, but she will regret it later.

To his credit, Dvorkovic doesn't rush her too much as she slowly ambles behind him through the crowded hangar deck. The detritus of the fight for the station can be seen in every direction. Regulation-black body-bags stacked one on top of another, the few survivors crouched and guarded over with live weaponry, clearly shocked to be treated as if prisoners of war by their own side. Olwen spots the unlucky aide between them, a fresh bandage cinching her chest. A few of them, more seriously wounded, are being ferried away into the ships themselves for medical evacuation.

And then, surrounded by a circle of techs, a braided cable connecting her head implants to a bunch of mobile machinery, there is Red. She looks like hell.

"You will excuse me for a moment, general," Olwen says, and before the man can protest, she stumbles forward towards her companion.

Even seated down, she gives an appearance of size, her body rendered even bulkier by the heavy-duty cybernetics lining the entire left side of her body, running from under the crown of curled, bronze hair, along the side of her torso, all the way to a massive, mechanical leg, firmly planted on the floor. Scorch marks and battle-damage line the entire length of it, bent metal and exposed wires periodically shooting blue sparks into the air. One of her drones sits in her lap; she strokes with deliberate slowness of someone trying not to rage. Other three are nowhere to be seen. Neither is Lynx.

"Figured you'd be okay," Red greets, waving the tech off. Ash streaks her face; her cybernetic eye is blinking erratically. An ugly feeling coils in her voice, a stinger about to strike.

An empty breath leaves Olwen's mouth; she already knows what is about to be said. Still, she looks pleadingly at her companion, as if hoping that maybe that could change the words that come out next.

"Lynx is dead," Red announced, not even bothering to try to hide the accusation.

The words fall like an emergency bulkhead dropping down, sealing away all the chance of a correct, fitting response. There is a brief moment of awful silence, as there always is. Olwen looks away, her mouth going through several empty motions before finally arriving at an equally empty, dry "how?" As if that mattered at all.

"Fulfilling your order," anger begins to unspool in Red's voice; raising from a slight tremor to a full firestorm. "What else do you need to know?"

Her hand drags on her drone, fingers curling like claws, ready to strip the shell from the machine. Images of death come rushing before Olwen's eyes. Lynx's shrewd face turned to pulp, burned, crushed, growing swollen and blue in the coldness of space. Up until this moment, she still believed that he would be found, somewhere. It's not fair, she wants to say. She is not on her feet because she wants it; Red must be able to see the layer of sweat clinging to Olwen's face like a death-mask. Why can't she have a little bit of pity, and hold the anger for some quieter later?

"I was actually wondering what you were going to say," Red, however, seems uninterested in anything short of actual cruelty. The grief in her voice is sharpened to a point; she thrusts with it. "Maybe give a word for his heroism, Amanda? We'd all be gone without him, no? Or tell me it was necessary, and he died for a good cause, what about that? There is a big list you could crib from," her lips are pursed; her living eye hostile. "I like your silence better."

"This is very charming," Dvorkovic interrupts, grabbing stunned Olwen by the shoulder, "and a good demonstration of why you should never get chummy with your underlings. Counsel, you have a prototype to check up on, and you," he points at the techs, "have a lot of data to secure."

The King's Counsel doesn't resist as the man pulls her away. In a way, it is probably the closest thing to a mercy that Dvorkovic is capable of. Red's anger, even more than her words, lodge themselves somewhere in Olwen's throat. If it could ever be a good idea, she would run back to the cybered-up woman and demand an apology, or apologize herself, explain that this was necessary, and…

"You know," a puff of smoke from the general, the man already on his second or third cigarette, interrupts Olwen's descent into self-pity. "Whatever it was that you did here," he says, sending a puff of smoke towards the ceiling, "messed up the station's systems bad. It's all scrambled. Rotten data. My techs say they've never seen anything like that. So good job, you've made decomissioning this place an actual fucking nightmare."

He stops to give her time to catch up, smiling bitterly. Struggling, she matches him, again doing the old trick of shoving the sense of guilt, and the apology, into the back of her mind. She needs to find Sophia again.

"But I can't be too mad," he takes a drag, puffing the smoke up towards the high ceiling of the hangar bay. "Several people I kind of hate will now be having their lives thoroughly ruined. Did you know that yesterday morning, some star-eyed idiot in the 2nd DSN staged an emergency, so that Yana would have a reason to jump out of the hospital bed and demand to be allowed to resume her post?"

He shakes his head, and ash off his cigarette, straight to the floor.

"Who would disallow her that, too? I really feel bad about that moron, he's going to get thrown under the bus, the Admiralty swearing on their mothers' graves they had no idea," his smile shifts into a violent grin, teeth showing under ruined lips. "Fat good it'll do for them. Actually, I should be thanking you, Counsel."

The cigarette's butt slips from between his fingers; he squashes it under his boot. They start moving again, slower this time. Even the stimulant can't fully shield Olwen from the consequences of her stubbornness; each step is a wince.

"For?" she finally follows the question he's so obviously dangled.

"The station's surveillance data is corrupted beyond use," he explains. "But. But, but but. That spacer underling of yours?"

"Red."

"Her drones recorded a lot of quality footage I hope to get on His Majesty's desk by tomorrow, alongside your statement for additional effect."

Olwen nods, an ugly and unhappy kind of hope budding in her chest. In a perfect world, this recording wouldn't be restricted to the royalty and those in the know, but released far and wide, so that every citizen of the kingdom could see what their hero was really like. But years of experience have managed to teach her to temper her expectations as to what is actually possible.

"I've been looking forward to Yana getting nailed straight through the cunt for a long time now," Dvorkovic stops to make a rude gesture with his hand, and another cigarette he has just finished fishing out, "now I may even live to see the stake come out the other end, if you know what I mean."

"Court martial?"

If that is what happens, if Yana is ruined for what she did here, for what took from her and Red, then maybe it will have been worth something after all. The King's Counsel tries not to hold on too much to this idea; still, it's hard to shake.

"Maybe," he shrugs, the smile disappearing from his face. "It all depends on how protective the Admiralty Board is going to feel about their pet. As lovely as the sight would be, I wouldn't be holding my breath for her getting walked out of the airlock just yet."

Years ago, Dvorkovic was present at the frontlines during the initial stages of the Main Belt Offensive. Cut off from the Republican forces, he ended up in command over the belt of asteroid fortresses weathering the brunt of the fight. Dug into the cold rock, stubborn to a fault, he earned himself the name of "the Mole", managing to stall out the enemy advances and withstand their attacks until Yana's flanking maneuver relieved the Belt and saved the war. Ever since the famous recording of her helping him out of the bunker, the general's uniform caked in asteroid dust, face sunken and hollow, he has never spoken well of her. According to most, he did not appreciate having his glory stolen. All the time Olwen has known him, the explanation has always struck her as pretty weak, and the hate as entirely genuine.

"Actually, on the subject of corpses," the grin returns to his face, even worse than before. "Do you want to hear a joke?"

Instead of responding, Olwen just follows after him, hoping that he will eventually lead her to wherever they've left Sophia.

"Did you know that Colonel Raad actually stayed behind?" Dvorkovic continues after a moment, passing by a pair of guards and into the dimly lit corridors outside of the hangar bay. "We found him in one of the hangars. Turns out, he is an honourable man," he snorts, the word an insult in his mouth. "Refused to abandon his post and took full responsibility!"

Emptied of its personnel, the lights above dimmed and flickering, there is an eerie air to the station. They pass by a search-party, returning from its guts with yet more body-bags dragging behind.

"So I ask him if he is willing to incriminate Yana. He says that an officer would rather die than betray their superior. So I give him my gun," he stops and turns around, to give Olwen a good look of joy on his face as he delivers the punchline, "and ask him to stop wasting everyone's time. He is writing a letter to his son now. Good times."

Olwen declines to laugh with him, though in all honesty she can't actually fault him. The only shame is that this probably means Raad will never face proper justice. Still, there will be a kind of justice in that splatter of blood across the wall of the station commander's office. She stops for a moment, taken aback by the thought. She is not sure if she likes it.

"Anyway, that's the reason why I need your signature under that statement, and quick. The royal entertainment package really needs something to pop, and he actually respects you."

They find Sophia soon afterwards, the pair of guards posted before the door to some side-room saluting Dvorkovic as they approach. The aforementioned medic is there too, a middle-aged woman with prematurely greying hair tied into a neat ponytail.

"Sir," she reports, glancing nervously at Olwen, and at her shaking leg. "The prototype seems to be fine. She didn't allow herself to be examined more closely, but she looked dehydrated, so I gave her some water, and a blanket. She is asleep now."

"Look," the general says, not without frustration, "it's alright. You didn't have to worry. Can you…"

"I want to see her," the King's Counsel cuts in before he can finish his demand. "She wanted to see me."

Dvorkovic sighs with an exaggerated wheeze.

"So it's not a custody, it's an adoption. Of a superweapon."

Olwen turns to protest, started by how flustered the words make her. But the general does not stop her again.

"Just make it quick," he waves his hand derisively. "I need to get you off the station before you get me killed too."

The room had served as some kind of guard-station, and apparently hasn't seen use in quite some time now; the lockers inside are empty, and the station itself disconnected. There is a small nook in the wall used to house some manner of bulky equipment before it got removed, leaving behind a niche of just the right size for Sophia, wrapped in the golden foil of a shock blanket, to curl there, head resting on her arm, the thin membrane of the Existential Weapon still firmly in her grip.

With the stimulant slowly wearing off, and pain making itself increasingly apparent once more, Olwen slumps down to the empty chair by the unplugged station, trying to be as quiet as possible. Sophia does not stir, not at the silent sounds, nor at the King's Counsel heavy look. Her sleep is deep but, as becomes readily apparent, not very good.

Beads of sweat build on her forehead as her lips move to form unheard words; Olwen watches her small body close in on itself, the foil of the blanket crumpling with loud, metallic cracks. It doesn't take long to recognize a nightmare in progress.

Again, she reacts without thinking it through. A sharp lean forward and she lands a hand on the girl's shoulder; Sophia's eyes opening suddenly, the twin red lamps staring straight at Olwen, first in confusion, then in recognition, and finally in pleading. Or at least that is what the King's Counsel imagines their light meant; it's what makes sense to her. The prototype girl's hand sweeps from under the blanket, grabs Olwen at the wrist.

"It's…" she almost follows up, but at the last moment, her voice breaks.

"It's okay," Olwen says, quietly cursing the awful grin stapled to her face. "I'm here."

Sophia's grip loosens slightly; letting the King's Counsel slip free from it.

"It's always there," the protype girl whispers; she too sounds terribly tired. The black stripes under her eyes have barely faded.

"It?"

Another long silence stretches after the word. Olwen pushes the chair closer, fighting to keep herself from falling down. Not now, not in front of her.

"It's always like that," Sophia explains finally. She speaks with effort, each syllable coming off her tongue almost reluctantly, as if she had to consider it thoroughly first. "After I wear the suit," she touches the mess in her hand, its edges lapping at her fingers like some sea-creature taken out of the water. "I see it. It is so much bigger than me. Than you. Than anyone."

It is the most Olwen has heard her speak; Sophia herself seems almost surprised at the words that she managed to let out of her chest.

"I don't know the words for it," she finishes.

Once more, the day is an unbearable weight about to crush them. All the death, all the loss, all the exhaustion and fear hang in the air, too much to breathe, too much to handle. So Olwen does the thing she had herself once wished to receive, the one thing she owes Sophia.

"Come," she asks, straightening up and helping the prototype girl up. "We need to leave this place."

She takes the bent foil from her shoulders, and puts her jacket over them instead. What does it matter that it is splayed with blood? They both already are; they both look like hell. What matters is the way Sophia holds at the flap of it, pulling it slightly over chest, almost disappearing into the oversized leather.

"Those words? You'll find them eventually", Olwen assures, doing her best to, for once, believe that trite, trivial phrase. "I promise you."

For the third time on this oh-so-long day, her new ward nods her head slightly, maybe even in agreement. And this suffices to sanctify the vow, and in its name, in the depth of her soul, Olwen once again implores all those nameless gods her ancestors have carried on their millennial trek through the stars to look kindly upon the prototype girl, and all the futures stretching ahead of her.

"Let's go," she utters, speaking another promise between the words, this one without sound and meant for herself, and all her hopes that someday, her guilt will too be absolved. "Let's never think of this place again."

This, they both intend to keep.

Article:

And so ends the prologue. Freed from Project Sophia, Sophia-108 is released into the custody of the Truth and Transparency Commission.

Practically, this means that she will be living with Amanda Olwen for the time being, back under the rich blue sky of the Home Moon. And before the course of making peace throws her life into disarray again, there will be a time of rest for her, and of building herself up, and of failures that are the essence of it.

In the coming weeks, what is the…

…one thing that Sophia-108 manages to do that makes her self more her own?
[ ] Get herself a nice jacket, a bit like Olwen's, but without her help.
[ ] Spend a pleasant day in the museums and palaces of the Princely Quarter.
[ ] Do something to help Red with daily work in the Commission.

…one thing she accomplishes to build her life up?
[ ] Make herself familiar at a nice cafe.
[ ] Fight off boredom with the help of a local library.
[ ] Find solace in art in the temples around the Prince Karvasa's Square.

…one thing that reminds her why she doesn't belong?
[ ] End up the object of a political argument at a polite dinner.
[ ] Show too much familiarity with violence to a potential friend.
[ ] Misunderstand an event on the streets, and be used politically.

 

[Gargulec]

Spoiler

[x] Get herself a nice jacket, a bit like Olwen's, but without her help.
[x] Fight off boredom with the help of a local library.
[x] Show too much familiarity with violence to a potential friend.

Alien stars shine under the great vaulted ceiling of the Royal Library's main hall. They are not real, of course, merely a holographic display, meant to give an impression of the old Cradle's sky, of the great celestial sea that humanity first walked under. Artfully artificial, it rests reassuringly above Sophia, lighter on her than the vast, cold expanse of the Home Moon's own sky. The stars above her are bounded, and the library's walls close. The air, too, carries a sterile taste so much more familiar than the world outside.

She looks down from the ceiling, and at the display case in front of her. In the corner of her eye she catches her date shifting impatiently, a foot tapping out some idle rhythm on the floor. Does he want her attention? Is he bored? Why? It was his idea to come here in the first place, after all. Nervousness pricks at her, needle-like.

Still, there is so much to see here. Take, for example, the massive codex sitting behind the reinforced glass. It's one of the treasures from the time of the Pilgrimage, part of a permanent display in the Royal Library meant to remind the king's subjects that time their ancestors took on the mad gamble of sailing into the great celestial unknown. The book is one they have carried with themselves all the way from the Cradle, bound between sheets of noble metal, vellum written over in a hand so microscopic that, to an unaided eye, it looks as if they had just bathed the pages in ink.

But it is enough to lean in and tap the side of the glass to have the image of that page appear in a holographic display, enlarging until the sea of ink resolves into strings of individual letters, into an old script that Sophia can't read. Still, the device helpfully translates it, bits and pieces of a chronicle of the Cradle's history. The pilgrims put their faith in matter, in the tangibilities of metal and parchment, of ink and fine script. It's an attitude that the prototype girl finds easy to empathize with. She toys with the exhibit for a minute or two more.

"You'd have thought you've never seen this before," the man behind her chuckles with impatience.

"I have not?" Sophia says, somewhat confusedly.

She turns to face him – tall, lanky, with the hint of a beard growing out of his youthful chin. He watches her intently.

"Didn't you come here with school?" he asks. "We did it at least five times."

It's not the first time this question – or some kind of it – has been asked of her in recent weeks. Her face goes blank, to keep the shame in.

"I have never gone to school," she states, already suspecting this will not help her case. Whatever the case is. She remains unsure.

"Never?" he says, brows raising. "Like, at all?"

"Yes."

"Why," he blinks. "How?"

"It's a state secret," she admits freely.

He laughs. She doesn't. A long and strangely unpleasant silence follows.

"So," he says finally, ceasing his foot-tapping; his eyes narrow and there is a hint of hostility in the way they focus on Sophia. "You wanted to come here just for the exhibit?"

She turns her head away, looking over the hall, with its displays, ornamental walls, with its tiled floors and the polished steel statue of the great Karvassa the Navigator towering in the middle. There is so much to see here, so much history and small beauties, each of them novel and mind-opening. She could easily imagine herself spending hours here, just shifting through the thin crowd, taking in the sights, and staying away from the business and open horizons that lie outside.

"Yes?" she asks in a low voice.

The man sighs with enough frustration to draw out a sharp sense of guilt out of Sophia.

"Maybe you should have fucking said so?" he snaps at her, and she takes a step back on a reflex; the cutting anger in his voice so very well burned into the memory of her body. "What the fuck?"

"I'm sorry?" she tries again, and sincerely.

He just covers his face in his hands and sighs again. Nearby, a security guard steps closer, as if alerted. She looks over the boy's shoulder, the weight of her presence enough to mellow him down a bit.

"Do you just like leading guys around, or what?" he asks, taking a step back.

There is another feeling Sophia has been growing increasingly familiar with over the last few weeks: knowing that she has done something awfully wrong, and yet having no idea what it was exactly. She just stares at her date, without the palest hint of a notion what to do or say next.

"This has just been a waste of time," he grunts. "Next time, warn people that you're a retard."

He is already turning to leave, and whatever desire Sophia had to stick with him, or follow, is dissolved by the livid cruelty of his voice. Instead, she wipes all hints of emotion from her face or stance, watching him huff, hesitate, and when that provokes no reaction, step away.

"Bye," he snaps one final time. "And stop wearing those sunglasses inside, it makes you look like a moron!"

Sophia watches him disappear into the crowd, headed straight for the entrance. Her hand, without her thinking, touches the side of her face, the frame of her glasses. But I have to she mouths to herself, I'm not supposed to let people see my eyes. A bizarre breed of frustration spouts from those words – what gave this boy the right to be so rude to her? Why couldn't he explain whatever it was that he wanted from her? Or was it all her fault, somehow? The new annoyance and the by-now familiar sense of guilt battle it out in her as she faces the exhibit again. That, at least, is reassuring – she can spend those hours here just she wanted to.

The library, with all of its richness and history, accommodates her, and helps cover up all the bad feelings before they get a chance to fester.

---

Though it is shaping up to be a radiant day, a chill still holds in the air, drawing out soft pinks from Sophia's cheeks. She probably should have done like her date and put on a thick cap; at least his hands are keeping hers warm. The cold is pronounced enough that they do not talk too much as they make their way through the Plaza of the Landing, towards the looming shape of the Royal Library at its far end. It stands a breed apart from the lavish palaces flanking it, their facades busy with stucco. Unlike them, there is little that is terrestrial about it – it stands a grand cylinder of metal, as if someone had brought a space habitat from orbit and planted it on the ground. Brick lacework and columnade filigree wrap it in a bourgeois basket, the Home Moon's attempt at domesticating the celestial steel. In its long sundial shadow, gardeners tend to trees shedding for the winter; Sophia remembers how just weeks ago, there was still lush green here, now replaced with mellow reds and yellows. Which of the two she prefers, she is not sure – though what she really wants is to find herself inside. The boy she is with – short, blue-eyed, and very fond of jokes she doesn't fully get and slogans that baffle her – probably feels the same.

"Hey, what do you say we get tea first?" he suggests.

Then again, maybe not.

Sophia glances in the direction he indicated, and notices a biped with a large trailer parked in the shadow of the monumental Touchdown Obelisk, the pillar of black stone reaching high towards the slate-grey sky. The strong smell of freshly-ground coffee wafts in the cool air; a woman in a blue greatcoat tends to the mobile cafe. Sophia and her date come closer, causing the veteran to look up from her register. One of her hands is gloved in leather; the other a skeletal prosthetic, steel fingers slightly curled.

"Hello. I will have…" her date announces himself, squinting at the menu display behind the woman's head. "Actually, it doesn't say what kinds of tea you have?"

The owner surveys him, her face growing still and harsh as she notices the small enamel pin in the shape of a resistor drawn through the side of his cap.

"Navy-style," she utters.

"Sorry?" the date stammers back.

"All I am saying," the woman's metallic finger taps against the side of the mobile bar, banging loudly, "is that this is no fancy Engineer's Lane cafe, sir."

"I'm not even a-" he begins, throwing out an exaggerated sigh. Then, he catches himself, glances at Sophia, pulls back and straightens his back. "Don't you know it's a common struggle?"

"Didn't feel that common," she grits her teeth, leaning in over the narrow counter, "up in the Belt. Not that you would know anything about it."

They argue for a few minutes longer, exchanging phrases and concepts that Sophia isn't entirely familiar with; in the end, her date storms off, and she pays thaler and a half for a styrofoam cup of thick, black tea which tastes almost like what she used to be served with her meals back at the station. The taste is both familiarly welcome, and ever-so-slightly revolting. She drinks it quickly and catches up to her date.

"If only they would finally get," he complains as they come in the shadow of the Royal Library, "that they are as much a victim of the system as we are!"

Sophia nods; she really just wants to be inside now. This, however, turns more challenging than on most days. There are short stairs leading to the arched door into the library, cut from red stone. Now, on their steps, peculiar figures sit in focused silence, hunched and wrapped in ragged, workmen clothes. They are different from the sort Sophia usually sees around the plaza, with a roughness to their features that reminds her of Red – and true enough, some of them too have bodies marked by metal grafts and cybernetic enhancements, though while Red's are always polished, their seem beat up and marked by the tooth of time. There are only a handful of them, they have spread themselves so that it is hard to step between them up to the library, as if it was their intention to make it impossible for others to enter.

"Oh," her date says, sagging a bit. "I guess we're not getting in today."

"Why?" Sophia asks, slipping her hand from his grasp.

He reaches to stop her, but she quickly mounts the first step, and then another. Careful not to trip over their bent bodies, Sophia dances between them; there are words written in white paint over their backs, proclaiming that peace alone is not justice or on our backs, the pilgrims sailed. They keep a solemn silence as she walks over them. A pair of guards stands above this mass of bodies, staring down with what can only be read as idle hostility; Sophia recognizes one of them – it's that woman who hung around her previous date when he got angry at her for some reason. She notices her, smiles a sad smile, and then points at something happening below – at another young man with a camera in his hand, having just recorded her ascent through the strange scene. Her date stands right next to him, a very awkward expression painted across his face. Sophia pauses, waiting for him to follow, but he just keeps glancing at the camera.

"Uh," he says, clearing his throat, "look, I'm-" he pauses; when he speaks again, his voice is stronger, clearer. "I am not crossing a picket line just for some library girl!"

Ostentatiously, he turns and walks away at a quick pace. Sophia's heart sinks into a familiar confusion.

"Bummer," the guard says, giving her a slight pat on the back.

---

The next time, she just gets stood up. In a way, the experience is novel and brings out a fresh set of disappointments out of her. She sits on a bench under the steel Karvassa, idly flicking through her data-link, waiting for anything from her date. But the woman is silent, and does not respond to any messages inquiring about her whereabouts, leaving Sophia to simmer in a growing sense of failure, and familiar sense of solitude. It doesn't take her very long to figure out that this lack of knowledge is worse than just being left. She keeps glancing towards the entrance, as if expecting her date to make a sudden appearance, to apologize for being late, to come sit with her and tell her she didn't do anything wrong this time. Though nothing like that happens – and at some level she knows nothing like that will happen – she can't peel her eyes away.

"Hey there, pilot!" someone calls at her, voice vaguely familiar.

Sophia briefly throws her head to the side, to see a security guard approach; she recognizes her face, her short black hair and slightly bent nose. The woman sits down at the other end of the bench, neither close nor far.

"Pilot?" Sophia asks, confused.

"Well," the guard pecks her head at her, "with that jacket and those shades?"

Sophia frowns, touching the side of her new jacket, the smell of leather still strong and fresh.

"No, no," the woman waves. "It's a really good look. It looks good on you!" she rushes to add.

The words are rather sweet. Sophia's hand finds a way into her pocket; she adjusts the gold-framed shades. So she looks like a pilot? Makes sense. And yes, it does look good. She thinks back to her reflection in Amanda's apartment's mirror, and how nice it felt to look at herself like that. She gives a very short smile to the security guard, who shares it.

"So, no boy this time?" she asks after a moment.

"She's not showing up," Sophia replies, still happy about the jacket and the compliment.

"Oh," the woman nods, a sense of understanding on her face. "Bummer."

Sophia nods.

"Maybe she got spooked by getting invited to the Royal Cylinder?" the guard suggests after a moment. "It's a pretty forward move."

"It is?"

"Wait," the woman frowns, giving Sophia a very puzzled look. "You know what this place is, right?"

Again – again – the slithering, awful sense of being out of place rears itself in Sophia. She knows what this place is – it's the library! So what is it that she is missing? Why is all of this so complicated?

"The Royal Library?" she says, knowing this is the wrong answer.

"Well, yes, but…" she stifles a chuckle. "This place has a kind of a reputation, you know?"

Sophia doesn't, so she lets the guard explain, and as she does, in a calm voice that belies only the faintest suggestion of bemusement, the string of bad dates and pushy boys finally starts to make more sense. Unfortunately. Towards the end, she is just staring dead ahead, hands stiff on her knees, thinking about all those empty spaces of the "Royal Cylinder" that couples love to frequent.

"So they were all thinking that-" she mutters; when the guard interrupts her, she lets her.

"Yep," she nods quickly. "You have no idea how many lovebirds we catch on surveillance, and I have no idea how many we miss."

"I wish someone had explained it to me," Sophia sighs. There is at least some relief in knowing that it was her cluelessness, not some hidden odiousness. But the consolation is bitter at best.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," the guard adds; again, Sophia is struck by the soft kindness in her words. They get to her. "It had to suck. Look, my break is almost over but if you want someone to show you around without any expectations, maybe add me?"

Her datalink flashes in her hand; Sophia fumbles with hers, but quickly enough they are linked.

"So," the woman says, standing up and giving Sophia a friendly tap on the shoulder. "See you around…?"

"Sophia-108."

"Djuna Stivs," she smiles again. "I'll call you when I'm free."

Strangely, though this time Sophia knows she'll see the woman again, she is also way more reluctant to see her go than any of her library dates. She spends the rest of the day waiting for the call, and when it comes, the invitation it brings it is the best news in days.

Article:

Sophia and Djuna will go out together, to get some drinks and get to know each other better. But where?

[ ] Worst Hopes
A student's club by the Engineer's Lane. It is filled by poets, artists, and young radicals, many of which believe that the kingdom needs a far more thorough remaking than the reforms proposed by the new king offer.

[ ] Lapofsky's
A dancehall near the First Landing's spaceport. Frequented by all kinds of people, but especially blue-collar spacers and (after the armistice) discharged army. Better not to besmirch the name of the good king here, but the words "peace is not enough" are written above the bar, in red paint.

[ ] The Bastion
A former navy officer casino, recently turned into a more wide-audience hangout. Rather classy and still popular among men and women in blue. The portrait of the old king still hangs in the place of honour, and is often toasted to.