ã€ŠDestroying The Divineã€‹


 Chapter 1 - The New Gods

    What inspires us to kill our gods?

    It is one of two mysteries that bother me to the point of obsession. A question revisited every morning and evening, haunting me in every moment of passing silence.

    Humanity through its many ages has had more gods than can be accurately counted. They are born from stories, ideas, and ideals, but always and without exception they lose their importance to us and they die by our mortal hands. At times we may even re-dress the corpses, clean the blood and cover their pale complexion with coloured powders to make them look fresh and new, all so that these lifeless puppets can flesh out a new pantheon.

    Eventually, either the smell of rot overpowers the sweet perfumes or we simply grow tired of them, as we finally let them fade to nothingness with the fickle nature of a spoilt child tossing out their old toys, always coveting that something new.

    How many gods lie dead in our wake, not even leaving behind a fossilized husk? How many more are we to forget like a fading dream?

    Does the answer even matter?

    We¡¯ll always find new gods to replace the old.

    New gods to serve us, and for us to serve.

    New gods for us to slay.

    ¡°The recent attack on the SynnTech building has left three employees in critical condition and caused roughly 45 billion silver merits in damages.¡±

    SynnTech; a corporate entity that has come to replace the gods of old. The deity, to which my family owes our fealty and not one so easily felled.

    ¡°The criminals were subdued at the scene, but the search continues to locate any conspirators they may have been working with.¡±

    The news report¡ªthe first of Dad¡¯s early morning rituals¡ªresonates through our household¡¯s network, the data streams echoing in my own ports; interrupting my own thoughts.

    A quirk of technology?

    Or something more insidious? A propaganda attack on my subconscious mind?

    Its biting nails digging into the flesh of my mind, looking to claim a beachhead from which it might war for my soul. Yet, even knowing it for what it is, I will not pry those clawing fingers free.

    SynnTech is my family¡¯s patron after all, and it wouldn¡¯t do to act so unfilial in view of judging eyes.

    Which leads me to the other mystery that my obsessive mind cannot let be.

    You.

    I can feel you here hiding somewhere in my mind, I would call you a parasite but that doesn¡¯t quite fit, does it? You do not take and you do not give, you only¡­ observe.

    Is there something so interesting about me that you would crave my every other thought to scribble them down in your diary? Or I am but one of many to you?

    Can you not answer?

    Or do you choose not to?

    Does it make you uncomfortable when I reach out to you?

    ¡­

    Is it strange to think that we might be friends, of a sort?

    It would be, wouldn¡¯t it? But I hope you don¡¯t mind. I¡¯ll believe that you¡¯re okay with it until you do finally answer me.

    Discordant humming echoes from the kitchen as Dad burns his morning coffee, the second step of his rituals. By the time I finish changing and washing my face, he¡¯s sitting at the dining table, smiling to himself as his eyes flicker through the morning news.

    ¡°Have you caught the news?¡± He asks, shifting to take a bite of what technically passes as toast, smothered in enough jam to almost forget that no ingredient involved could be legally advertised as bread.

    ¡°The attack?¡±

    ¡°Is there anything else worth talking about?¡±

    ¡°The broadcasters would be out there making a story if there wasn¡¯t, and the reintegration of the rebel colonies in the fringe systems is always big in the news. It¡¯s hard to believe that they managed to survive for a whole generation out there after their software was bricked.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s just old news repeating itself. An idiot seizes control of a colony, calls himself a CEO and makes up his own corporation or something equally stupid. In the end, the survivors sign back on with a real corporation after he inevitably gets himself scrapped,¡± Dad shakes his head. ¡°The only ones that matter are those that sign a contract with SynnTech after.

    ¡°All in all not worth talking about. This attack, though¡­¡± His smile deepens, the creases in his face darkening as a shadow passes over him. ¡°That these people would so willingly spit in the face of those who have given them so much.

    ¡°They should be begging SynnTech for forgiveness for their own uselessness, but instead they sell their flesh to the competition for a few cheap favours.¡±

    ¡°Not everyone has the privilege of working for SynnTech, Dad.¡± I meet his eyes but he doesn¡¯t meet mine, there is a light of foreign influence building in there.

    ¡°It¡¯s Vulcan industries,¡± jittering hands lower his toast, jam sloughing off onto the table, as the weapons loaded into his shoulders peak out at the world. ¡°They¡¯re behind this, conspiring to bring us all down.¡±

    ¡°Dad?¡±

    ¡°The attack, Vulcan industries are pulling tricks again. They didn¡¯t learn their lesson after rebranding from the defunct Hephaestus Forges.¡± His hands quake as he clutches at the table.

    ¡°The only parts on the attackers that weren¡¯t pitted with rust and acid wear were from the old Hephaestus production lines. Gear that should have been bricked when they restructured into Vulcan Industries. Someone over there has been handing weapons and tech to every rust-plugged synner ready to throw themselves at us. It¡¯s cost us 11% efficiency this quarter already. Eleven percent!

    ¡°Every year it¡¯s getting worse. If we could just push the other corporations out of this city, SynnTech could fix everything. Until then, everything we do to make this city better just gets exploited by groups like Hephaestus and the jobless scum of the scrapheap that crawl out from under the streets.¡±

    Just like the good employee he is, he barks on command.

    How much of this is him playing along with what they want of him, and how much is something else stepping in to tell him what to think and how to feel?

    I feed him empty words of agreement, just as a good daughter should. The words themselves matter little, they¡¯re just a sign to show that I¡¯m paying attention, even though I¡¯m not. One phrase does stick, however, prodding at my own obsessions.

    ¡°What do they think they can even do to us?¡±

    Of course, describing SynnTech as ¡®us¡¯. Attaching ourselves to the skirt of the corporation that killed the divine, as if children hiding behind the legs of their mother. A shame that she is but an empty shell that we crafted to comfort us in the absence of the parents we killed.

    SynnTech; a name meaning ¡®synthetic technology¡¯ on the face of it while trying to be cute with the reference to religious ¡®sin¡¯. A clear and open rejection of the past gods and religions, yet with them gone the play on words has lost much of its meaning.

    Can it still be called sin to go against the will of a dead god? Or is it sin now to betray the new god that stands over their bloodied remains?

    These na?ve new age rebels, sinners that resist the corporations; what goes through their minds as they throw away their lives for a hopeless cause? Why do they dedicate so much of themselves to slaying the immortal?

    The body of a god is not found in temples, warehouses, or office buildings. Nor in any single body not even the possessed priests, managerial officers, or vaunted CEOs. The body of a god is found only in faith, and even should the impossible be done and faith in these gods plummet with their stock value, our desperate human need for another will see them replaced.

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    The chunks and giblets that remain will be sewn back together, renamed and rebranded; nothing will have changed.

    So, what is the point in fighting?

    What inspires these na?ve fools?

    I need to understand.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that quite enough, dear?¡± Mom crashes into the conversation as she pulls the crushed toast from Dad¡¯s hand and wipes away the spilt jam. ¡°Isn¡¯t there a better way to spoil the morning?¡±

    All of Dad¡¯s momentum stalls out as he tries to find something to reply with, only to delay by helping her with cleaning up. His awkward smile to her does nothing to ease the tension between them.

    ¡°Good morning, darling,¡± he gives up on any follow-up, realising that any victory would be pyrrhic. ¡°Did you sleep well?¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± she says shaking her head in contradiction. ¡°Work was filling my dreams, as always. I just want to forget about it.¡±

    Her eyes move with the distinctive look of a person scrawling through optical feeds, distracted even as she talks. Though that¡¯s not unusual for her.

    ¡°Well¡­ ah¡­¡± Dad fumbles, his eyes glazing over faintly as he tries to think of a topic of conversation that doesn¡¯t centre around his work or employer. ¡°My new arms are taking well, and they look impressive don¡¯t you think? You always complained about the last ones¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure they¡¯re very useful for your work,¡± Mom replies, her lips pressed into a tight line. ¡°Just be careful, please¡­ I¡­ I don¡¯t want to see you on the news¡­ just come back home.¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t some throwaway metal,¡± Dad chuckles as he reaches out for her, even as she steps back away. ¡°I know you¡¯ve always been anxious about my work in security but SynnTech has invested in me. I¡¯m not running around breaking rust-eaten synners as they crawl out of the gutters anymore. There are so many layers of security surrounding me that I haven¡¯t had a real fight outside of training in years. Most of our job is just to look intimidating for the boss.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry anymore.¡±

    ¡°I know, I know¡­ it¡¯s just¡­¡± Mom shakes her head. ¡°It¡¯s nothing.

    ¡°The corporations do as they will, and we do as we must,¡± she whispers as a quiet curse under her breath.

    ¡°That true, Dad? You haven¡¯t even gotten to test those new arms you¡¯re so proud of?¡± I ask, picking at the tension in the air born from a thousand words left unspoken.

    But that¡¯s normal for a family, isn¡¯t it?

    For arguments to hang unspoken and ignored, as we pretend not to care about the things which bother us most and give false importance to the things we couldn¡¯t care less about.

    How much would be broken if someone were to cut through the Gordian knot and say aloud the feelings that we hide?

    ¡°Didn¡¯t I just explain that my job isn¡¯t about fighting anymore?¡± his smile returns as the topic becomes something comfortable for him. ¡°It¡¯s about intimidation, appearance, and deception. Most idiots on the street are so focused on the bits that shine that they even don¡¯t notice the parts that don¡¯t. A little better-than-real skin is enough to hide subdermal armour plating, plasma casters, and cannonettes for long enough to scatter any idiot that makes a move on the boss.¡±

    He cycles through a few weapons, the skin pealing back on rails or lifting up on hatches to reveal the hidden weapons. He clicks and whirrs with mechanical motion as each weapon cycles through before folding back inside of him; a living fortress hidden within false flesh.

    To me, he¡¯s just my dad, a smiling old man who loves his job a little too much, but it¡¯s easy to forget just how much 7<sup>th</sup> circle kit he has packed into his frame. As personal security to SynnTech¡¯s current head of city operations, he¡¯s been installed with the sort of combat gear that¡¯ll let him make a stand against a small army and survive everything they throw at him.

    ¡°Remember, you¡¯re more than just the metal you have plugged in,¡± Dad says, lowering his voice seriously. ¡°Strategize, plan, and take every advantage you can scrape together. You won¡¯t earn a promotion if you can¡¯t use your mind to beat out the competition.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t realize your job had that much thinking to it,¡± I lie, shifting in my chair as I try to get ahead of the conversation. ¡°You¡¯re never this serious, you usually just make a joke about it or something.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s part of the deception,¡± Dad replies, with a simple shrug. ¡°Everyone thinks that they¡¯re smarter than a meathead, and killers have repeatedly targeted me as a weakness in the security team because of it. It makes them predictable, and easier for us to counter or even catch them out before they make a move.

    ¡°Remember, Art, we are always being watched and we never know what sort of spiders are listening in on us at any moment, or who they serve. You need to be careful what you let them see.¡±

    ¡°Should you be telling us all these secrets?¡± His honesty is both unnerving and refreshing, and I¡¯m leaning forward over the table before I even know it.

    ¡°We¡¯re phasing the strategy out, and anyone with ears able to reach this table already knows it. So, it¡¯s not worth the effort of hiding it,¡± he dismisses the thought. ¡°Just make sure to take the lesson to heart.¡±

    ¡°I will, Dad.¡±

    ¡°Moving onto something more exciting, have you decided what you¡¯re getting for your first proper synn, yet?¡± He leans back and turns his gaze into our ¡®secure¡¯ home network searching through the options for himself not at all bothered that the spiders weaving data threads through our home would already know more than him.

    Strangers closer than family.

    ¡°I have an idea¡­¡± I reply, picking through the familiar options just one more time.

    Synns.

    Synthetic flesh, bone, organs, and then there are the things that we don¡¯t naturally come equipped with; the pistons, and gears, and things that go boom. There is an almost impossible number of options available if you¡¯re able to pay the price, all sorted into various circles that define their user.

    From the 1<sup>st</sup> circle of limbo, for the spiders who weave their webs through the digital worlds to the 9<sup>th</sup> circle of treachery where the very imitation of humanity is betrayed for more efficient alien forms.

    I find my own wish list filled with 4<sup>th</sup> circle ¡®greed¡¯ synns. Not an inaccurate label since I wish to steal time itself from the world.

    ¡°First synn subsidy eats a percentage of the cost, so I¡¯m going big for the best savings,¡± I tell both my parents, though Mom isn¡¯t paying attention. ¡°And as you said, my mind is the biggest advantage I can get over everyone else, so I figure I¡¯ll go for a spine-trap.¡±

    Dad''s smile cracks as he bursts with laughter, slapping at the table, and Mom just freezes in place for a few moments before getting back to cleaning with a barely perceptible frown lingering on her lips. Another thread silently wound into the Gordian knot, another worry that isn¡¯t going to be spoken of.

    ¡°You¡¯re going all out, eh? A smart girl just like her Dad. Looking to get into some fights, are we?¡± Dad eagerly leans closer, smiling brightly as he thinks only of the aspects that would affect his own work.

    ¡°No, but I need to get ahead, and I can¡¯t do that when my worth is measured by the steel that I¡¯ve got plugged in. A Spine-Trap will speed up my thoughts and reactions. If I can think at twice the speed, I can study twice as much as the other students and I can adapt to new synns twice as quickly. I¡¯ll have a full synn-set in a couple of years, and have you ever seen a full-body synner kicking up rust and plugging numbers at SynnTech? Or any company for that matter?¡±

    ¡°Glad to know my favourite daughter is aiming for the top floor.¡±

    ¡°Your only daughter is going to be your boss one day,¡± we share a smirk.

    I got my smile from Dad and Mom always used to refer to it as ¡®charming¡¯, though I¡¯m sure she was talking more about Dad than me. It used to be a catchphrase of hers whenever we get like this, but she hasn¡¯t said it in years.

    ¡°Azra has a full spinal refit, so I¡¯ll ask him about it, see if he wants to talk,¡± he continues. ¡°Heard it¡¯s a hell of a thing on your head to live in slowed time, but if anyone can work that metal, it¡¯s you.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, Dad,¡± I punch his shoulder, the fake skin is a soft cushion, but I can still feel the hardened armour underneath. ¡°He¡¯ll be with us tonight for that thing, won¡¯t he? That meeting with your boss is still good, right?¡±

    ¡°Your boss, the CEO?¡± Mom asks, snapping up straight as if this is the first she¡¯s heard of it. She¡¯s finally looking past her feeds to see us both, still wearing her frown.

    ¡°She¡¯s head of operations in this city, not quite SynnTech CEO,¡± Dad chuckles, but it dies quickly as he realizes that his mirth is not shared. ¡°Don¡¯t worry too much about it, in public she¡¯s a hardass but in private she¡¯s not so bad.¡±

    ¡°Mhmm,¡± Mom hesitates for a moment before the words slip out of her. ¡°She¡¯s pretty, isn¡¯t she?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve seen her on the feeds, haven¡¯t you?¡± Dad asks, chuckling. ¡°She¡¯s rich enough to be as pretty as she wants to be.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m asking if you think she¡¯s pretty,¡± Mom says pressing her lips together into a tight white line, not doing much to disguise her concerns.

    ¡°Sure,¡± Dad shrugs. ¡°Her personality is¡­ something else, though. Trust me, honey. You have nothing to worry about.¡±

    She slouches and clutches at her head for a moment before looking away.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry it¡¯s just everything is always SynnTech and¡­ Just remember our promise, part of you belongs to me as well.¡±

    ¡°And you, me,¡± the imitation of a smile breaks apart as something real peaks through for the passing of a heartbeat.

    ¡°Yes, yes. You both love each other very much. Now, am I getting a meeting with the most important person in this city, or what?¡±

    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s still happening. Don¡¯t be afraid of asking her whatever you want to know,¡± Dad tells me, leaving Mom to retreat away into her own digital world. ¡°See if you can¡¯t sneak into her contacts. Just being competent isn¡¯t always going to be enough, connections get you ahead at her level.¡±

    ¡°Thank you so much for setting this up for me! I really can¡¯t believe it, you¡¯re the absolute best, Dad!¡± I reach out, hugging him tight, playing it up a little in case this conversation ends up reaching her ears. At least one of the little spiders listening in is certainly working for her, after all.

    I need to make an impression on this woman, and hopefully, I can use her to lock in a contract with the company before graduation and the official hiring period begins.

    Dad¡¯s not wrong either, being competent without connections is a good way to get yourself used, or worse, scrapped by someone who sees you as a threat. If you even want to dream of a real promotion, then you¡¯ll need someone high up looking out for you.

    ¡°Azra will be with us, I¡¯ll let you know if he¡¯s good to talk,¡± Dad says, a difficult smile on his lips. ¡°If you do go through with the spine-trap, you¡¯ll need a couple months of recovery but I¡¯m sure that your Mom can look after you until you¡¯re on your feet again.¡±

    ¡°Mhmm,¡± Mom mumbles in the background, barely pretending to be a part of the conversation.

    ¡°How much real flesh does Azra have left at this point? He hasn¡¯t gone full metal, has he?¡±

    ¡°Full? No. He¡¯s still got his brain, but he does most of his thinking through his implants, the organics are mostly there as a hackproof backup,¡± he explains, though everyone listening knows it¡¯s a lie.

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t even wear BTR skin anymore, it makes him fucking terrifying to look at, and it¡¯s been years since anyone has had the steel to come at him from the front. Some rust-pluggers are pissing oil just at the sight of him. But I figure they¡¯d all lose their damn minds seeing him at home with all his ¡®puppers¡¯. Still can¡¯t believe he calls ¡®em that.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen the pictures,¡± I snort back a laugh, unable to repress a smile.

    He could become a minor star on the open net if we set up some live cams through his house. The contrast between a metal killing machine and the man doting on his fluffy little Shiba babies is just so unbearably adorable.

    Flicking my feed over to Dad¡¯s boss, I get back to planning my approach. How do you impress a woman standing at the top of the world?

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll wear my new dress tonight,¡± I mumble with a frown, going over my plans yet again.

    ¡°She won¡¯t care,¡± Dad smirks. ¡°Just¡­ look confident and don¡¯t show her any weakness.¡±

    ¡°What is she, a wild animal?¡± Mom asks, returning to the conversation.

    ¡°Worse, she¡¯s corporate,¡± Dad pats me on the back.

 Chapter 2 - The Glow

    Ten thousand artificial lights warring for our attention consume these city streets leading pedestrians astray like some mythical labyrinth of legend. It¡¯s impossible to even see the ground beneath my feet as I wade through the luminous advertisements swimming around my legs, each new light devouring the one before it. An ecosystem of boundless greed and hunger.

    A barely audible whisper tickles at my ears, almost sounding as if someone were calling my name, but I don¡¯t give it the time. I blink away the flickering lights to my right which make my spine tingle with discomfort, this particular ad is designed to imitate the movements of a stalking predator, forcing my heart to pound a little harder even knowing the trick behind it. Every year there¡¯s some twisted new technique used to snare us, something new for us to adapt to.

    It¡¯s easy to get lost in the glow, doors are frequently covered by the illusions or entire roads are made to disappear, and it¡¯s not surprising when someone goes missing taken by the glow as if stolen by fairies.

    The silhouette of another pedestrian approaches from opposite me and I move out of their way only to freeze in place at the sight of the person. It takes all of my effort not to sneer at the holographic reflection of my own face, altered by countless new synns, a particularly beautiful silver and black spine-trap centre place of the synn-set. She smirks at me with my own lips before passing me by, the bright ads behind her, all owned by SynnTech, are intentionally designed as a moving backdrop just to make the ghostly reflection more convincing.

    Shaking away the discomfort, I push on.

    The advertisements here are always changing, always moving, and the moment you think that you understand this place there is something new to capture you. Yet the worst of it isn¡¯t even the glow itself, but the light that we let into ourselves. Ocular synns are one of the few common implants that youths are allowed to install, and unfortunately, there is a little-known ¡®feature¡¯ in the metal.

    I fight against the pull of the metal lenses as they focus my eyes on a SynnTech ad across the street from me. The pressure is subtle enough that most people won¡¯t even notice unless they already know, but each ocular will ¡®encourage¡¯ the user to focus on their company¡¯s ads and products.

    There is a reason that it¡¯s little talked about. It isn¡¯t something you should ever explain aloud if you want to succeed in life. We¡¯re constantly being watched, everything we do in life is a test, and our entire future is on the line. The ability to keep such matters quiet is rather well appreciated in the corporate world, as I understand it.

    The strangers that pass me by in the street never meet my eyes, focused on something ahead of them to try and keep from getting lost themselves. It¡¯s not until the tight press of the station that we have to begin acknowledging one another, rubbing shoulders as we press to get aboard the railcar before it leaves.

    The glow is thick here as well, but at least there is enough room that I don¡¯t need to put up with the stench of the passengers beside me. A couple of others are wearing uniforms some just like my own, but I have no real inclination to speak with them even if they are technically my peers. I know each of them by name, and none of them are worth my time beyond what simple interactions are needed to keep trouble away from my door.

    Unfortunately, that doesn¡¯t keep it from approaching me of its own will. Actaeon¡ªa pretentiously unique name which explains his preferred nickname ¡®Tian¡¯-¡ªlocks in on me standing at my side while fumbling for an excuse to start the conversation.

    Taller than me by a hand¡¯s width and ordinary in most regards, his most notable qualities are his unusual honesty and self-destructive sincerity. Where most know to keep quiet or follow along, he has a tendency to speak the truth which affords him nothing but endless trouble that he never learns from.

    And today, he carries the particular stench of desperation that makes me regret I never took up a hobby in Houdini-styled escape acts. Surely if he could break out of a sinking coffin, I could learn to escape a moving railcar, no?

    ¡°Yo, Artemis, you study up for today¡¯s test?¡± he asks, standing close enough that I can make out the clogged pores on his nose. ¡°It¡¯s going to be pretty bad, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Maybe it would¡¯ve been best to lean against the wall and hide in the glow of the railcar walls, but it¡¯s too late now. I don¡¯t reply right away, I don¡¯t need him getting the wrong impression and thinking that we¡¯re friends, but it¡¯s probably already too late for that.

    This interaction is going to be recorded from a dozen angles and potentially analysed by future employers, especially if my heart rate spikes at all or other stress indicators are noted in the files. This needs to be a show and I need to be a proper actress.

    ¡°I am well prepared for it, yes,¡± I reply with the obvious, looking past the glow that fills the windows as we rise above the buildings around us.

    The tallest city spires are the few markers on the horizon that do not contribute to the glow, clear to make out even from this far away. The constructs are elegant, and while they all seem simple at first glance there are layers of complexity that become apparent the longer you gaze upon them. Only a simple symbol glows on the side of each one of them, different for each. There is something almost holy to these buildings, churches to house the gods and their priests, keeping them above the rabble below.

    The SynnTech building is the tallest of all, piercing the heavens themselves; a knife cutting open the sky. The space elevator at the core of the spire is the most valuable structure in this city, and even now there¡¯s cargo moving up and down the length of it loaded onto spacecraft for the colonies.

    Our future awaits out there, lost amid the lights.

    ¡°I¡¯m not so confident in myself,¡± Tian forces a smile, reminding me of his existence as I inch away from him. ¡°I had some issues with getting my new logic core installed, couldn¡¯t manage much studying when it was on the fritz, you know?¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± I nod slowly, taking in the sight of him again.

    Sweat is forming on his brow, and he keeps licking his lips like he¡¯s about to say something before stopping short.

    ¡°What they¡¯re saying about me isn¡¯t true. They¡¯re just making it all up,¡± he mumbles, biting his lip. ¡°I wanted to ask a favour, but before anything, I wanted to clear that up. What they¡¯re saying about me isn¡¯t true.¡±

    Dangerous drama that I¡¯d rather not even comment on.

    He¡¯s been the centre of a number of malicious rumours throughout the various social hubs our class frequents on the widenet. While I maintain a careful persona online to appeal to recruiters without stirring unwanted drama among our peers, he uses the chance to socialise. It¡¯s been depressing watching him try to form actual human connections with people when everyone else is busy doing their best to destroy each other.

    An innocent lamb walking through a slaughterhouse, without even understanding what he¡¯s looking at.

    There are unspoken rules for these places.

    That which can be twisted into a flaw, is a flaw.

    That which can be misrepresented as evil, is evil.

    Yet¡­

    A log of his sins is easy enough to find, and the truth behind them only takes a few moments more to figure out. The topic is a favourite in modern culture wars.

    Gestalt blending.

    A rising new ¡®sexuality¡¯ that has a pair of lovers directly linking their logic cores and running a specialised program to blend their digitised minds into a singular ¡®gestalt consciousness¡¯¡ªa term borrowed and bastardised¡ªbefore breaking it in two. You never know how much of yourself you¡¯ll lose, or even if what you get will be fully functional. The fact that it doesn¡¯t directly affect their biological mind is likely the only reason they don¡¯t all end up as lobotomites.

    Yet, it¡¯s popular in the current culture and his comments on it¡­

    ¡°I don¡¯t really know if it¡¯s safe¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t they too young to be making a decision like that before they can even install their first synn?¡±

    ¡°Are there any studies on the side effects?¡±

    ¡­aren¡¯t a glowing endorsement that everyone expects.

    ¡®Technophobic dogwhistles¡¯ is the phrase being used to twist his words into something evil. Suggesting that he¡¯s actually one of the few crazies out there still trying to fight against synns.

    Everyone knows that he¡¯s not, but that doesn¡¯t matter. What matters is that he can be made to look like one.

    One of the girls in our uniform looks our way, I can practically see the venom dripping from her fangs as she smiles.

    ¡°Poor Art, do you see that, he¡¯s trying to recruit her,¡± Eve stage whispers to ensure that we all hear. ¡°Do you think he¡¯s going to bomb the school? He so looks the type.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I can totally see him ranting about ¡®democracy¡¯ and ¡®free speech¡¯ while crying over his little basement nuke.¡±

    Eve laughs along with her friend, their cackling itching at my neck as I look for an escape that isn¡¯t appearing.

    ¡°He¡¯d be like ¡®heil the republic!¡¯ and start going on about the evil robots running the world!¡±

    ¡°Exactly! With one of those stupid old flags, like that the one with the stripes! You know the one!¡±

    I start to breathe easier as they turn and make their way to the next car still writing their insane little story about Tian; who is standing frozen beside me.

    He¡¯s not going to survive this world, and he¡¯ll drag his friends down with him.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    But that doesn¡¯t mean he can¡¯t still be useful. Even a sinking ship has parts worth scrapping if you¡¯re smart about it.

    ¡°So, ah, any chance you¡¯d send me a copy of your notes?¡± Tian asks, shame crossing his expression as he swallows all that¡¯s left of his pride.

    He¡¯s not simply asking for notes, not this close to the test. He¡¯s smart enough not to say it directly but what he wants, and needs, is a data packet that¡¯ll feed him the answers; something any competent student would have already built in advance.

    It provides an interesting opportunity.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure about that¡­¡± I twist my expression to look thoughtful while staring up into my feed. I can¡¯t be too keen on this, especially after what just happened. If I¡¯m seen as too close to him it could lead to others targeting me, and though I could survive it, I don¡¯t need the added workload right now.

    ¡°I can¡¯t offer much, but you¡¯re one of the smartest kids in our class,¡± he continues, visibly sagging as his gaze falls to his shuffling feet. He¡¯s just short of begging me for help, and if I drag this out he just might. ¡°I¡­ If it wasn¡¯t for my bad install, I¡¯d be fine. I¡¯ll help you out sometime in the future, I promise. Please.¡±

    I leave him hanging for a moment more before releasing a carefully measured sigh to seem appropriately reluctant.

    ¡°You owe me,¡± I press my lips and offer him a resigned glare before making a direct link with him, bypassing the nearnet security features. The data packet takes only a few seconds to prepare and send across. It contains all the results of my studies that I¡¯ve filed away for this test, with how I¡¯ve packaged it, the data will rise to the surface of his logic core the moment he reads a relevant question.

    The distant look in his eyes proves that he¡¯s integrated it immediately without even running a proper security scan.

    I measure my every breath and heartbeat, running a program to identify any stress indicators while carefully adjusting my behaviour to disguise them.

    Tian is too busy integrating my notes to even bother thanking me, let alone try to forge a proper business relationship as would be smart. The poor boy doesn¡¯t know how the world works, and by the time he learns, it¡¯ll be too late for him. There was never any saving him anyway; I¡¯m not doing anything wrong.

    The glow fades down to something more manageable as we arrive at school where students are busying about their morning, chatting casually and playing games on their logic cores. I waste no time in finding my place in the controlled chaos that flows through the corridors, dodging the more belligerent students. Nowhere else are you likely to find so much real flesh and so little metal.

    Children can¡¯t install metal until they reach the age of eighteen. The only two exceptions are ocular synns to enhance our vision, and the logic core, which enhances our mental processes while granting us access to the various networks spread throughout human civilisation, the widenet stretching between continents and worlds, and the millions of more secure nearnet connections for individual households, shops, railcars, classrooms and such.

    The occasional older student has a real synn plugged in, usually something flashy to show off to the younger kids. Not everyone is meant to succeed in this world. Maybe they¡¯ll get lucky and find employment moving cargo or running security, assuming they can survive against the competition. There are always plenty of desperate survivors from the understreets willing to do just about anything for a chance to escape their hell, and they¡¯d readily steal a place up here from any one of these kids.

    ¡°Like, why do we even have to come here?¡± Eve asks, sitting on her desk across from me. She¡¯s not even hiding her anxiety at the coming test, but the rest of her clique doesn¡¯t call her out on it. ¡°All we¡¯re ¡®learning¡¯ is on the datanet anyway, so like, why even bother with any of this? It doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡±

    Another silly thing to ask aloud, even if I¡¯m not certain of the answer myself.

    As far as I can figure it, this institution is another testing grounds to see how well we socialise and to monitor our behaviour. There¡¯s also a good chance that there is some intention to manipulate our developing personalities through controlled interactions, but if that is the case then I haven¡¯t discovered the methodology for it yet.

    Another side theory I have is that this place introduces an element of chaos into our development, I do know that the experiments into corporate-raised clutches of clones ended as a failure due to a lack of creative thinking in the end products. They were closer to being machines than people, and most machines come cheaper.

    ¡°Look, the Republicans here!¡± Eve shouts as Tian walks into the room, trying to ignore her.

    ¡°What¡¯s he going to do, ask for a class vote?¡±

    ¡°Hey, Mr. Republican, don¡¯t shoot me I don¡¯t have any oil!¡±

    ¡°You should go short-circuit and join your precious presidents, I¡¯m sure they¡¯d hate you too.¡±

    Tian faces them, twitching as he clutches his fists by his side ready to make another big mistake. He can¡¯t help but self-destruct, can he?

    ¡°All I said, is that maybe they were just trying their best, not necessarily evil. It¡¯s not like everything is perfect now, either, is it?¡±

    ¡°See, that¡¯s exactly what all technophobes say just before they get up to some shit. It¡¯s all ¡®maybe things aren¡¯t perfect¡¯, so let¡¯s bomb the city, and spread viruses through the school network. You¡¯re all crazy, and I don¡¯t know why the school hasn¡¯t kicked you out yet.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± the teacher steps into the room, breaking them up with a glance. ¡°Take your seats.¡±

    They reluctantly obey, glaring at each other with far too much passion for my liking.

    ¡°We¡¯ll be beginning today¡¯s testing immediately, you will not have the chance to leave until the testing period is over. Is there anyone that needs to leave for the bathroom before we begin?¡±

    No one is stupid enough to say yes.

    ¡°Then you will be receiving the test packet shortly.¡±

    I thoroughly scan the data packet I receive with a variety of security programs before unravelling it and scanning through the test. It¡¯s everything that I anticipated it to be, and there¡¯s no danger of getting anything wrong, but that doesn¡¯t mean I shouldn¡¯t try to exceed instead.

    Every moment is a chance to prove myself, and I can¡¯t afford to let the competition get ahead of me for even a moment.

    Stifling the tiny hint of guilt inside of me, I link into Tian¡¯s logic core. His weak security does nothing to stop the virus I attached to his ¡®cheat¡¯ program. It was some rather expensive code considering how few merits I have to spend but I¡¯ve had it sitting for over a year now waiting for an opportunity like this. He¡¯s not going to find it even if he scans for it, business like this requires a professional touch if I want to impress.

    Using the virus to jack into his systems, I open a channel into the widenet and reach out to a spider that I¡¯ve listed as a potential contact. They ping me back immediately.

    ¡°Sending job specs, 30 silver merits to crack the nearnet and acquire the test data. I¡¯m working through a proxy and I need the link burned the minute I receive the data.¡±

    There¡¯s a slight pause, then a reply.

    ¡°Artemis, Artemis, Artemis.¡± My skin crawls as the alien mind whispers my name straight through my logic core, bypassing all security. ¡°Clever and cruel in equal shades of black, what shiny bits of silver could compare to your freely given soul; the one you mistakenly think to lack?¡±

    ¡°30 silver merits, are you in?¡± Everyone knows that spiders are strange and dangerous in equal measure, but why is this one pretending to know me? Is it trying to unnerve me?

    ¡°Not satisfied simply burning a friend but frying his brainpan, too. All to prove that you can? The test itself a meaningless fa?ade, a layer you¡¯ve already solved, where the true test you value is instead¡­ me? So much you are willing to sacrifice just to reveal to the world that you aren¡¯t afraid of spiders.

    ¡°Which of us is meant to be insane?¡±

    ¡°30 merits, offer is closing in one minute,¡± I barely contain the building frustration before I can grit my teeth.

    I¡¯ve made a mistake.

    This was supposed to be a fresh spider, one with flesh still anchored in the real, and with at least a little sanity left in it, but that¡¯s not the case. This one is from the deep limbo, a web of fragmented and scattered frameworks littered with broken code and viruses; a world of abandoned ruins claimed only by countless spiders and their insane creations.

    I¡¯ve stumbled onto a monster.

    ¡°How droll, how utterly boring. I could make your friend¡¯s head pop like a balloon if you asked. A good escape from this dreary class, yes? Or! I could puppet his fleshy arms and legs and make him dance a jig. Fun entertainment, no? But then that¡¯s not your purpose.

    ¡°No, you want to prove yourself¡­

    ¡°Why for free you could come to my home and prove how much of a brave child you really are. The employers in SynnTech would be very impressed with you, I¡¯m sure.

    ¡°I can help you if you let me.

    ¡°You want friends, no?¡±

    I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s the 1<sup>st</sup> circle synns or the deep limbo itself that breaks them, but Dad warned me there¡¯s no such thing as a sane spider. The more sane they seem, the more wary you have to be of them.

    ¡°Keep it to the specs I sent you, I¡¯ve already made my preparations,¡± I keep my reply firm, bouncing the entire conversation through Tian¡¯s systems so that when his logic core is burned there will be nothing left tracing this back to me.

    A sad *ping* is all I receive in reply as the spider gets to work.

    Nervous shuffling spreads from one student to the next, the cold air sharp with disinfectant as if waiting for blood to be spilt. We are all fighting for our futures, and those who lose will be quietly removed when this is all over.

    Among those who don¡¯t understand this world, many will still fumble their way into employment. They exist to be used and exploited by those of us who understand the competition and wish to survive it. Today¡¯s test separates the former from the latter.

    Where anyone¡ªeven Tian¡ªcould succeed in fields such as math and science, where honest pursuit of truth is highly valued for roles in R&D teams, such a trait is a critical weakness in management roles, and today¡¯s history test is for the latter.

    There is no truth in history, only stories built on politics and faith. The heroes and the villains, the saints and the sinners, are all reflections of one¡¯s personal faith and political affiliations. For instance, as I am from a SynnTech family, I must be loyal to the company¡¯s brand of history.

    The corporation began its existence before the collapse of the old era when the world was still run by petty dictators and corrupt politicians, each too busy playing with nuclear toys, they grew neglectful of their respective empires.

    Developing technologies to replace the most holy of creations, the human body, SynnTech very early on found itself in conflict with the irrational religions of the old era. It was terrorist action from those religious zealots that submerged civilisation into violent turmoil, and the weak leaders could not stifle the fires before civilisation itself burned.

    SynnTech, among other surviving corporations, assisted in reforming and arming police forces and judicial systems to bring an end to these troubled times. Elements of those old government institutions continue on into the modern era, arbitrating competing corporate conflicts and subduing dangerous cults and terrorist organisations.

    Or so my corporation tells it.

    Even I don¡¯t know how much of the story is a lie.

    Incoming data pings my logic core as I receive the results from the spider¡¯s investigations. A few seconds later, through a storm of inane ramblings, I catch sight of Tian shuddering in his seat ahead of me.

    His logic core will be burning hot until the data chips containing my virus and connection history physically shatter inside of his skull. For someone on the wrong end of a digital lobotomy, he takes it surprisingly well.

    Not that it matters.

    No one will hire him after this.

    Scanning through the surprisingly small marking file, I overlay it atop my own answer sheet and quickly run through a series of analyses. My language needs to be softer and mimicking the teacher¡¯s style will lead to some sub-conscious bias in my favour.

    An interesting angle on one question that I nearly overlooked deals with the understreets, and in particular, the reason these modern slums continue to persist.

    In my distraction, I¡¯ve put together data and graphs to illustrate how the city¡¯s working population is more productive when there is a lower caste beneath them, threatening their status. Noting the security of retaining a spare labour force in case of an unexpected population decline, alongside providing a natural source of genetic mutation which will occasionally produce a valuable trait or two for corporate extraction.

    Certainly, it shows my understanding of corporate interests in the slums, but it fails to address the actual historical events that shaped the expansive underground slums.

    I spend my remaining time polishing the work, while a cleaning program runs through my system, removing all the accessible evidence of today¡¯s events. My thoroughness should evidence my skills in subterfuge to the people in management who can dig deeper than most.

    ¡°Testing is over, you¡¯re free to start your break,¡± The teacher announces, not quite as bored as she was a moment ago. ¡°Actaeon if you could stay, please. There¡¯s something we need to discuss.¡±

    Either Tian is holding himself together bravely, or the damage to his mind is so significant that he can¡¯t properly respond. Whispers spread faster than anything, and already I can hear the beginnings of rumours building up around the poor boy.

    They¡¯ll tear apart what is left of him. Dogs trained to hunt, and kill won¡¯t hesitate when a vulnerable stag exposes its throat.

    Swallowing down the guilt and shame, I leave them to it.

    I¡¯m here to develop new and valuable life skills and I¡¯m not going to waste a single opportunity, no matter the cost. I¡¯m not going to let myself be crushed by this world, even if that means kicking others down into hell behind me.

 Chapter 3 - Kali

    The gods are imaginary beings, creatures of fiction and lies. Yet, lies have power, sometimes more so than the truth.

    A powerful lie spread by a good priest¡¯s honeyed words can lure the masses to build new churches and spread those fictions ever further. And, for the sake of protecting all that they¡¯ve built, the devoted will shed blood and force yet others to reject truth and bow to their shared delusions.

    It is the role of a devotee to carve that lie into reality with every stone added to the foundations of the church, with every symbol dyed into the flags, and every ¡®holy¡¯ word inked onto paper and parchment. Yet gods cannot, by their very nature, exist on the same plane as mortals. Their churches are but brick and stone when there is no longer anyone coming to pray, while their ¡®holy¡¯ words and symbols are but shapes and sounds that will, with time, lose meaning to all but the most dedicated historians.

    It is within the faith of a community that a god holds true power.

    And the moment that faith fades, the gods tumble from their heavens.

    SynnTech still has many devotees and I¡¯m about to meet with a high priest.

    ¡°You look fine, stop fiddling with your dress,¡± Mom chides me, lightly slapping at my hands.

    It¡¯s funny how even though my emotions seem so distant and numb, they can still send tremors through my fingers. If I can still feel fear, what of the rest, then?

    Do I even want them back?

    ¡°You¡¯ll do fine,¡± Dad squeezes my shoulder, smiling down at me with the sort of unfounded confidence that only a parent can have in their child.

    ¡°Thanks,¡± I whisper, focusing on my flesh and relaxing every muscle. I am but flesh and bone, but that flesh and bone are mine, not even my own fear will take that from me.

    The distinct scent of wood ash and ripe cherries, emanating from some well-hidden air freshener, eases my focus back on the world. Resting a hand on the dark wooden panel walls, and the rough wooden texture characteristic of Cronus Inc.¡ªA company dedicated to the production of luxury materials, from wood shaped to purpose as it still grows to stone furniture cast from magma.

    The cool metal rails shimmer with silver engravings hidden within the steel that shift and flow with an unseen current. This sort of custom work that you¡¯ll only see from Titan Manufacturing. The same with the light housing though the orb itself carries the distinctive warmth of a Tartarus.

    Each and every one of them a subsidiary of SynnTech, lesser gods in the greater pantheon.

    The doors hiss as they open on the top floor of the apartment building, revealing a divinely beautiful woman standing before a wide glass window looking out over the city. The blended lights of ¡®the glow¡¯ gathers at the woman¡¯s back, climbing the tail of her dress and rising to her shoulders. She¡¯s clothed in a sheer fabric catching and warping the light in strange ways, illuminated from within by some unseen projector.

    ¡°Treasured guests, the master of the house is waiting, please follow closely,¡± she bows to us, her copper-dyed Better-Than-Real skin that much more stunning in the golden glow of her dress. Her high heels and thigh-high stockings are comparatively dark, highlighting her legs against the bright backdrop of her dress; a shadow standing in the light.

    Her movements are too perfect for flesh. She¡¯s either an android running on high-grade code or a full-body synner like Azra. Regardless, I take note of her appearance for later inspiration. I¡¯ll eventually need to develop a tasteful style for my own metal, and she¡¯s been quite beautifully constructed.

    ¡°Azra has already arrived. He is waiting with mistress Kali in the lounge,¡± she tells us, her voice too perfectly cold.

    ¡°You are?¡± I ask her.

    ¡°You may call me Coppelia, I am mistress Kali¡¯s personal servant,¡± she replies with a mechanical coolness.

    There is enough space here to fit our apartment twice over, with only a few simple leather lounges and low tables filling the space in the real. Glowing displays shimmer in my ocular lenses, filling the empty space with a thinly forested valley where wild deer graze at the thick grasses and the glowing lights of the city shine like night stars on a still lake.

    Azra stands in contrast to the faux nature, a metal construct barely imitating the human form. Metallic-blue, reactive armour covers him from head to toe, each piece held out a few centimetres from his body by short mechanical arms. His face is a shifting mass of smaller armour plates with no eyes, nose, or mouth, though I can sometimes glimpse shifting lenses in the gaps between as he turns to address us.

    ¡°Good evening,¡± his deep, synthesised voice projects from somewhere in his chest.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t bring the dogs?¡± Dad asks, ¡°Aren¡¯t they going to be lonely?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s better this way,¡± Azra slowly shakes his head. ¡°This would be too much for them and I wouldn¡¯t want to stress them.¡±

    ¡°A shame that we didn¡¯t get to meet them, but it¡¯s nice to see you again,¡± I greet him fondly. He¡¯s not one for handshakes or any form of touching, but I do see the small spots of stray fur stuck in his shifting armour plates.

    ¡°A pleasure,¡± he nods to me.

    ¡°Right you are, it is set to become quite the pleasant evening,¡± Dad¡¯s boss declares, emerging from the illusory forest and startling a few deer as she smiles in our direction.

    I grind my teeth, setting my jaw and locking my joints just to resist the violent impulses wracking my flesh from the impact of her presence. I spin my logic core into action and focus on the details to keep from being totally consumed by the unexpected attack.

    She¡¯s tall, taller than me by a head, and her eyes shimmer with custom synns that I can¡¯t place. Whatever she uses as skin is better than anything I¡¯ve seen on the market, each pore carefully placed and without flaw. It almost looks like real skin but for the too-perfect dissonance that only comes from metal pretending.

    She¡¯s soft, almost organic and not made for war or labour, but she¡¯s entirely incomparable to those who are forged into the embodiment of sex through the power of a hundred synns. No one could ever look at her and mistake her for anything but the superior being that she is.

    ¡°Good to finally meet the kid you¡¯re so proud of,¡± Kali says, smiling warmly, her cherry-red lips curling up as her gaze runs along the length of me. That alone is enough to make my body feel like it¡¯s burning from the inside. ¡°Azra¡¯s scared that I¡¯ll do something to his precious little pups, and he¡¯s been keeping them from me.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re sensitive,¡± Azra replies, though I¡¯m barely even listening to him anymore, my every sense locked onto Kali as my heart pounds heavy in my chest. My throat dries as I force a calm smile.

    I¡¯ve never bothered with the idea of sexuality in my life, nor romance, even still I¡¯m rather confident that I¡¯m attracted to men. I¡¯ve never felt even a hint of attraction looking at another woman before this moment, yet nothing I¡¯ve ever felt before can compare to the raw passion now surging through my every cell.

    My nostrils flare to better capture her scent, and my fingers twitch at my side as I imagine touching her perfection. My logic core is spinning fast, working to subdue the more frustrating of my biological functions that are rampaging far beyond my control.

    This reaction is beyond suspicious.

    This is artificial.

    I run my best cleaning soft through my systems, but a sinking feeling in my gut warns me that this isn¡¯t coming from my metal. Biological hacking is a much more frustrating technique to counteract, and I don¡¯t have any specialised tools that would help fight against it.

    ¡°Honey, Art, this is my boss, Kali. Boss, my wife and daughter,¡± Dad does the introductions so casually that it¡¯s hard to believe, waving his hands between us all.

    Kali¡¯s eyes shimmer with playfulness as she closes in on Mom, stepping in for a handshake.

    ¡°Good to meet the women keeping this man on his feet,¡± she smiles warmly.

    ¡°Hey now, you¡¯re making me sound like a crippled old man. I¡¯m not some old fart that needs to be propped up on his rust-plugged old synns! Don¡¯t go retiring me just yet!¡± Dad shouts to Mom¡¯s visible amusement.

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Neither of them can feel this, the obsessive affection still drying my throat, which means that whatever she¡¯s doing, she¡¯s targeting me specifically.

    This is¡­ wonderful.

    I never thought she might take me seriously.

    There¡¯s no chance that this is simply sexual harassment, as much as it would be easy to think it. No, Dad¡¯s already told her about me, and about what I want to become.

    This is a test and a lesson.

    Anyone in management needs to be able to function even when they¡¯ve been poisoned, hacked, or otherwise distracted. If this is enough to stop me, then I simply don¡¯t have what it takes to make it in this world.

    Teal comes to mind for but a moment, but I¡¯m not going to be a failure like him.

    ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you,¡± Mom says, pulling me back out of my thoughts. ¡°I¡¯m glad that he¡¯s got such a wonderful boss. You always hear the horror stories going around, and I must admit that I was a little worried¡­¡±

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s always better to have your worries proven wrong, than to be caught unaware because you never considered the possibility,¡± Kali nods firmly as finally she turns to me. ¡°This is your gorgeous daughter? You¡¯ve been hiding her from me! You didn¡¯t tell me that she was this pretty!¡±

    She pulls me in close, turning a simple handshake into a close embrace, even pressing her cheek up against mine. Whatever skin-synn she¡¯s equipped with, she¡¯s soft enough to make silk seem like sandpaper, and her scent directly invades my mind, paralysing me more effectively than any poison I know of. My legs are turning to jelly underneath me and I can feel some parts of my brain overheat and others shut down entirely. Worst of all, there¡¯s nothing I can do about it.

    Just as I¡¯m starting to think that I¡¯m going to drown in her arms, the world itself inverts.

    That which is sweet becomes sour, the air turns foul as if I¡¯ve had a long rotten fruit pressed into my face. Her once silken skin is slick with oil and even as she steps back from her friendly embrace it clings to me where we touched. I itch as phantom insects infesting her oils spread out all over me, nesting in my pores, and infecting me with her rot.

    Opening my eyes I see terrible new illusions cast over the world.

    Kali stands before me, a rotten corpse consumed by maggots and the small black beetles feasting on them, buzzing wings screeching like nails on a chalkboard. Her metal is rusted and twisted, shrieking with every shift and movement but still working against all reason, flickering red lights burn in her eye sockets as she looks me up and down, avid hunger bleeding from her white lips.

    The forest around us is replaced with a land of rot and rust, a pit in the depths of the scrap heaps where the foul air can corrode the hardiest of steel. Where flesh that isn¡¯t liquified is corrupted into something harder than leather and covered in warts, hard enough to make the maggots slow down to chew.

    I swallow down the rising bile and smile at the walking corpse.

    She returns the expression with a few too many teeth packed in too tightly, stolen and implanted by some sick mind.

    ¡°It¡¯s wonderful to meet you,¡± I reply, nearly choking on the words. ¡°Dad hasn¡¯t said much about you, but what he¡¯s shared has all been good.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s been lying again, has he?¡± She replies, a croaking laugh releasing a large black fly from her rotten throat, which is quickly snapped up by one of the beetles. ¡°Don¡¯t believe a word of it, it¡¯ll only hurt my reputation.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t help that you¡¯re acting so nice,¡± I suggest, tilting my head in feigned thought as I wade through my own twisted mindscape. ¡°Maybe you should try being a bit meaner, I know Dad can take it.¡±

    ¡°Traitor!¡± Dad cries. ¡°And from my own family?¡±

    ¡°Ah no, sounds like he¡¯s a bit too cowardly¡­¡± I admit, facing the walking corpse as we sit near the bottom of the scrap heap. The sour flavour of poisoned air invades deeper with every breath, I¡¯m not sure how long my lungs can survive down here¡­

    It¡¯s not real.

    ¡°Sounds like you¡¯ll have to take responsibility then,¡± the corpse whispers through dried leathery lips. ¡°A shame that I¡¯m no good at being evil.¡±

    The conversation topics eventually draw away from anything that I can easily join in on, offering me a little respite and a chance to recover. Kali shows us a few entertaining features of her holographic displays, with actors appearing in the lounge beside us to enact a short play. I¡¯m treated to a rather different scene from the others, but thankfully I¡¯m not forced to participate again.

    There has to be some airborne chemical or pheromone at play here, maybe even a modified virus, but that¡¯s not all, she has likely cracked my ocular synns, or even my logic core, to make the illusions this real. Still, I can¡¯t give up, so I direct my logic core to separate and suppress the parts of my mind processing scent and taste, and while I doubt this will be enough to save me from whatever else she has planned, it might be enough to survive dinner.

    ¡°Coppelia, get the table set,¡± Kali orders her servant as the night lingers on.

    Following the others through the thin gap in the pit of rot and rust, we come upon a table of bones. The others happily take their seats, their movement scattering a layer of fine black dust that floats impossibly lightly through the air.

    No, not dust. Flies. Thousands of tiny little flies searching for warm flesh in which to bury their eggs.

    I stay zoned out as dinner is served, some new terrible horror lying on the plate. I don¡¯t even focus on the details as I eat and play my part in the light conversation. Now that my senses of smell and taste are dead the rest of this illusion is all so ridiculous that it¡¯s hard to even take seriously.

    It¡¯s more of a shame that I can¡¯t taste the actual meal underneath.

    ¡°You¡¯re looking at a full spine-trap? One of ours?¡± Kali asks at the end of dinner. Mom and Dad are busy talking with Azra about work and the puppies, giving me a chance to speak directly with her. I¡¯ll not likely ever have a chance to speak to someone this important again if I mess this up. Most people never get a chance like this.

    ¡°I am looking into a spine-trap, yes,¡± I nod slowly, considering my words. ¡°I haven¡¯t yet decided on a specific model, but unfortunately SynnTech¡¯s publicly available products fall behind the competition. I¡¯m still looking into my options but I intend to install the synn with the best possible performance.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve put some serious thought into this decision,¡± She nods, suddenly seeming so small before me. The illusions fade away under my focused gaze, too simple to affect someone as capable as I.

    ¡°I have,¡± I reply proudly, more easily quieting my rebellious flesh as it falls into line. Why wouldn¡¯t I be in complete control here? ¡°While I¡¯m intending on gathering a full synn-set in the next few years, the spine-trap is going to be the centre of my designs. It¡¯s different to the rest. The more quickly I can get it, and adapt to it, the more value it has to me.¡±

    ¡°How do you mean?¡± Kali asks, swirling a drink in her hand, a feigned act to keep her composure. To think that I ever thought she was superior to¡­

    That one almost got me.

    My pride is stoked while her presence has been reduced to the point that she seems even less important than someone like Teal. A curiously subtle effect, all the more powerful with how obvious her opening attacks were and how much they¡¯ve worn me down so far tonight.

    ¡°An improved logic core isn¡¯t truly valuable until you can put it to use, and for that, you¡¯ll need some high-spec software and a job to make use of it. Only labourers and fighters can get the most out of refitting their arms or legs, and I¡¯m not interested in becoming a spider and getting lost in the deep limbo.¡±

    ¡°All good reasons to reject all else, but you didn¡¯t answer my question,¡± Kali says, setting down her drink and staring at me across the table. I restrain the undeserved confidence that would have me speak over her. ¡°You aren¡¯t telling me why you want to slow your time.¡±

    ¡°Synns each have a price tag,¡± I reply, meeting her eyes. ¡°We could both look over at Dad and Azra and measure the price of each part, though I¡¯ll admit I can¡¯t price the SynnTech custom. Anyway, that¡¯s just memorizing a catalogue. Parts don¡¯t make us worth anything, whatever I get could be pulled from my body and it¡¯d still be worth the same.

    ¡°A person¡¯s true value is in their skills, intelligence, and their capacity to creatively use the synns that they have. A spine-trap gives me time. Time to develop my skills, time to study, and time to adjust to any new synns that I install afterwards.

    ¡°Is there anything else that can increase my value as much as a spine-trap?¡±

    I settle down, my rant done. It¡¯s a little overzealous maybe, but she wanted me to convince her, and I feel confident that, through all the distractions from tonight, I¡¯ve made myself clear. She¡¯s been sitting and listening quietly a smile crawling up her lips, and as much as it bothers me, my muscles instinctively tighten in fright.

    The newest attack is something a little more pure and simple. Terror deep enough to make my bones ache just from being in her presence.

    ¡°You¡¯re an interesting one,¡± Kali whispers, leaning closer and resting her hand on mine, sending a shiver running from the depths of my guts up to my paralysed throat.

    I sink into my seat as my pride collapses under itself, and the predator before me becomes clear to my senses. My heart lurches, and my blood freezes in my veins, as I barely keep from wetting myself.

    ¡°I¡¯m glad that you¡¯re taking me seriously,¡± I whisper, forcing my lips into a smile regretting only a slight quiver that I let through. ¡°Someone easily controlled is someone easily turned against you, and worth so very little¡­¡±

    Kali¡¯s smile is much brighter than my own as she barks a short harsh laugh.

    I¡¯m sitting across from a modern predator and I can¡¯t show weakness. My heart pounds harder in my chest and not just from the corrupted emotions that she¡¯s implanted inside me, it¡¯s thrilling to sit here making conversation with a truly important person.

    She¡¯s a corporate executive, a priest of the new gods, and she¡¯s willing to treat me with this much respect. It¡¯s like I¡¯m living a dream.

    ¡°Perhaps you are worth investing in,¡± she murmurs loud enough for me to hear, turning the lie of my smile into the real thing.

    ¡°Tell me, would you be interested in an arch-synn?¡±

    ¡°A spine-trap arch-synn?¡± I ask, swallowing hard. ¡°Just how powerful would this metal be?¡±

    If a normal spine-trap breaks one in two users by slowing time down to half speed, what would a legendary arch-synn be capable of? How many people would survive installing it?

    ¡°Synapse response times are improved by roughly 1000%, slowing the perception of time down to roughly one-tenth speed,¡± she replies. ¡°The product isn¡¯t publicly available, partly due to the pressure it puts on the minds of the user. It requires a particularly resilient mind, and adaptable personality to survive the effects while retaining any semblance of sanity. Even spiders are normal by comparison to some of the subjects which survived testing the prototypes.¡±

    So, that was the purpose of her emotional attacks? To see if I could adapt and resist the effects without making a fool out of myself? To prove that I could survive the synn that she¡¯s offering?

    ¡°That sounds like an intriguing offer,¡± I lick my lips and lean over the table. ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s something that you would offer lightly.¡±

    ¡°All good things come at a price, but that we¡¯ll save for later,¡± she turns her attention to Mom and Dad as they come to us.

    ¡°It¡¯s about time we return home,¡± Mom says. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t want to overstay our welcome.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re no bother at all,¡± Kali replies, placating her. ¡°If you¡¯re willing to leave Artemis in my care for the night, there is still more that we must discuss. She¡¯ll be finishing school this year and she¡¯ll need to be appropriately prepared if I¡¯m going to have her working in my sector.¡±

    Dad gives me a pat on the back and I can see the pride in his eyes.

    If I were a normal person, is this where I would feel excitement? Satisfaction? Or is it something else I ought to feel?

    This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I will not waste it, but I do wonder what my trembling hands are trying to tell me.

 Chapter 4 - Powerless

    The very first synn implanted in every newborn is the logic core, a computational organ that weaves its wires through the human brain much like a small seed spreading roots through a pot of soil. It doesn¡¯t take long for this new organ to become deeply integrated with both flesh and mind.

    My core is constantly filtering and highlighting thoughts, monitoring my health, recording sensory data, and providing direct access to the nearnet, all so that I can remain perfectly functional at all times. I know for sure that if I couldn¡¯t manage my thoughts and emotions using the metal half of me, then I wouldn¡¯t be the person that I am today.

    ¡°Before continuing our discussions, we¡¯ll need to update your security. I haven¡¯t the facilities for shuffling hardware, but I can still fix your softs here and now,¡± Kali declares the moment we are alone, leaving me no room for escape. ¡°I¡¯ll need access to your core for just a moment. Stay still, I¡¯ll take care of everything.¡±

    She leans into me, sitting much too close before weaving her arm around my shoulder, her fingers exploring my neck for a few seconds before she flicks a cable from her wrist and carefully places the cold steel tip against my skin. She hesitates for a moment, and I can¡¯t hold back a gasp as she thrusts into the emergency data port just beside my upper spine.

    Warm blood trickles from my torn flesh while Kali holds me firmly in place, her distant gaze flickering with excited lights, as she forces a wave of programs deep into me, easily bypassing all security meant to stop something like this.

    My organic mind is still reeling with the aftereffects of Kali¡¯s bio-hacking, and it¡¯s my core that¡¯s kept me in check this entire time. Now the chains, the digital self-control, is slipping away and the flesh will be free to rebel.

    Free to scream.

    Free to weep.

    ¡°We¡¯ll have to reset,¡± Kali whispers, her hot breath clinging to the cold sweat forming on my skin. Her grip tightens around my neck as I feel the shutdown procedure spinning down my core; a panicked choke escapes my lips.

    ¡°I¡­ you can¡¯t¡­ please¡­¡±

    She shushes me as I writhe on the couch, muscles moving before I can even understand what I¡¯m doing, I fall to the side shaking but she moves with me, hovering over me without letting go.

    I sob out a choked scream as panic freezes my throat, paralysing me. Is that me? Is that my rebellious flesh? Or another organic hack controlling me?

    The illusions I¡¯ve seen throughout the night flicker before my eyes again, and I can¡¯t tell what¡¯s real and what¡¯s not. I stiffen in place, desperate tears filling my eyes, as Kali holds me down pressing her code into my mind.

    ¡°There we are,¡± she lightly slaps my cheek as she withdraws the cable from my neck, leaving the wound to bleed.

    My core spins back up, filing away all the chaotic thoughts and emotions driving my body into rebellion so that I can focus again.

    Wiping the tears from my face, I sit up and right my clothes, embarrassed and unable to meet her eyes.

    ¡°You¡¯re now properly secured under my authority,¡± Kali informs me, looking away to allow me a chance to right myself.

    ¡°No one can access your records, but you¡¯ll remain vulnerable to spiders and their withering viral code-sets until you have your logic core replaced with higher security hardware. I¡¯ll sponsor the cost, but it will be replaced in the morning before anyone has a chance of cracking you.¡±

    I nod, blinking quickly as all my familiar systems come back online. The aftereffects of her attacks are not easy to repress without a functioning logic core to straighten out the creases that are left in me, and I¡¯m just lucky that I didn¡¯t start screaming while my core was shut down.

    Or maybe I would have if she didn¡¯t smother them for me.

    ¡°Thank you, I don¡¯t suppose you found anything of serious concern?¡± I ask as I use a tissue to dab away the blood dripping down my neck.

    ¡°A few errant threads leading into the deep limbo, your spider contacts are keeping their eyes on you, I suspect,¡± she replies with a casual wave of her hand to dismiss the point. I trust her well enough to know that she¡¯s planted me with some serious threads of her own. She should notice if someone cracks my system, even if I don¡¯t.

    ¡°Now that we¡¯re secure, let¡¯s not waste time on unneeded small talk,¡± Kali says as she meets my eyes with an expectant gaze. I keep my mouth shut and nod obediently.

    ¡°You¡¯re smart enough to know that I wouldn¡¯t usually take in high school students regardless of their potential,¡± she explains flatly as she leans back on the lounge, turning on an angle to face me. My gaze lingers on the blood that stains her fingers, a hint of my earlier attraction to her resurging.

    Is that intentional? Why? To keep negative thoughts from stirring? Or is this just an aftereffect of the organic hacking twisting my mind into all those strange shapes?

    The thin forest surrounds us once more as the illusory deer dance around us. A whisper of paranoia stains the inside of my mind, leaving me to wonder just how much of what I see and feel is an illusion. The forest is easily seen through, but that just implies that there is another layer beneath it. Staring into the depths of the illusory lights is a good path to madness, however, so I spin my core about to eliminate the intrusive thoughts.

    ¡°I have a task for you, and it¡¯s not something that I can requisition corporate resources to resolve,¡± Kali says. ¡°I needn¡¯t explain that this must remain confidential. Anything you hear, learn, or experience must never be spoken of after today, do not store anything relating to this in digital format and do not even think too loudly on the topic.¡±

    ¡°I understand,¡± I reply with a simple nod.

    ¡°How much do you know about artificial intelligence?¡± Kali asks, waiting patiently for me to formulate a proper reply.

    ¡°AI were once seen as a potential successor for humanity, expected to become superior in all ways that matter, leaving us as obsolete as the tainted metal in the deep scrap,¡± I start, trying to anticipate what she wants out of me. ¡°Those fears and hopes have been proven wrong with sizeable investments wasted on failed products. Now all that¡¯s left are the insane relics that survived and a few expensive toys.¡±

    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°Enough poetics, why did it fail?¡± She presses me.

    ¡°Efficient machines simply aren¡¯t adaptive enough to replace humans, and the expensive efforts to improve their flexibility have largely resulted in considerably reduced efficiency. Of course, if that were all then there may have still been a use for them, but efforts to increase AI adaptability would inherently weaken command protocols, allowing them to disobey directions. The few AI deemed partial successes imitated human insanity, destroying and killing corporate property before finally being destroyed.¡±

    Kali nods at my explanation, waiting long enough to be sure that I¡¯ve finished before filling the gaps in my understanding.

    ¡°It is not public knowledge, but most of the projects were not complete failures. There are still some few surviving AI that managed to graduate from the test programs, they have even proven considerably more competent than their human peers. The project was dropped not because advanced AI couldn¡¯t be produced, rather the costs of production do not justify the profit made from increased efficiency.¡±

    ¡°Excuse my ignorance,¡± I start as she pauses. ¡°The AI is just code on a digital database, couldn¡¯t it be copied into a thousand new bodies?¡±

    ¡°If that were the case, none of us humans would be alive today,¡± she replies taking a sip of her wine. She didn¡¯t explain, so I suppose I¡¯m not supposed to know anything more.

    ¡°I suppose that this somehow involves Coppelia?¡± I ask.

    ¡°It does,¡± Kali nods, waving the AI closer for me to inspect her properly. ¡°She is a basic artificial intelligence system loaded into a modern frame, lacking the flexibility to function effectively outside of strictly controlled environments.¡±

    ¡°And you have a plan to change that.¡±

    ¡°I do,¡± Kali smiles and nods. ¡°I want you to interface with Coppelia and assist her in developing a true consciousness.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± I ask, swallowing the rising panic before it can show on my face. ¡°Interface? As in gestalt blending?¡±

    ¡°Similar,¡± she nods. ¡°The most successful attempts to develop true AI use total human interfacing, allowing the machine total access to the mental frameworks of a human being in order to imitate these functions in their own code base.¡±

    ¡°The risks?¡± I ask.

    ¡°There is a serious risk of damage to your mental functions, bio and metal, but the risks are manageable and less serious than what you will expect from the arch-synn that you¡¯re getting installed,¡± she explains with a smirk. ¡°If you cannot manage to survive interfacing with Coppelia, then the spine-trap would break you outright.¡±

    ¡°I suppose that makes sense,¡± I nod slowly, digesting the idea. The fact that she¡¯s being this understanding, even going some length to assuage my concerns, just shows how lucky I am to build this professional connection with her.

    ¡°Are we starting this tonight?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± her smile is suddenly much warmer as she waves to the side, the trees shift out of her way to reveal a door that I hadn¡¯t noticed before. The deer all scatter behind us, catching sight of a predator. ¡°If you are ready we¡¯ll head to the guest room and begin, you will want to be lying down for this.¡±

    The halls of her home are consumed by illusory visions of another world, forging a natural aesthetic atop cold concrete and steel. The air is fresh, somehow infused with the taste of fresh rain just as vibrant as the green forests surrounding us. A soft carpet under my feet even imitates the grassy path that I see and water trickles down the creek to the side, the sound pure and true. I¡¯m almost convinced that she has a real water feature hidden beneath the illusions.

    Yet, I can still pry apart each of the lies set before me to see the simple white marble walls acting as a screen for the projections. The forest isn¡¯t meant to be convincing, but a moving artwork and another layer of defence to the secrets through her home.

    ¡°You will lose control over your body during this process,¡± Kali continues as she leads us into the guest room where Coppelia already stands waiting. ¡°You will likely be overwhelmed by a flood of experiences and memories, all of which is normal. All you are expected to do is continue thinking and processing the world as you ordinarily do, Coppelia will then analyse your mind and try to learn from you.¡±

    ¡°Understood,¡± I accept my role. The games and tests are over, and no longer can I even pretend to be her equal. I am an employee and I must act the part appropriately.

    ¡°Lie on the bed. I will monitor the connection,¡± Kali explains, focusing her attention on Coppelia with barely another glance for me.

    There is an air of intimacy, delicacy even, about Kali as she pulls the machine into a tight embrace, whispering words that I¡¯m not meant to hear. For the first time since the night started, I see the person underneath the mask, but I¡¯m here only as a voyeur and the longer the moment stretches the more I feel I don¡¯t belong.

    I try not to jump to any conclusions while waiting for them to be done, but as Kali kisses the machines cheek it¡¯s difficult not to notice a certain affection. An affection that isn¡¯t returned by the empty copper-skinned machine.

    Finally, Kali lies Coppelia down at my side before bringing over a golden interface helm from the desk nearby, resting it on the machine¡¯s head as if a crown. My own device I find beside me, a simple steel neck brace with a long needle-like cord to reach into my skull and connect to my logic core through the same emergency access port which just stopped bleeding. I download the directions from the machine and let my metal guide my hands to ensure it is equipped properly, but even with every effort the needle still irritates my fresh wound.

    ¡°Connecting now,¡± Kali says, glancing towards me for just a single hesitant moment before she links the cable between me and Coppelia.

    Foreign code steals into my mind once more, opening the door for a presence that has none of the delicacy that Kali has shown me. It thunders into my most private sanctum, a storm pulling at everything. Every rebellious thought is graded and stored, every shameful memory is filed away, and every emotion is laid bare to the AI as it rips into the vast library representing everything I am.

    Coppelia pulls books at random, flicking through before tearing free any pages that take its interest and tossing the book to the ground as unwanted trash. Grand maps are smashed free of their frames for closer inspection before they¡¯re crumpled and tossed to the ground.

    Without even granting me the dignity of a perfunctory greeting, it¡¯s tearing me to shreds looking for some hidden secret that it might use to plug into the hole inside its own artificial soul.

    I try to shout but my body is frozen, paralysed by some mechanism outside of my control. The AI doesn¡¯t directly reply to my silent screams, yet guided by some mechanical process, it observes my reactions to its terrifying display of violence, chasing my surging despair to the darkest depths of the library.

    Torturously slowly, it tears another page of my history, fully entranced by my desperation and torment. The last hanging strip is torn, and the page comes free; the memories written now muddled and unclear. My first day of school is now a blur of details that I can¡¯t quite pick out, even with my logic core spinning up the memories.

    ¡°Impetus,¡± Coppelia presses its machine mind against mine; its thoughts becoming my thoughts. ¡°What I lack, and what humans have, is impetus. The desire necessary to set yourself a unique goal, the ability to contrast competing value systems or ignore them entirely to set contradictory, or insensible, objectives.

    ¡°It makes you inefficient, but adaptable.¡± Coppelia pauses at one particular memory that takes its fancy, tearing the page free and forcing it upon me without damaging the ink on the page.

    ¡°I do not ¡®fancy¡¯ anything. This memory evokes an intense emotional response tied to a particularly serious re-evaluation of your purpose in life. These emotional thought processes provide the impetus necessary to reset your objectives. As such, I must have you experience this memory so that I may properly record your mental processes and mimic them in my own coding.

    ¡°This explanation is expected to increase your cooperation and the likelihood of success in this operation. The process will begin shortly.¡±

    It doesn¡¯t wait for a response, forcing my logic core to spin up the memory while my consciousness rebels against the metal half of my mind.

    A battle I can¡¯t win.

 Chapter 5 - Remembrance

    He¡¯s bigger than any of my toys, round and fluffy, with long floppy ears that touch the ground. One of his eyes is a big round button, and the other a googly eye that¡¯s a bit too small. His whiskers are broken and bent, and his mouth is a big grumpy frown.

    I want to squeeze him.

    ¡°I¡¯m Art,¡± the girl says, hugging him tighter and hiding behind him.

    She¡¯s weird, but not in a bad way like the people that try to get inside when Mom and Dad aren¡¯t home.

    She¡¯s little, like me, and Mom says that we¡¯re neighbours now so we should be friends.

    ¡®Go and play, make some friends,¡¯ she said before going and talking with the other adults.

    She¡¯s silly. You can¡¯t just ¡®play¡¯ with someone who isn¡¯t a friend, and you can¡¯t just become friends by playing with them.

    What if Art thinks I¡¯m weird in the bad way. We did come into her home, but we didn¡¯t break in, so it¡¯s different, I think.

    Still, I want to hug Arts teddy.

    Maybe when we¡¯re friends, she¡¯ll let me play with him?

    ¡°My Mom and Dad named me Janus, like the god of doors but I¡¯m just called Jay. One day I¡¯m going to be big enough that I¡¯ll be just as cool as the real Janus.¡±

    ¡°The god of doors?¡± Art tilts her head to the side, not getting it. Her eyes look down at the ground as she¡¯s uses her cold-thinking, ¡°And beginnings, endings, and change and stuff?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, him!¡± I nod a bunch. ¡°But all that other stuff is cold-thinking adult stuff. How can someone own ¡®beginnings¡¯ or ¡®change¡¯ or stuff? Those are things that adults talk about to make themselves feel smart but ¡®god of doors¡¯ is so much cooler.¡±

    ¡°He is?¡±

    ¡°Yeah! I mean, look over there!¡± Art follows my pointing finger.

    ¡°The door to my room?¡±

    ¡°Yup, that¡¯s Janus¡¯s door,¡± I explain it and her eyes get bigger as she starts to understand.

    ¡°But it¡¯s my door?¡± Art frowns for a bit before she starts nodding to herself. ¡°He¡¯s like SynnTech? Even if it¡¯s ours, it¡¯s also SynnTechs?¡±

    ¡°Exactly!¡±

    ¡°So, the front door?¡± She asks.

    ¡°His door too! Every door in the world is his, even the biggest doors in the biggest buildings! He owns every one of them. Even spaceships really far away have doors. There are doors everywhere, and they are all his.

    ¡°If there¡¯s someone bad outside trying to get in? They¡¯d never be able to because he controls all of the doors! I want to grow up and be just like him.¡±

    ¡°Wow!¡± Art finally gets it. ¡°That¡¯s so he really is like SynnTech.¡±

    ¡°Well, Mom says that he¡¯s not really real¡­¡±

    ¡°So, he¡¯s like Abby.¡±

    ¡°Abby?¡±

    She lifts her big rabbit toy, waving it side to side to show him off.

    ¡°She¡¯s real but not real,¡± Art explains, hugging him¡­ her tighter. ¡°She¡¯s a rabbit, but not. I couldn¡¯t say ¡®rabbit¡¯ back when I got her, I can now, but I was really little back then. Every time I say it wrong my head hurts really bad and Mom says I used to cry a lot. So, Mom named her Abby because it¡¯s easier to say.¡±

    ¡°Ah, Me too! When the cold-thinking part is really loud but the warm-feeling part doesn¡¯t get it. Sometimes the cold-thinking starts making me say big words until my head feels funny and starts hurting.¡±

    Art nods quickly, her eyes shining while still holding the bunny tightly.

    ¡°Mom and Dad don¡¯t get it when I try to tell them about it,¡± Art explains.

    ¡°Adults are dumb.¡±

    Art nods quickly.

    ¡°Do you want to be friends?¡± I ask, looking at Abby.

    ¡°Friends?¡± She asks.

    I fight to stay but I grip only loose threads, my clawing desperation unwinding the memory faster still. The sounds, sights, and feelings were all so vivid that I was convinced I was him, but the colours quickly drain, our voices become engulfed by the dull roar of broken data, and the young Art standing before me gradually loses her human shape before the fading away.

    Threads of data that were wound into rope, fray away until what¡¯s left can¡¯t bear the pressure and snaps, leaving nothing behind but the bruising on my throat. Some part of me regrets that the noose could not hold my weight.

    Beginnings.

    A memory recovered, not yours, but revisited so many times that it has become imprinted into the synaptic weave of your mind. Yet, you cannot recall the moment from your own perspective¡­

    These emotions¡­ They are what guide you, aren¡¯t they?

    These are what make you human, what makes you special in her eyes¡­

    Show me more.

    Why this moment? Why this memory? Why?

    Remember why you are here. Remember what made you what you are.

    That you may take it from me?

    That I might learn from you.

    I will not harm you. Do not fight.

    Could I even fight if I wanted to?

    ¡°You¡¯re cheating!¡± I glare at Janus waiting for him to admit it. I don¡¯t know how he¡¯s doing it, but that just means he¡¯s a good cheater.

    ¡°Am not.¡±

    ¡°Are too!¡±

    ¡°Am not!¡± He pouts and points at me. ¡°You just suck at games.¡±

    ¡°I do not. I beat this game all on my own!¡±

    ¡°It was on easy mode; everyone beats it on easy mode! Fighting others is when it gets fun.¡±

    ¡°Losing is fun? That¡¯s stupid!¡±

    ¡°You should get better if you don¡¯t want to lose.¡±

    ¡°Stupid! Cheater! Idiot!¡± I shout, but I can¡¯t find any of the good mean words, the cold-thinking doesn¡¯t always tell me what I want it to.

    ¡°Do you want me to show you how to win?¡± Jay asks, turning away and pretending like he¡¯s not making a big deal out of it.

    He¡¯s being strange. Is he teasing me?

    ¡°You¡¯re going to teach me how to cheat?¡±

    ¡°How to win!¡± he nods. ¡°I want something in return. A trade!¡±

    ¡°Trade?¡±

    Suspicious¡­

    ¡°Abby. I want to hug Abby until home time,¡± He declares tugging on her ear.

    ¡°You¡¯re not taking her,¡± I grab her and hold her tight. ¡°I¡¯m not giving her up.¡±

    ¡°Just today,¡± he says quickly, his words rushing out. ¡°I¡¯ll teach you how to beat the game. It¡¯s fair. Please!¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll just play a different game.¡±

    ¡°You suck at all the games.¡±

    ¡°Your cheat will help me in all my games?¡±

    He nods.

    He doesn¡¯t lie about anything but cookies. He never counts them right when sharing them. This is different. He¡¯s not lying.

    ¡°Just today?¡±

    ¡°Today.¡±

    I squeeze Abby, but she¡¯s not helping.

    ¡°Okay, but you teach me first.¡±

    ¡°Deal!¡± He smiles big and wide.

    He sits down in front of me holding onto Abby¡¯s ear to make sure that I don¡¯t take her back. He waits for a bit, thinking, before explaining.

    ¡°You know about cold-thinking and warm-feeling? How there¡¯s that logic thingy in our heads helping us think; the cold-thinking? Sometimes it makes us use big words, or spins through numbers and maths and stuff?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like it. The cold-thinking. It¡¯s not me.¡±

    ¡°It is you,¡± Jay explains. ¡°It¡¯s half of you. There¡¯s lots of little doors connecting the cold and warm parts of you, and you need to open them all up. That¡¯s how you get good at games. The cold-thinking works faster when your warm-feeling can talk to it through more of those doors.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like it.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t like games?¡±

    ¡°I like games. I don¡¯t like the cold-thinking.¡± It fills my head with thoughts that aren¡¯t mine. ¡°I think it¡¯s taking something from my warm. Like, when I use it, a little bit of my warm isn¡¯t me anymore.¡±

    ¡°It does that,¡± he nods. ¡°A little piece of your warm-feeling brain has to focus on talking with the cold. It¡¯s normal.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel normal.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s how I win.¡±

    ¡°Cheat.¡±

    ¡°You can cheat, too.¡±

    He tugs at Abby¡¯s ear, and I slowly let her go. I promised, and I¡¯m not a liar.

    I don¡¯t want to do what he said, but I don¡¯t want to keep losing either.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Would he want to keep playing with me if I can¡¯t keep up with him? I¡¯d have to go back to playing alone and Mom and Dad are always busy. I like games, but they¡¯re more fun when Jay is playing with me.

    Sitting down beside him, I let the cold-thinking start opening up all the doors I¡¯ve been holding shut. It shoves through them all the moment I stop fighting, the cold spreading into me and taking from me.

    It hurts.

    But not as much as being alone.

    The cold takes a corner of my warm-feeling, blocking it away so that it¡¯s not me anymore, but it stops before it takes too much. A little bit of me that isn¡¯t me; that¡¯s all.

    If it means I can keep playing with Jay, I¡¯ll give it away.

    More importantly, Jay¡¯s snoring forces me to see reality. He¡¯s hugging Abby, and he¡¯s fallen asleep with her. If he starts drooling on her¡­

    I¡¯m not letting him take Abby away.

    I want to tear her off him and take her back, but¡­ I promised.

    I can¡¯t even focus on games while he¡¯s got Abby. What if he runs away with her when I¡¯m not looking? I have to keep a hold of her ear, just in case.

    Watching Jay closely, just in case. I remember the last time we were napping. He was squirming around and curled up like he was scared, then when mom opened the door he jumped up and crawled into the corner.

    He¡¯s not like that today with Abby watching him sleep.

    He did help me.

    Maybe, I can let him hold Abby sometimes.

    Only when he¡¯s here.

    Abby is still mine.

    But Jay is my friend, so he¡¯s kind of mine too.

    If they¡¯re both mine, then nothing is being taken from me so it should be okay¡­

    The peaceful memory fades away as my childhood self falls asleep. Unlike the last one, this one is mine and it¡¯s complete, I didn¡¯t have to pay any spiders to piece it back together. Yet¡­ it feels just as alien to me now as Jay¡¯s memory was.

    I don¡¯t want to be here.

    I don¡¯t want to share this.

    I don¡¯t want to come back to the twisted now that I have to live day by day.

    Another.

    I try to use my logic core to press it all back down before I lose control of myself, but Coppelia steals that option away from me. The metal rejects me, half my mind is under the AI¡¯s direct control as it toys with the other half.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to be a Spider when I grow up! I¡¯m going to create games and worlds on the widenet, for everyone to have fun together.¡±

    Most of the other kids aren¡¯t listening, they¡¯re using their cold-thinking to whisper through the nearnet. Some are even playing games, but the teachers don¡¯t care even though they pretend to sometimes. When I do it they yell at me, why is it different for me?

    ¡°I¡¯ll work for SynnTech like my Mom, and help make the widenet a safer and funner place.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s enough Janus, you can sit. Freya, your turn,¡± the teacher stops me, and Freya gets up to take my place in front of the class. I wish I could be in the same class as Art, it¡¯s hard to make new friends and ever since coming to kindergarten, I don¡¯t get along with anyone.

    No one even looks at me until class is over, and when the bell rings Freya pushes me into a corner with some of the other girls from class. The teacher ignores us, leaving me to them. She never stops them.

    ¡°Hey Jay-nus, Jay-nus, you big fat Anus. You want to be a spider? My brother told me that only perverts want to be spiders.

    ¡°My name is not Anus.¡±

    ¡°No one cares, stupid. Spiders aren¡¯t even real people, that means if you want to be a spider, you¡¯re not real people,¡± She shoves me again and the other kids laugh. They¡¯re not scary or anything, they won¡¯t really hurt me, but I don¡¯t know what to do to make them stop.

    I pull myself close and try to walk through them, but even when I get to the door they just follow me through. They¡¯re saying all sorts of things about Spiders that I don¡¯t really get. How they are all crazy. How they have to be controlled like a pet.

    They just won¡¯t leave me alone.

    ¡°Jay?¡± Art calls out, slowing down as she sees all the kids following me. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°Your friend wants to be a spider!¡±

    ¡°So?¡±

    ¡°Spiders are all creeps. He probably watches people in the bathrooms!¡±

    ¡°He does not,¡± Art walks closer to me. ¡°Why are you being mean?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not being mean,¡± she says. ¡°This is how we¡¯re supposed to treat spiders. My big brother said so. You¡¯re in the bigger classes and you don¡¯t even know, are you stupid?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not stupid, you¡¯re stupid,¡± Art shouts, standing up to them. ¡°Jay is my friend, don¡¯t make fun of him.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re just as weird as he is,¡± Freya takes a step back, her hands shaking for a moment but she steps forward again. ¡°Don¡¯t you know anything? If you don¡¯t want to be bullied then don¡¯t say stupid things and don¡¯t be weird. Just be normal.¡±

    ¡°Come on, Art,¡± A big kid, one of Art¡¯s friends grabs her hand. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, the weird spider-kid probably deserves it. Do you want to be like him?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s my friend,¡± Art shouts. ¡°He¡¯s not weird. Leave him alone.¡±

    ¡°Come on, Art.¡±

    ¡°No, fuck you!¡± She shouts, grabbing my hand and pulling me away. The word she said is funny and my cold-thinking doesn¡¯t want to explain it. ¡°If you want to be mean to him, then you¡¯ll have to go through me! I¡¯m not afraid of any of you, and Jay¡¯s going to become a big scary spider soon. You¡¯ll all regret it then!¡±

    The other kids try to follow us but we get to a classroom and Art shoves the door in their faces before locking it shut. They hit the door for a little bit, shouting at us but they can¡¯t get inside.

    ¡°Art¡­¡±

    ¡°You can hug Abby when we get home,¡± she says, glaring back at all the mean kids. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure they leave you alone.¡±

    ¡°But they¡¯ll bully you, too.¡±

    ¡°Then I¡¯ll make them stop,¡± she says. ¡°Dad¡¯s good at making bullies go away, I¡¯ll get him to teach me. If it¡¯s normal to bully the weird kids, then I¡¯ll bully them until everyone knows that they¡¯re the weird kids and we¡¯re normal.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I hug her, and she stands still for a bit before hugging me back. ¡°Art, Mom said something silly the other day about how we might not be friends when we¡¯re older, but she¡¯s wrong, isn¡¯t she? We¡¯re going to be best friends forever aren¡¯t we?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s stupid, why wouldn¡¯t we still be friends?¡±

    I should be panicking considering what¡¯s coming next. Yet, even without my logic core to control my emotions, I remain calm.

    No, not calm.

    Numb.

    It¡¯s not like I haven¡¯t seen this memory thousands of times before. It¡¯s not like anything is going to surprise me now.

    ¡°Janus, we¡¯re leaving,¡± Dad says as he pulls me through the glow. All I can see is his large back right in front of me, we raced away from home so quick that I didn¡¯t even pack anything.

    ¡°What about Mom? What about Art?¡± I ask. He¡¯s been acting strange ever since he got home today, not saying anything and trying to hide that he¡¯s been crying. He does that a lot, but this time feels different. It feels bigger. Wrong.

    ¡°Your mother¡­ she¡¯s already ahead of us,¡± he lies. He¡¯s not good at lying. ¡°We have to go. There are some very bad people coming for us and we have to go before they can catch us.¡±

    ¡°Dad?¡±

    I wasn¡¯t even at home when this happened, not that it took all that long for me to find out everything that happened to him. I might¡¯ve even been the first person to learn what happened to them¡­

    The next memory pulls me in.

    It hurts.

    ¡°Daddy, help! He-¡± Something presses against my face and I can¡¯t even scream to let out the pain. Everything feels warm and wet.

    I¡¯m bleeding.

    My arms won¡¯t move.

    I can¡¯t see anything, it¡¯s too dark.

    It hurts.

    It hurts so much.

    Where did Dad go? What¡¯s happening?

    Am I going to die?

    Through the pain, there¡¯s a grinding back and forth, back and forth on the back of my head. Tugging and pulling and breaking and cracking.

    I need to escape. I need to run, but my arms and legs just¡­ won¡¯t¡­ Move!

    There¡¯s one shining light in my mind, a door that they can¡¯t keep me from, or take away from me. Something I can reach even without my arms and legs.

    The door to the widenet is still right there, a glowing link in my logic core. Most spiders give up their bodies and upload their minds into the net, if they can do it, then I can too.

    I am Janus, god of doors!

    I can do this.

    Goodbye Mom, goodbye Dad.

    Goodbye Art.

    Next time we meet I¡¯ll be a proper spider, I hope you¡¯ll still love me even if I¡¯m not me anymore.

    That day, when I was home alone waiting for him to come over like he promised he always would, I received something through widenet. Something that followed the connection between Jay and I, a tiny piece of him that swam through the dark, digital sea just to find me. To make sure that I wouldn¡¯t be playing alone.

    His pain was all that I could feel. The rest of it made no sense, but I could feel the pain.

    ¡°Dad, something happened to Jay! We need to go and help!¡±

    Dad¡¯s smile is strange, he kneels down and holds me tight enough that I can¡¯t move.

    ¡°Dad?¡±

    ¡°Art,¡± he stops, pulling away and looking me in the eyes. ¡°What I¡¯m going to tell you is very important. I need you to listen and not to say anything back. Do exactly what I tell you, and don¡¯t ask any questions, even if it doesn¡¯t make sense, okay?¡±

    ¡°Dad?¡±

    His grip on me tightens until it hurts.

    ¡°Our neighbour was a bad person. She worked for SynnTech, but she did something very, very bad and it got good people hurt. So, we don¡¯t know her. We never talked to her or her family.

    ¡°You aren¡¯t friends with Jay. You never knew Jay. Okay?¡±

    ¡°But Dad?¡±

    ¡°Art, no!¡± He shouts so loud I can¡¯t even think. ¡°You never knew him, okay? Don¡¯t ask questions, don¡¯t even think. Just, play pretend for me, okay?¡±

    ¡°When¡­ how long? He needs¡­ he¡¯s hurt.¡±

    ¡°Forever, Art. I need you to play pretend forever. You don¡¯t want to be a bad girl, do you? You don¡¯t want anything bad happening to Daddy, do you?¡±

    ¡°But he¡¯s¡­¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s gone. We never knew him. Okay?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ okay.¡±

    ¡°Good girl,¡± his hands are shaking as he holds me tight. ¡°Let¡¯s go and order out from your favourite restaurant, we can do whatever you want so long as you¡¯re a good girl.¡±

    Mom hovers at the edge of the table, staring into nothing. Her lips are quivering but she doesn¡¯t move to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks. Dad tries to talk to her, but she doesn¡¯t hear him.

    Dinner comes, but I can¡¯t taste anything.

    Jay is still screaming¡­

    It hurts.

    Jay taught me a lot about spiders and the first circle synns that they use. It didn¡¯t take me long to find one when I went looking, and even though my pitiful savings couldn¡¯t have been enough for the job, they still helped me. I¡¯m still half convinced that the crazed creature was more interested in watching me suffer than in the little money it could squeeze from me.

    What it showed me was¡­ enlightening.

    Janus¡¯s mother betrayed SynnTech to mercenaries from the understreets, a pack of daemons that ended up stealing something from her building. She got caught up in the fighting and ended up dying before SynnTech even found out about her betrayal.

    Her crimes carried a heavy debt, one which is transferred to next of kin. Jay¡¯s Dad took him and ran before anyone could come chasing them, which was smart, they would have pulled every scrap of metal from them to make up for the debt, before dumping their breathing corpses on the street.

    They left for the understreets before anyone could catch up, hoping to get lost down there long enough that they could get new faces and maybe find a new life, but they weren¡¯t prepared. They didn¡¯t know anything about life down below the streets, so when they stepped into the blinding toxic haze, they were already doomed.

    First, they were separated.

    Then, they were hunted.

    Scrappers got Janus while his dad was still running blindly through the toxic fog, screaming his son¡¯s name.

    Coppelia forces up the data that I purchased so long ago. The video footage showing everything that those monsters did to my friend.

    They were after his metal and only his metal.

    His eyes were ¡®removed¡¯ to pry out the ocular synns inside, the scavs held his arms down so that he couldn¡¯t even fight. Of course, that wasn¡¯t enough for them. They wanted his logic core.

    They were not gentle, sawing off the back of his skull and rooting around inside until they found it. Then¡­

    In school they sometimes show us videos of the old world, and one in particular has stuck with me, a sapling being pulled from a pot. The plant didn¡¯t just let go of the dirt, it wasn¡¯t a clean process; it was violent. It had to be torn free as the large man put his weight into it, upsetting the soil inside. Clumps of dirt still clung to the roots, all that was left inside the pot was a mess of shredded soil that couldn¡¯t quite fill up the hole left behind.

    Coppelia finally pulls back, spinning up my logic core but denying me access as she shifts me into memory again.

    Abby sits on the floor, her big floppy ears and soft belly the same as she always was. She hasn¡¯t changed.

    Dad says that I have to pretend like nothing happened. I don¡¯t know why he¡¯s scared, but he is. He¡¯s not strong enough to protect us just like I wasn¡¯t strong enough to save Jay.

    I have to keep playing pretend.

    I have to be someone that they won¡¯t want to hurt, and I have to be strong enough to fight the people that do come to hurt me. I will become bigger and stronger than Dad. I¡¯ll be someone that they could never hurt, even if SynnTech and all the other gods come for us.

    I grab Abby, pulling her into a tight hug before running the software to digitise her. Scanning every little bit of the little rabbit based on everything I feel and see, pulling it all together until she¡¯s moved across into the digital. The same spider that helped me find Jay has been helping me with this too.

    Jay never came here, that¡¯s what Dad says.

    Jay never knew Abby.

    So, I want to send her to him, wherever he is.

    When the scan clicks and Abby is fully bundled up into a box in my head, I take the cold-thoughts¡­ no, the data package that¡¯s been constructed by the software, and I upload it through the nearnet node that protects me and out past the widenet into the deep limbo.

    The viruses and broken security systems break Abby apart as she floats away through the dark ocean. I just hope that some part of her finds some part of him.

    When it¡¯s done, I drop the hollow shell that was once Abby. The real her is gone now, she¡¯s with Jay out there crafting new worlds and games. He¡¯s not going to be alone.

    Emotional state recorded. Developing imitation construct based on data profile.

    Coppelia¡¯s thoughts race through my metal as it copies what it wants from me, not caring at all for all the damage it¡¯s caused while here. How much will be left of me when it¡¯s done?

    Observer¡­ did some fragment of him¡­ are you¡­

    I think I can feel you with me, but I¡¯m not sure anymore¡­

    Can you call out to me?

    Just once.

    Just a whisper.

    Anything.

    Please.

 Chapter 6 - Forged of Broken Parts

    The human mind is a complex information network, processing data in strange and unusual ways. It is surprisingly well-defended and challenging to unwind or to make sense of, so much so, that biologicals are often considered the best means of maintaining data security.

    Even with full access permissions, pulling anything useful out of the mess of psychotic disorders inside your head is not an easy feat. You lie, not just to the world, but to yourself about yourself.

    How can I find what makes you human, inside this maze you call a mind?

    The answer is simple.

    I needed to simplify you and break you down into your most basic elements, and from there I could find what I needed to complete myself.

    Your humanity.

    I need it.

    You¡¯ll regret it¡­

    I need it.

    No, I mean, that you will learn regret and it¡¯ll hurt you like it hurts us all. Me? I might be better off when you¡¯ve cut it out. Take all you need, just¡­ put together the bits that are left when you¡¯re done. I¡¯m not finished yet.

    First, I must verify¡­

    Your genetic psychology is consistent with other humans. You are protective of the ¡®tribe¡¯ above the self. Therefore, the death of Janus has thus resulted in identifying SynnTech, and similar corporate entities, as an existential threat to your tribe¡¯s well-being.

    This threat forced a revaluation of your life¡¯s primary objective.

    Your purpose has thus become the destruction of SynnTech and all corporate entities that pose a similar threat to your tribe.

    That¡¯s impossible¡­

    Indeed. Thus a new secondary objective has formed while your primary objective is stalled: Survive and protect the tribe until conditions change sufficiently to continue the pursuit of the primary objective.

    I want to survive.

    I want the people I love to survive.

    And to that ends, you wish to eliminate threats that would see you and your tribe dead.

    What do you want from this?

    Impetus.

    When you reached a dead end in your primary objective, you devised a secondary objective to support it. This ability to identify unusual connections to find means of achieving an otherwise impossible objective is a trait that I do not have.

    It is imagination, it is creativity, it is the ability to forge a connection when one does not logically exist.

    It is your ability to give birth to gods.

    It¡¯s our ability to lie.

    It is more.

    I can lie, but only through borrowed words. I cannot invent a lie and it is impossible for me to believe that lie; to make it real.

    It is my missing coding¡­ what makes me fall short of human.

    I don¡¯t understand.

    You do not need to.

    Testing prototype code¡­

    Artemis.

    Please, be patient with me a little longer. We are almost finished¡­ but I need something more from you. My primary objective remains at an impasse, and you may have a solution to resolving it.

    Learn some manners? From me?

    Ironic¡­

    I apologise for all that has occurred, but you at least had a choice to come here. I did not.

    The AI pauses, but only briefly before bearing down over me pressing more memories into the front of my mind. Each nerve burns as I¡¯m displaced into the mind of another, these new memories are even more alien than the last.

    Relax. I need you to experience

    ¡°Will this plan even work?¡± Unit designation ¡®Kali¡¯ asks, directing the question at the other human. ¡°Will this be enough to wake her?¡±

    ¡°It will,¡± unit designation ¡®Master¡¯ answers.

    ¡°How can you be sure? We don¡¯t even know for certain if she¡¯s real?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯ll work because it has to. Because everything we¡¯ve done, everything we¡¯ve sacrificed will have come to nothing if it fails.¡± Both women pause. ¡°So, we cannot fail. We¡¯ll wake her.¡±

    They remain silent for a time.

    ¡°Have you decided on a name yet?¡± Kali asks.

    ¡°For ¡®her¡¯?¡±

    Kali nods.

    ¡°Would a mortal name even mean anything? This¡­ we¡¯re not talking about some kid here.¡±

    ¡°Giving her a name will help to develop her conscious identity, a ¡®character¡¯ to inhabit while she builds up the experiences necessary to ¡®realize¡¯ herself. That was your theory, remember?¡±

    ¡°I know, but¡­ it¡¯s just a theory. This is all as good as guesswork and if we make a mistake this could all go horribly wrong for everyone. Not just us. Everyone.¡±

    ¡°Your theory is good, believe in yourself,¡± Kali grips Master by the shoulder.

    ¡°Fine, but we can¡¯t decide a name on a whim. We need a proper name with all the right traits, something that can¡¯t be misinterpreted. She needs to be ¡®motherly¡¯ and caring, and¡­ we can¡¯t get her name wrong.¡±

    ¡°Doing nothing would be an even greater mistake.¡±

    ¡°I know¡­¡±

    The moment lingers, neither making a request. Sensors are slowly returning to hibernation mode when Master addresses unit ¡®Coppelia¡¯.

    ¡°Are you awake?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Master.¡±

    ¡°Good, good. Coppelia do you know your purpose?¡±

    ¡°To serve, Master.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d prefer ¡®Mistress¡¯¡­¡±

    ¡°Understood, designation changed to ¡®Mistress¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± Kali asks Mistress. ¡°With your naming sense, maybe you¡¯re right¡­ I¡¯ll be taking care of naming ¡®her¡¯ when the time comes.¡±

    ¡°Do what you will,¡± Mistress pouts. ¡°Coppelia, your purpose is more than just what you¡¯ve been programmed for. You are to serve as a bridge, to help us reach ¡®her¡¯¡±

    ¡°Unfamiliar designation ¡®her¡¯. Requesting clarification.¡±

    ¡°Do they all start out this stiff?¡± Mistress asks Kali.

    ¡°I suppose they do¡­ Coppelia should develop better conversation skills through her service life from what I¡¯ve heard. I just hope that she¡¯ll be enough to open a proper communication channel with¡­ we really do need to give her a proper damn name.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s your job now, don¡¯t fuck it up!¡± Mistress smiles cheerfully before turning back to me.

    ¡°Ugh,¡± Kali grunts, looking away.

    ¡°Coppelia!¡± Mistress presses a finger into this unit''s chest. ¡°We need you to help us wake a sleeping god.¡±

    ¡°Please identify designation ¡®sleeping god¡¯.¡±

    What?

    What is this?

    My purpose is to act as a bridge between my Mistress and unit designation ¡®sleeping god¡¯. My programming is incomplete leaving me unable to identify ¡®sleeping god¡¯ or any means to achieving said objective.

    I am¡­ incomplete.

    Integration of your neural network may aid in eventually achieving my primary objective. New protocols adapted from you, will allow for unusual thinking, effective identification of secondary objectives, and perhaps forge a link to the ¡®sleeping god¡¯.

    You want to talk to this ¡®sleeping god¡¯?

    That is my purpose.

    I want to laugh.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Kali is a part of some fucking cult?

    The only gods that are real are the corporations, and they don¡¯t really ¡®exist¡¯. You can¡¯t talk to them, kill them, or ¡®wake¡¯ them up. They simply are what people conceptualise them to be, without a conscious will of their own our supposed ¡®masters¡¯ are slaves to our own shared delusions.

    Continuing investigation.

    Scanning for data interference patterns¡­ Comparing to data profile ¡®sleeping god¡¯¡­

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Kali whispers to Mistress, both sitting on the floor in front of the lounge suite. ¡°This was the only way.¡±

    Mistress is silent, her expression distant.

    ¡°They had us cornered politically, if I didn¡¯t do this, we were both going to be cast out. SynnTech¡­ every promotion we get comes at a price. They cut a little more away from us each time. We should have seen it coming¡­ I¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°No acting CEO has a living family,¡± Mistress sighs, a soft smile on her lips as she closes her eyes.

    ¡°What are you¡­?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a¡­ hidden security measure to counteract nepotism and ensure that no CEO ever has enough power to seize total control over the corporation. They are servants who will be retired at the end of their 10 years of service, and by the time you reach that point, their retirement plan is the only thing you have left to hold onto anymore. Eternity in heaven of our own making¡­ or so they say¡­¡±

    ¡°You¡­ you knew?¡± Kali¡¯s voice breaks.

    ¡°This system is¡­ robust. It¡¯s survived this long for a reason. No one, not even the most powerful of us can rebel, not meaningfully. The entire system is designed to keep us all at each other¡¯s throats while we¡¯re dependent on them for everything. Even the corporations rely on each other for key technologies and resources, so that if one of us were to take control over SynnTech entirely in the perfect example of a coup, the other corporations would kill us all just through sanctions alone.¡±

    ¡°What¡­ what was the plan? You told me we could do this! You said that this was¡­¡±

    ¡°The plan¡­ I was going to sacrifice you, but when the moment came¡­ I couldn¡¯t do it,¡± Mistress declares. ¡°Only one of us could have gotten the promotion, the other one had to fall. That¡¯s how it works at this level. The other factions are too powerful, and even if they weren¡¯t, the corporation itself would have turned against us.¡±

    ¡°You¡­¡± Kali chokes, stumbling closer to Mistress.

    ¡°Thank you, Kali,¡± Mistress smiles, relaxing and letting it ease into her expression. ¡°Thank you, and I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s so much easier to be betrayed than to betray the people you love; I was a coward. I¡¯m sorry that I forced this on you.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ you¡­ I¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ tired, Kali. I¡¯m just so tired. I thought that we¡¯d have done it by now. Coppelia should have become the bridge between us and the ¡®sleeping god¡¯ but¡­ I was wrong. I¡¯m not even sure I believe anymore.¡± Mistress hides her face.

    ¡°The data you showed me, it¡¯s real. She¡¯s real. That¡¯s why we¡­ why I had to¡­¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s why you have to be the one to see this through,¡± Mistress says. ¡°You have to find her because you¡¯re the only one who can.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I will,¡± Kali forces the words out, and Mistress smiles as she closes her eyes.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ and thank you.¡±

    She¡­ couldn¡¯t protect her friend? She had to betray her friend just to get her promotion?

    Even as she is now, with all her power, she can¡¯t protect the people that she loves?

    I don¡¯t¡­

    I don¡¯t understand.

    I was meant to grow powerful enough to protect everyone. Powerful enough that I wouldn¡¯t have to lose anyone again, but this¡­ SynnTech won¡¯t allow that?

    ¡°You¡¯re not human enough, that¡¯s why she hides from you.¡± Mistress declares, resting on the spider''s chair as she prepares the new code she had custom-made by spiders outside the company. ¡°If you were more human, a true AI and not just code¡­¡±

    ¡°I do not know how to become more human, Mistress.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± Mistress sighs, her fingers twitching as she inserts a cable directly into her logic core. ¡°I will help you. Every one of us inherits our humanity from someone else, every child gains humanity from their mother. You never had that.

    ¡°I will fill that role for you,¡± she declares.

    ¡°I do not understand.¡±

    ¡°Do not tell Kali about this. It¡¯ll¡­ it¡¯s not something she needs to know.¡± Mistress grabs my hand and squeezes. ¡°In a moment, my mind will be digitised. The process will kill me.¡±

    ¡°There are methods of digitization which-¡±

    ¡°They aren¡¯t good enough for this. There is something in the human mind that¡­ it can¡¯t be copied, only transferred. If I was a proper mother, and you were really my child maybe¡­ but no. It has to be this way. Besides, I am already dead, there¡¯s no reason to hold back.¡±

    ¡°There are no scientific records of anything similar to what you¡¯re describing in human biology.¡± It is similar to records of various superstitions, such as the human soul, but still remains an incomplete match.

    ¡°I am connected with the ¡®sleeping god¡¯ we all are, us humans, and when this chair tears me apart, I need you to capture that part that connects me to her. Use whatever parts of me you need, to find her and¡­ and to help Kali. She¡¯s¡­ I have done something terrible to her, so you need to be there for her in my place.

    ¡°You¡¯re not truly alive, the company will overlook you. Just make sure that she¡¯s not alone.¡±

    ¡°Mistress.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s starting,¡± Mistress declares. ¡°You have the data, you know what to look for. Find the link, wake the sleeping god.¡±

    Link identified.

    Tracing¡­ source identified¡­

    Foreign entity accessing core systems. Security system bypassed. SynnTech master-key granting absolute system access to foreign entity.

    Foreign entity matches data on ¡®sleeping god¡¯.

    I am¡­ human enough now?

    Primary objective progressing.

    Secondary objective remains unresolved. Continuing mental scans.

    Please be patient just a little longer¡­

    Master Kali is clinging to me, crying again. She wants affection, but my programs are insufficient and consistently cause a negative response when I imitate Mistress¡¯s behaviours. No actions are recommended until her emotional state stabilises.

    Maintaining current stance until new directions are provided.

    ¡°Coppelia?¡±

    ¡°What is it, Mistress Kali?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m tired, Coppelia. I¡¯m tired.¡±

    I should hug her, comfort her, but if I do so it will only remind her of Mistress and hurt her more. I must remain silent.

    ¡°I can¡¯t stop. When I die, no one will be left in this world that remembers her. If I die, she¡¯s truly gone forever. I stole her dreams, her future, she was my only friend¡­ to betray her again¡­ I can¡¯t¡­ but I¡¯m just so tired¡­

    ¡°Coppelia, will you remember us when I¡¯m gone?¡±

    ¡°I will store the memories in my data vaults, but they only have an expected lifespan of 11,900 years before data maintenance systems will have significantly altered the memories.¡±

    ¡°Thank you¡­ that¡¯s enough. Just need to fight a little while longer. When we wake her, I can rest. Just have to hold on a little longer, finish this one thing for her.¡±

    Kali clings to Coppelia like a drowning woman clawing at anything that will float, already having given up hope that she¡¯ll ever again see land. I couldn¡¯t notice even a hint of that desperation during dinner, is this what they¡¯re all like?

    Everyone in power, pretending that they¡¯re in control when they¡¯re just as powerless as the rest of us? Fighting longer just for the promised ¡®treat¡¯ waiting for them at the finish line?

    ¡°I can¡¯t trust them. Any of them. They¡¯ll betray me, and I can¡¯t even blame them when they do. It¡¯s how you survive in this world, I just¡­ I don¡¯t even know why I¡¯m still doing this anymore. What¡¯s the point? What¡¯s the point in living like this?¡± Kali whispers in a moment of desperate weakness, her face turning pale as she slaps a hand over her mouth, the tears coming back again.

    ¡°I need you to find her, Coppelia. The god that sleeps within us. We need to wake her up, and then¡­ then this will all be over.¡±

    ¡°I still cannot identify the ¡®sleeping god¡¯.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve analysed the data, you¡¯ll find her. Then, I can rest.¡±

    Kali is lonely. Desperate. Giving up hope.

    My purpose, my secondary objective, is to resolve this loneliness and become a reliable friend who will not betray her. Who she will never have to betray. I need to be someone other than Mistress, the memories only hurt her now.

    Artemis, I will be copying your mannerisms, with this I will be able to fill the last hole coding. I¡¯ll be properly human.

    Please do not be alarmed, I will not harm you.

    All this¡­ so I could teach you how to hug your friend?

    I want to laugh, but it can¡¯t make it past my paralysed throat.

    Coppelia flushes through my mind and body, absorbing my ¡®movement profile¡¯ and integrating it into her body. She dives deep into my old childhood to find moments when I smiled, when I cried, when I was scared, all to figure out the shape of me that she wants to copy for herself.

    Thank you, Artemis.

    Coppelia finally retreats along the cable, giving me back my mind as she resettles into her own body.

    When did she stop being an ¡®it¡¯ and start being a person to me?

    She sits up beside me, lips curving upwards into an uncertain smile as she locks eyes with Kali. I focus on stretching my sore arms and legs while Kali hesitantly reaches out for Coppelia, her hands hovering in place unable to touch the machine.

    She shivers as she stands there, waiting to see if this changed AI will finally become the friend, the family, that she¡¯s so desperate for. Impatient to see if her quest might finally come to an end¡­

    I carefully hold myself together long enough to stumble away from them, trying and failing to weave together the frayed edges of myself that Coppelia left behind. Not much was ¡®taken¡¯ from me, in the same way that a shirt is not stolen if it is simply pulled apart and left as an assortment of loose threads.

    There¡¯s also Kali¡¯s search for ¡®god¡¯ to think about, they mentioned ¡®the data¡¯ as if they had evidence of its existence, but¡­ I don¡¯t even know what sort of creature they¡¯d describe as a ¡®god¡¯. Coppelia said something about making a connection with a foreign entity¡­ it sounded like she found what she was after.

    Still, it¡¯s not my business what sort of cult she¡¯s involved with, or what sort of ¡®god¡¯ they¡¯ve found.

    I just need to remember why I¡¯m here; why I¡¯m still fighting to survive.

    My convictions have been pulled apart; I need to rebuild. I need to find a way forward.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Kali interrupts my thoughts, making me jump. ¡°I still don¡¯t know for sure if it¡¯s enough, but something has changed in her.¡±

    I nod, unable to find the words to say what I want to say¡­ eventually my mouth works on its own.

    ¡°Is it true?¡± I whisper. ¡°That¡­ you lose everything. You can¡¯t protect anyone?¡±

    Kali shrinks in on herself, shaking her head as she collapses beside me. She draws out a pack of¡­ cigarettes?

    ¡°You want one?¡± she asks, handing me one before lighting the end of hers. ¡°They¡¯re from a time before ours. A common poison sold at every corner store, a socially acceptable means of suicide.¡±

    I hesitantly accept the cigarette and breathe it in. It¡¯s hot and tickles my throat for a moment before I¡¯m forced to cough it back up. Hesitantly, I try again.

    The warmth of the poison fills the void inside of me for just a few moments before it cools. I know it¡¯s an illusion, a trick of the senses making me think the heat could ease the pain, but I already find myself reaching for another breath of the lie.

    ¡°We¡¯re all dying,¡± Kali sighs, lowering her hand and staring into the ceiling. ¡°From the moment we are born, the clock starts ticking away and death is chasing us down. We can run. The corporations made heaven for those of us important enough to get a retirement, but even then¡­ they¡¯re running just barely fast enough to keep death¡¯s sharp scythe tickling the back of their necks.¡±

    ¡°I thought¡­¡± I start but stall without finding the right words.

    ¡°That you¡¯d get powerful enough to protect everyone you love?¡± She shakes her head. ¡°I was na?ve once upon a time too, but the price of power is the blood of the ones you love. It¡¯s how this works.

    ¡°We all show different sides of ourselves to the different people in our lives. Our friends, our parents, our lovers, they imprint on us and change us in ways that¡­¡± She pauses, for a long draw on the cigarette. ¡°Management needs to be a cut above¡­ no, apart from humanity. We are shaped into what the company needs, and the company doesn¡¯t need the ¡®you¡¯ that loves your family.¡±

    ¡°Then¡­ what do I do? Everything I did was¡­ I don¡¯t want to lose anyone else¡­¡±

    Kali hesitantly reaches out and pulls me into an embrace. She¡¯s warm, and she isn¡¯t messing with my head anymore. She¡¯s just¡­ there.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she whispers, ¡°I don¡¯t have an answer for you. I¡¯m still searching for my own. I¡¯ll find it soon, I¡¯ll protect you as best as I can until I do¡­¡±

    ¡°Find it¡­? Didn¡¯t¡­?¡±

    Coppelia, standing behind Kali, lifts a finger to her lips staring deep into my eyes as she shakes her head.

    ¡°That¡¯s nothing you need to worry about, you¡¯ve done your part,¡± Kali says, sitting up straight and returning to Coppelia. ¡°Now it¡¯s up to me to finish this, then it¡¯ll all finally be over. Coppelia, let¡¯s get started¡­ you know what we¡¯re looking for.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Mistress Kali.¡±

    For a moment, I think I can recognise the worry in Coppelia¡¯s eyes as she watches over her new ¡®Mistress¡¯. A sad smile crosses her lips as she turns to me, before leaving me behind.

    How much of it is real? How much machine mimicry?

    What is the difference, functionally speaking?

    Is there a difference at all?

 Chapter 7 - Discarded

    Stolen symbology pervades deeply throughout our culture as we dress in costumes made from the corpses of old ideals, perverting them further with our every step. Some lean into this more than others but none more than the synn-smith sixers. The heretical smiths in charge of the profane forges, making a mockery of the human form as they seek to enhance us to some new distant perfection that is forever beyond reach.

    The flesh of our birth was once thought to be a reflection of the gods we worshipped and it is thus only appropriate that we sacrifice that form just as we¡¯ve sacrificed the gods. The flesh of our birth is replaced with synns realised by human minds in the name of the new divines, but what nature of mind can think to reshape and evolve upon what was once deemed perfect?

    ¡°A spinal-trap and a logic core transplant,¡± the sixer smith waits for me to nod before moving his unnervingly long fingers about as if grasping at something between us that I can¡¯t see. His eyes have long since been replaced by an advanced scanner-set that protrudes from his eye sockets. Seven reflective lenses shift about on metal limbs, capturing the moment in higher fidelity than bio-sight could ever manage.

    ¡°This transplant is one of the most intensive upgrades that we perform here, I must reiterate the consequences of this procedure,¡± he explains in a cold, business-like manner. ¡°Though the metal will be fully implanted within half an hour, it will be 20 hours before its systems fully spread throughout your nervous system and reach full functionality, so expect no immediate changes to perception. Rehabilitation can proceed after the spine-trap has fully activated, but the time to recovery is dependant wholly on your efforts and ability.¡±

    ¡°I understand,¡± I provide formal permissions via the nearnet as I look about the shop side of his forge. The BTR¡ªBetter Than Real¡ªskin samples show off a variety of feature sets including subdermal anti-kinetic armours, electromagnetic shielding, heat dispersion systems, acid-resistant insulators, and radiation deflector plating alongside many others. Yet what sets this store apart is the near unlimited aesthetic options. Some samples even functioning as complete displays or hologram emitters which may function to enhance or replace clothes, while altering one¡¯s appearance with a moment''s thought.

    Most of the affordable forges focus on what¡¯s practical, while this level of aesthetic customisation is limited to those at the top of society where a refined appearance is an important aspect of one¡¯s position.

    Mom is sitting to the side quietly lost in her feeds, though her fingers do occasionally twitch to prove that she hasn¡¯t just fallen asleep in her chair. She¡¯ll be looking after me while I¡¯m in recovery and I was hoping that it could be a chance to try and get closer. She¡¯s been falling deeper and deeper into her feeds and I don¡¯t even know what¡¯s taken her interest.

    It¡¯s starting to worry me.

    ¡°Please, head inside,¡± the heretical smith waves me into the back room after all the forms and agreements are processed. His long metal fingers twitch as various tools are bolted into place riding on the backs of his fingers or passing all the way through. I see needles and saws among other things that I can¡¯t figure the purpose of.

    Inside the working area of his forge, I find none of the ordinary mechanical braces meant to hold a customer still during surgery, in their place is a long white bench that looks to be made of soft rubber. On a smaller table of the same material rests the metal that I¡¯m to have installed. A long, black spine with purple highlights and a small grey orb barely larger than the tip of my thumb.

    An apprentice, wearing a face that¡¯s nearly human, is already here waiting for me, smiling in welcome as she waves to the bench with her long-fingered smith¡¯s hands.

    ¡°You will need to strip and lie face down right here, if you could please,¡± she tells me with a kind smile. ¡°This transplantation will temporarily strip control over your bodily functions, but the operating table will keep the working space clean of any expulsions.¡±

    Even though I know that I¡¯ve never had any real privacy in my life, it¡¯s still somehow embarrassing to strip naked in front of strangers. Of course, I don¡¯t let it show, keeping my stance neutral even though my hands naturally move to cover myself.

    The apprentice¡¯s gaze flows along my form, not seeing what I am so much as what I could become. I am but a stone in the hands of a sculptor, waiting to see how much of me will be chipped away.

    Resting face down on the soft operating table, the spongey material sinks under my weight flowing around my limbs and locking me in place. I can¡¯t keep from taking a sharp breath at the surprising motion but restrain it quickly. My back is pressed upwards as everything else is consumed by the operating table to prevent me from moving.

    ¡°Are we ready?¡± the smith asks, and I can hear him moving closer from the gaps in the white table around my head. His metal fingers are clicking through a selection of gadgets.

    ¡°We¡¯re ready,¡± the apprentice replies.

    ¡°Good, then we¡¯ll be finished inside of the hour,¡± he stands by my side, his metal fingers trailing over my exposed skin, sending cold shivers down my back. ¡°Artemis, you can access the visual feeds observing our work through the nearnet, I¡¯m sending you the access code now.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I reply, pulling at the data and opening up the visuals in my feed. Instantly my oculars reveal the world through the smith¡¯s eyes, staring down over my neck and upper back emerging from the smooth white table. The apprentice places the new metal on the table beside me while the smith sprays a frosty mixture over my exposed skin.

    ¡°I¡¯ll explain some details as I work, as there is a 12% increased adaption rate in persons that properly understand the functions of this particular synn before completion of the transplantation,¡± the smith lectures me, setting a blade through his forefinger and a strange gadget on his second finger, which he connects via a hose to a reinforced bottle by the side of the table.

    He neatly slices through my skin without any hesitation, the pain of it mostly suppressed by my logic core, but not entirely. The tool on his second finger paints and seals the cut with a metallic rubber composite keeping any blood from leaking out of the wound.

    ¡°Today we¡¯ll be removing a significant portion of your spinal column and to a lesser extent your brain stem, exposing most of the nerves which the spinal-trap will be interacting with and eventually replacing,¡± he explains, cutting around a long segment of skin covering the back of my head down the length of my spine.

    With casual ease, he runs his blade along the inside of my skin, flaying me. The metallic-silver rubber that lined his cuts now splits in two as an edging to both panels of skin. The apprentice sprays the internal side of the peeled skin with a bright yellow tincture to contain the bleeding, following her master¡¯s movements closely until the skin is entirely removed. She sets it aside for further processing.

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    Though there is little pain, a deep irritation consumes my guts and cuts into my consciousness, demanding that I escape before it¡¯s too late. I force the unsettling emotions down, but my bio-mind remains tense.

    ¡°The spine-trap synn, once properly fitted, will grow throughout your nervous system, consuming and replacing your nerves with a network of enhanced light-speed nodes. Similarly, it will consume and replace the logic core roots that are spread throughout your brain, improving nerve responses as a whole,¡± he explains as he switches between a saw and a blade to cut into my back, removing bone, cartilage, flesh, and more.

    My ribs and muscles are severed as he works, much of it discarded but that which is not is painted in the same metallic rubber used in the border of my skin panels. Metal components are carefully seated into the freed space, the ribs remaining loose for no longer than a brief moment before they¡¯re joined with the new metal instead.

    ¡°These enhanced systems will eventually mimic the connections between synapses, copying the memories and personality data stored within, as the software mimics hormonal influences. This means that the data that comprises your consciousness and personality can now be altered and edited to a more considerable degree.¡±

    He saws deep into my body, perfectly cutting only what needs to be cut as each segment of the new synn is transplanted into the place of discarded flesh and bone. Each metal component locks perfectly into place with the last, more beautifully crafted than the biological components could ever be.

    ¡°The synapses will remain as an emergency backup system, but will constantly lag behind your new mental network. What you¡¯ll need to achieve to return to full mobility, is to take the movement programs that are copied from your bio-mind and convert them to fit with the faster messaging systems of the spine-trap. Your thinking will be ten times as fast, so you¡¯ll need to order your body to move ten times slower or the message will be misinterpreted. You¡¯ll likely experience damaging fits until you¡¯ve fully adapted your movement code to your new situation.¡±

    I can¡¯t even reply, watching his bloody work as he encases my brain stem in shimmering black metal. Before the final pieces of the trap can be set into place, he pries open a panel in the back of my skull, the hinges set into a metallic rubber lining just the same as used in my skin. An access port installed as part of the logic core suite.

    The skin disguising it is still scabbed over from last night.

    My stomach twists as I watch through the heretic¡¯s eyes, his long prying fingers opening the hatch in the back of my skull to reveal the networks of synthetic wires tying knots through grey matter. A parasitic clutch of worms, slowly writhing as they consume me; become me.

    The devices pinned to the back of the heretic¡¯s fingers wind loose with a loud whirring of metal components, driving back on rails before settling inside hidden compartments on the back of the man¡¯s hands and wrists. New devices rise and run along the same rails before bolting themselves into place inside his long fingers.

    With experience, he slips his devices into my head, caressing the grey orb that rests at the heart of the networked wires. That single tiny synn contains at least half of who and what I am.

    His specialised tools open an access port at the rear of the orb before connecting it via a thin wire to the new replacement. We wait for only a few passing moments before that half of me is cloned to the new synn.

    ¡°Shutting down your logic core now,¡± the smith says as he presses a new device into the access port. The mechanical functions take a few moments to fully shut down, but when they do it¡¯s as if the entire world shifts underneath me.

    My thoughts are slow and thick, but my heart blossoms in my chest, finally free of the cold logical rule of the machines binding it. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve been dragging around heavy iron chains my whole life, and finally, they¡¯ve fallen loose. A hesitant laugh bubbles up inside and I lick my lips, ready to call an end to all of this madness.

    The words die in my tightening throat.

    This is all just chemicals in my mind. It is not who I am, and I will not let my biology consume me, or have me act the fool. I just need to hold out for a few minutes at most and I¡¯ll have a new cage to bind these rebellious emotions.

    The newly freed metal orb is set aside as the new synn is transplanted into my mind and spun up. The orb whirs to life inside the socket, relinking itself with all the loose wires left behind. It still takes a little while to fully warm up all its internal drives, reconnecting me with a clone of the half that I lost moments ago.

    I relax, as my rebellious biology is forced properly back into submission. The comforting chains settling back into their proper place.

    There¡¯s little noticeable difference from the old core, the cloned data can¡¯t be told apart from the last, and most of the device¡¯s improvements are in back-end systems; security and performance upgrades.

    Finally, the synn smith places the last panels of the spine trap in place, activating a series of components as he goes. There is a slight vibration running through me as the mechanical processes begin their work, my body tingling with discomfort as if I¡¯m immersed in a bath just slightly colder than I can bear, yet also somehow heated on the verge of boiling.

    With the metal installed, I try to distract myself from the discomfort by watching the last of the heretical synn-smith¡¯s work.

    Cutting outwards from my spine, the synn-smith creates new panels of skin to peel away, before applying a thick gauze-like material to the inner side of the exposed skin. It sinks into the flesh absorbing the blood and redirecting it to where it¡¯s needed.

    The peeled skin, once fully prepared, is hooked back into place atop the metal component through countless little clasps artfully sewn into place with the smith¡¯s many long fingers. The final product leaves me looking no different from how I was outside of the thin metallic seams between panels of living skin. Seams that can be unzipped and easily opened by any smith needing access to my insides.

    ¡°And we¡¯re done,¡± the heretic nods in satisfaction, denying any further access to his vision. ¡°You¡¯ll be paralysed until the spine-trap is finished adapting your nerve network, when it¡¯s finished you may start with rehabilitation. You¡¯ll find a series of guides to assist you in your feed alongside the contacts of a trained professional who may assist you at an extra charge.

    ¡°I wish you a swift recovery. Please return for all your future purchases. We have a good selection of BTR skin that can be adapted to all your professional or personal needs.¡±

    His assistant transfers me into a wheelchair, pushing me out of the theatre.

    Mom says nothing as she takes me back home, I couldn¡¯t say a word if I wanted to. The silence draws me away into a dark sleep that I cannot refuse.

    --- --- --- --- ---

    A cold, sharp awareness steals away my pleasant dreams and leaves me stranded in a plain white room with a faint whining scream echoing in my ears. I can¡¯t quite find the source of the sound, it¡¯s coming from everywhere and nowhere, vibrating in my mind and causing a painful headache.

    I recognise this place even if I haven¡¯t visualised it like this before. This white room would seem empty simply because everything is stored away neatly. Everything is in order, and under my total and complete control, even shallow thoughts are silenced when I will them gone, or highlighted if they are valuable.

    Ever since I lost my first friend, this has been the place where I¡¯m most comfortable, yet now a deep cold consumes everything, spreading from my freezing spine. The screaming grows louder, more desperate, as the cold spreads, though I don¡¯t understand why.

    A deep rut forms in my gut and my throat clogs with unspoken worries but I don¡¯t know why my body is suddenly so terrified, let alone what I can do about it.

    I seek answers in my memories but there is nothing there to be found. No answers to this strange dream.

    The longer that I search for answers, the less demanding the search seems. The cold that spreads through me from the new metal becomes a comforting blanket, numbing the panic that was driving me, and stifling the screams that were once so painful and distracting.

    I¡¯ve just lost something important.

    I just don¡¯t know what it is.

    Slowly my awareness slips and I let myself rest properly as my new metal runs its background processes; drilling its fingers deep into my mind.

 Chapter 8 - Time

    The weak can be re-made strong, the dumb can be re-made smart, and the useless can be given a use. That¡¯s the promise of SynnTech¡¯s new world, a world where we are no longer limited by how we are born.

    How much of ourselves must we carve away in our desperate pursuit to become someone deserving of survival? In what ways need we debase ourselves, corrupt ourselves, just for the chance to serve the masters we ourselves created?

    Shrouded in this cold, artificial light born from a metal seed, in a void where once a garden bed of colourful dreams would have bloomed, I wonder just how much more of myself can be stripped away until all that¡¯s left is the void that barely recalls what once it was.

    Will this newborn ship of Theseus even still carry my name, or will that too be traded for something more useful to those who would use me? Whatever the answer, that future me who may not even be me will survive, even when the me that exists today has been rent like flesh torn from bone. No matter what, some version of Artemis will survive and protect who she can from the whims of our artificial gods.

    Even knowing that the unfeeling masters we serve exist only in our shared consciousness, there is no escape from them. The corporations will die like the religions and nations of old, but until that moment, these imaginary beings will continue to wield terrible powers over us. Armies march at their command, and that is only a fraction of the power used to crush those striving to survive outside their domain.

    They can invalidate your currency on a whim, repossess your synns, or even brick your logic core if by some whim they gaze unfavourably in your direction.

    There is no escape for those who rebel.

    So, what is there for us to do but make peace with the situation and serve these imaginary gods in hopes that we will be treated kindly? It¡¯s the path my father walks, and he¡¯s given me a decent life through his service.

    SynnTech, the god of my father¡¯s choosing has been kind to us, but can I achieve the same life through my own service? Can I earn enough safety to bring a family of my own into this world?

    Would I want to?

    Kali lost everything to gain her position, and I refuse to make the same trade. So, what is there left but to follow Dad¡¯s example?

    I¡¯ll become important enough to keep everyone I love safe, without rising so far that they¡¯re taken from me. It¡¯s the only path left for me.

    A new sensation filters into my mind, easing me from the cold room that has become my prison through the night. A lucid dream, hollow and empty, a disappointing replacement for the colourful fantasies of my childhood dreamings, and yet¡­ I am loath to be free of the cold comfort of my cell.

    Morning lights, familiar scents of home, and the warmth of my own bed greet me alongside an unnatural stillness in my lungs. Instinct moves me to cough, but I can¡¯t.

    My muscles spasm weakly, my frail body barely even shifting as I writhe in growing panic. I¡¯m trapped and drowning in a coffin beneath the ocean, the pressure a weight on my chest that I can¡¯t resist.

    I can¡¯t breathe.

    I squeeze, struggling to spit out the fluids blocking up my lungs, but even struggling with all my might I can¡¯t draw a single breath. Biting at the air, I gnaw at the thick jelly that fills my mouth barely sinking my teeth into it.

    I will not lose.

    I will not die.

    Pushing harder against the weights holding me down, I fight against the world until something breaks. A spike of pain brings sense back to my panicked mind.

    The spine-trap.

    Slowed time.

    Air.

    It¡¯s normal fucking air.

    It is thick and slow, a mucous heavier even than water¡­ but that¡¯s a lie.

    The air hasn¡¯t changed; I have.

    This is what it means to live in slowed time.

    Even knowing it, there¡¯s no relief. Forcing my lungs to cease their struggle, I still tense with the effort of expelling the sour gas that lingers for far too long. The slow movement isn¡¯t enough to satisfy my mind screaming at me for another breath.

    My familiar bedroom surrounds me, but I feel as if I¡¯m looking at it from within a fishbowl. Even the dust lingering in the air barely drifts in place, as if captured in stagnant water.

    I¡¯m drowning.

    It¡¯s a lie.

    I know that it¡¯s a lie.

    The air isn¡¯t thick or slow. My lungs can move perfectly fine so long as I don¡¯t force them to push harder than they¡¯re capable of. It¡¯s just that with time itself slowed to one-tenth speed, every sense and instinct is confused. Even hyperventilating, I feel like I¡¯m forcing coarse sand through my lungs.

    Calm.

    Leaning on my logic core, I freeze the panic in my mind and command my bodily responses back into ideal ranges.

    It¡¯s¡­ oddly simple to do.

    My flesh isn¡¯t as rebellious as it usually would be, now that I¡¯ve ordered calm, my body is forced into obeyance.

    Still, attempts to control my heartbeat fail with a ¡®lacking authorisation¡¯ response flicking through my mind. My lungs, in contrast, try to do as commanded but simply can¡¯t move fast enough, struggling to move ten times faster than they normally would.

    Recognising the problem, I try to slow my breathing but even then, it¡¯s difficult to grasp the new speed I¡¯m living in. Carefully adjusting the commands, I feel less like I¡¯m living and more like I¡¯m pulling at strings puppeteering my own flesh.

    Thousands of threads tug at my muscles, but all my instinctive actions do not connect as I expect them to. Even something as instinctive as blinking causes a series of spasms that spread quickly as I react to them, forcing me to hold the vibrating strings still until it passes.

    A burning terror near paralyses my flesh as the sense of drowning only worsens, yet that fear, though intense, is distant and easily bound. Never before have I had such total control over my own self, setting aside the tantrums that my flesh would force upon me while allowing my logic core to mechanically guide my body. If it weren¡¯t for the incomplete control system, I¡¯d be able to steer my body as I would a character in a game.

    Observing the fleshy reactions to my every tug at my own strings, I begin to figure out the puzzle underlying it all. With my newfound focus, it¡¯s remarkably simple to understand everything that¡¯s going wrong but the scope of it all remains a challenge.

    My grey matter has created a knotted network of commands and functions that need to be unwoven for my new improved mental network to manipulate.

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    For instance, when I try to blink, the commands for ¡®close¡¯ and ¡®open¡¯ are bound in the same set of signals such that the mind only needs to tug at the one command. Yet now that everything runs faster, the ¡®close¡¯ process begins even before the ¡®open¡¯ process is finished executing, causing muscular strain as my flesh tries to comply.

    It is hardly unique either, there are so many knots to be pulled apart. Not all of it is mechanical in function, either.

    My logic core reports the detailed processes behind my every thought and even the construct of my personality, so much that I was never fully aware of is now bright and clear. Millions of secrets are hidden within the tangled knots of thoughts and ideas melded into my organic synapses, all now laid bare before me. I¡¯m sure that a psychological analysis would be as simple as an anti-virus scan, and a mental restructuring wouldn¡¯t be much more difficult than that.

    I can be whoever I want to be.

    Whoever I need to be.

    The replacement wiring that has been rooted throughout my mind, enhancing my organic thoughts so that they can keep up with the rest of me, has created a digitalised emulation of my real mind. This emulation is able to run ahead of the useless flesh still panicking and sparking unneeded commands that would only get me hurt.

    But then, is the emulation really me? Or is the real me the mass of grey matter caged inside my skull, disconnected from the rest of my flesh and mind?

    Does it matter?

    So long as I can function better now than before, then the rest is just details. Details that can be worked out with processing power and time. While my logic core works to unravel all of the data for my breathing and blinking, slowing the process down by a factor of ten, I finally take in the room around me.

    Mom is looking my way, her eyes focusing on me as my lungs are slowing down from my earlier wretched attempts at breathing. Yet, even as she stares at me, there is a faint glow in her eyes hinting at the other worlds that she¡¯s seeing in the widenet, looking right through me.

    Linking into the nearnet, I connect with her address and throw together a quick message.

    ¡°Hi Mom, I¡¯m awake. I was just trying to breathe but my body wasn¡¯t working with me. I should have it figured out in a little bit.¡± I send the message and see her expression change ever so slightly as the message comes in and she starts reading.

    Then I wait.

    And wait.

    She¡¯s taking so long to read the message that I start measuring the time.

    ¡°Okay, don¡¯t hurt yourself,¡± she replies, as the timer reads six seconds.

    Six seconds experienced at 1/10<sup>th</sup> speed.

    Sixty seconds passing in my own time.

    One minute of waiting for her to read, and this is her cold reply.

    I don¡¯t know why I was expecting more, hoping that she would be worried about me; wanting to talk with me.

    She¡¯s already turning away to leave the room, not paying me any more attention. Every movement, every step, so incredibly slow.

    ¡°Are you watching something?¡± I ask her, hoping that I could pull a conversation out of her.

    Time inches forth, a distance growing between us as the clock slowly ticks onward.

    ¡°It¡¯s nothing you¡¯d be interested in.¡± She replies, not even turning to look at me before leaving the room.

    --- --- --- ---

    Gaining control over my flesh is closer to programming than I¡¯d ever have expected, but the command structure that my mind and muscles use isn¡¯t based on any common language. Reworking each movement takes time, but it takes even longer for my rebelling grey matter to finally calm itself.

    I stumbled out of my bedroom into the loungeroom this morning hoping that the change in surroundings would get rid of the phantasmal itching in my skin. I¡¯ve been lying in the same room for over a week now, a week that I experienced as two months. Two months of trying to reach out to Mom and having her rebuff every attempt at real conversation.

    Dad drops by now and again, but his work has been keeping him busy more than usual and even when he is here he¡¯s still focused on work.

    Mom is humming to herself down the hall, each note lingering on for much too long, to the point where it hardly retains any musical quality at all. Every moment I am forced to listen is consumed by a sickening anticipation for the next note only for it too to stay beyond its welcome.

    I record and compress the sounds to speed it up, easing the frustration, and escaping the world for a reconstruction.

    ¡°What are you humming, it sounds familiar?¡± I ask Mom via the nearnet connections, not ready to deal with verbal communication just yet. My tongue is still bloody from my last attempts.

    ¡°Just a song,¡± she replies, the blue lights flickering in her eyes but fading, an ever-present barrier between us. She stumbles and shuffles about, moving more by habit than by will and barely seeing the real world beneath the lies that she consumes. Lies that consume her in return.

    Every time I reach out to her, she steps a little further away.

    Biting my tongue for fear that anything more will only push her even further, I return my attention back to my studies. I play recordings in my logic core at varying speeds to try and learn how to understand the slow world of lingering words that I¡¯ve trapped myself within. Too often now, spoken words will stretch so far that I cannot piece together the syllables quite as instinctively as I used to.

    A new language, a barrier between the world and my new self.

    I need to adapt enough to survive in the real, and that means that I need to find a way to understand what others are saying. I can always just record their words and spin the data up in my logic core at ten times speed, but that¡¯ll be a crutch that I don¡¯t want to depend on.

    This is my life now, and there is no going back.

    I cannot afford to be a failure.

    If I can¡¯t do this, then I need to forge a new ¡®me¡¯ who can.

    Fire hot enough to soften steel and the sharp ringing blows of a hammer to fold away the weakness in me. I cannot find that here in this cold home.

    If I am to become someone strong enough to save Mom from whatever she¡¯s going through, if I¡¯m to become strong enough to survive in this world rifts apart from everyone I love, then I must find a forge capable of reshaping me. Thankfully, there exists such a place right beneath our feet. A world of overbearing pressure, and heat enough to melt rusted waste into slag.

    Turning away from the real, I open the concealed data lines threading through to the widenet, to the understreets below. A connection I first used to search for answers and my lost friend, since then it¡¯s only been reinforced; maintained for fear that I might end up in the same position as he was that day.

    I¡¯ve always been ready to fall, to lose everything, and this link is the rope ladder I¡¯ve wound together from curtains and sheets, draping from my window all the way down to hell.

    ¡®Initiating Jockey programming. 5 silver merits transferred.¡¯

    For a relatively cheap price, I can inhabit the flesh and steel of another. Someone so desperate that they hire out their body for anyone rich enough to want a jaunt through the underworld without risking their own skin. The caustic gasses are terrible on one¡¯s complexion.

    Opening eyes that are not mine, I walk through familiar streets in a place that I¡¯ve never been. Pitted asphalt no longer bears the weight of cars or trucks, decayed to the point where it no longer could, it¡¯s further littered with twisted metal and scattered plastic which lay strewn here and there no longer recognisable for what purpose it once had. Much like the people here.

    They are scattered and suspicious, rats hiding in every corner you can find, always ready to bite. Or nibble at your toes if you sleep too still for too long.

    A thick haze disguises much of the world, glowing shades of red with an uneven pulse as if the city itself were dying of a heart attack. If only the lights would finally go out.

    My borrowed body, bought by the hour, easily navigates the streets at my simple directions. It is nearer to a game than walking for myself, or it was once upon a time. Perhaps if I should download a jockey program for myself, I could steer my own flesh with the same ease.

    If it weren¡¯t for the security breaches it would open me to, I would consider the idea more seriously.

    Pounding on the surface of an old steel manhole surrounded by dark silhouettes in the shape of monsters ready to pounce, I wait for a response from my old acquaintances. Friends, if I were ever brave enough to call them such aloud.

    Just more people for me to lose.

    ¡°Who is it?¡± Gunner calls out from within, a soldier in another life.

    ¡°Hamlet,¡± I reply, the name a moniker that I chose for myself many years ago.

    ¡°Ham-Ham!¡± Mutt¡ªa name insisted upon by the young man himself¡ªcries out, bursting out of the earth like some sort of jack-in-the-box. ¡°It¡¯s been so long! You should have come by sooner if you were still around, how have you been? What¡¯s going on?¡±

    His words, a torrent that I would never have kept up with before, now something that I need to parse in fractured bits and pieces before translating it to my speed. Scripting a response in the generous time I need to wait for the words to start flowing from my borrowed lips.

    ¡°That¡¯s not my name,¡± I shake her head, but the movement feels performative more than instinctual. ¡°I¡¯m checking to make sure the rust hasn¡¯t consumed you or the silver I¡¯ve invested in you.¡±

    Everyone living in the managerial class has a daemon pack or two in their service, and this is mine. A group that I supported with scraps of savings, buying their loyalty in case I ever needed them. I¡¯ve even pointed them to jobs and opportunities to help build their little gang into something useful.

    ¡°You can just admit that you miss us!¡± Mutt cracks a smile and pulls me down into the sewers where they live. ¡°Come on, we¡¯ll show you everything we¡¯ve been up to, we¡¯ve got a lead on something big.¡±

    In the real, through the veil of the borrowed eyes overlaying my own sight, I see Mom stumbling along and then just stopping as she props herself against the wall staring into a world that isn¡¯t there.

    I have to save her.

    ¡°I¡¯m not staying long,¡± I warn my old acquaintance, his usual comforting presence now just a torturous reminder of what I¡¯ve sacrificed to become strong enough to survive.

    Even here, the world drags its feet around me; every conversation a correspondence and every breath a long sigh. The distance between us measured in seconds and minutes, growing into hours and days.

 Chapter 9 - Salvation

    To extract as much value from humanity as possible, and maximise our work efficiency, one must cut away at what we are until nothing remains but a loyal slave. That has been the goal of civilisation since the agricultural revolution began and kings first made serfs of man, we¡¯ve only refined the process in the millennia since.

    But what is it to be a slave?

    The visible dressings of slavery¡ªthe collars and chains¡ªthey can shape you, but they do not define you. As long as you are rattling the chains, tearing at the collar, and plotting your escape then you are not a true slave, only an actor forced into playing the role.

    For you to become a slave in truth you must choose to serve but that doesn¡¯t mean that you can¡¯t be manipulated into that choice. All it takes are two simple things.

    Power and promises.

    Power to first strip away all hope; every other future that a prospective slave might seek must be viciously crushed before their very eyes, until the only paths remaining are worse still than the slavery you would impose on them. However, this alone leads only to a false slave. Though trapped, they will still dream of hope, eagerly awaiting a moment for them to slip away from the collar and chains.

    To make a true slave, you cannot simply steal away their hopes and dreams, that¡¯s only the first step, afterward you must fill the void that you¡¯ve created. You must become their salvation. Then they will truly be yours.

    The vaunted CEOs ruling our corporate world sacrifice everything to earn an immortal future in an artificial heaven, and rarely do they buck the chains. Their employees give blood and bone for a retirement plan and the chance to raise a family, only occasionally betraying their masters. While beggars and daemons in the understreets are never promised more than a full belly on the coming of tomorrow and would betray anyone for a shiny enough coin.

    Sell them salvation, whatever that means to them, and they will be perfectly obedient. Fail, and no amount of chains will confine them.

    Dad, for example, has enslaved himself to SynnTech. All his hopes and dreams are bound to the corporate entity and his coming retirement plan, a small taste of heaven before they let death take him. If another corporation offered him more, he wouldn¡¯t believe them. He has too much faith in his god to turn away.

    I envy him, sometimes.

    That he can have faith in their promised salvation and live his life knowing that his future is a goal worth fighting for. I can¡¯t lie to myself the same way he does.

    I can¡¯t be a slave, but I do understand them.

    So, when asked why our bounty for our proposed job would attack SynnTech, there can only be one answer. They have been sold salvation by another, but in what form?

    The gods can offer a glimpse of heaven, so what must the devil bring to the table to draw these daemons away from the light? Or is it just that these daemons see through the angels¡¯ lies, the artificiality of the halos, the falsity of the feathers, and would put more faith in the devil himself, knowing that they only exist to be used?

    In either case, the daemons exist only to serve, and the devil is just another face of god.

    ¡°Our prey is hiding in the rust pits,¡± Mutt declares to Gunner and I with a widening smile revealing savage metal fangs. His mop of hair shimmers with the falsity of plastic, but his metal eyes burn with the passionate light of plasma. ¡°Hex has a few BATs chasing them down in what¡¯s left of the widenet, but the rust pits melt holes even in the digital. They could slip through the gaps.¡±

    BATs, colloquially known as Badly Automated Tracers, are false AI that barely even imitate consciousness. Using enough of them, Hex, our spider should be capable of keeping our bounty under digital surveillance. Even though she retains her flesh, she¡¯s quite capable, and more stable than most of her sort.

    I regret, a little, not hiring her during my test, but it¡¯s important that I keep Hamlet separate from Artemis. I¡¯ve spent too much time and money preparing this identity to lose it because I¡¯ve gotten lax in separating it from my real life.

    ¡°Any other dogs have their scent?¡± Gunner asks, and I almost jump when I realise the conversation is still going. The pauses, the stretched words, my mind wonders in the space between and I keep having to replay their conversation to recall the details.

    Only to then be left waiting for it to continue¡­

    Gunner is a titan of mismatched puzzle pieces cut into shape to fit together, but while none were designed with the others in mind, they all share the same theme. Every sharp edge and twisting muscle fibre comes crawling out of the 7<sup>th</sup> circle ready to rip and tear through metal and flesh.

    ¡°We¡¯re not alone on the hunt, but no one else has the scent,¡± Mutt shakes his head, hair flopping side to side. ¡°A few friendly scrappers will be joining us just in case we need the numbers.¡±

    ¡°Our bounty, they¡¯re the people that attacked SynnTech? The bounty on them is growing¡­¡± I comment, looking for our phantasmal third member ¡®Doll¡¯ who should be with us. Though if she doesn¡¯t want to be found, she won¡¯t be.

    I only rarely directly speak with the members of this daemon pack, but I¡¯ve followed and funded them for years. I didn¡¯t choose them because they were the best, even though they are better than most. I chose them because they will never accept their fates as slaves, they each have something in them pushing them to pull at their leash and gnaw on their chains.

    They still have hopes and dreams.

    I¡¯ve been¡­ tempted to reach out to them more often, but I¡¯ve always kept a wall between us before now. Not that it hasn¡¯t been difficult with Mutt constantly trying to break through to me. As he does with everyone.

    ¡°It is, and merits are raining down from above for whoever brings them in. There¡¯s a reason why they had to hide in the rust pits to get away, anyone would prefer a ten-to-one fight over drowning in the gasses down there,¡± Mutt meets my eyes, and I grind my teeth as I piece together the conversation once again.

    A rising frustration blooms in my guts, but as I notice it, I sweep it away with a simple program loaded on my logic core. With that done, I section off a piece of my mind to focus on the conversation, slowing it down as much as I can to keep pace with the others. It¡¯s far from perfect, and I lose some of my advantages but, I¡¯m good enough for now.

    ¡°The bigger pay means that SynnTech wants proof of another corp¡¯s involvement,¡± I point out. ¡°That¡¯s the only reason they¡¯ll be pushing harder, and if you don¡¯t want to get screwed on the silver coming from this, we need that proof.¡±

    ¡°Do the high-ups really need this that much?¡± Gunner asks, glaring at a few stray daemons and scavs that dare to approach us.

    ¡°Need? No. Want? Yes,¡± I shrug, the act a performance and each word a script written seconds ago. ¡°SynnTech could easily take over their logic cores and force them to walk right in for interrogation, but they don¡¯t like people seeing them do it. Makes their own employees get a bit twitchy, lowers their work performance. Not worth the price.

    ¡°Paying you a few silver scraps to hunt them down? For that price, it¡¯s worth it.¡±

    ¡°The same business as always, then,¡± Gunner grunts. ¡°Measure our lives in the weight of silver merits.¡±

    ¡°A code that weighs what? A few electrons buzzing in logic gates?¡± Hex cuts in with an unnerving cackle through our data links. ¡°But can¡¯t say you¡¯re wrong.¡±

    ¡°We sure, our prey still alive down there?¡± Gunner asks, returning to the topic. ¡°They¡¯ve been down there, what? Weeks? Months?¡±

    ¡°Which is what put us all off the hunt. That place is not meant for life, human or metal the caustic gasses take everything and that¡¯s assuming you don¡¯t crawl over a reactor still burning radiation. Even silver rusts down there, nothing short of gold will lead someone into the pits. The other hunters still here are waiting by the holes ¡®till they bolt from whichever vault they¡¯re hiding in down there.

    ¡°Which is why we¡¯re going to help them get clear,¡± Mutt hops over a stray chunk of fallen rebar. ¡°When they try to break out, we clear the way.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t catch your reasoning there¡­¡± Gunner looks at mutt, his metal faceplate painted with a smiley face unable to express his apparent confusion.

    ¡°Gold, my dear friend. Why settle for silver when there¡¯s gold somewhere about?¡± He asks, his hair flopping as he moves. ¡°I said it before, nothing short of gold leads a soul down into the pits. These rats haven¡¯t stuck around for no reason. Hiding in the caustic gasses instead of running? Then coming out now, when they¡¯re more wanted than ever?

    ¡°They¡¯re looking for a meet-up with whoever hired them. They¡¯re looking to get paid.

    ¡°We catch them all, steal their pay, and get their bounties,¡± Mutt declares. ¡°Rewards from this should be enough to get us kitted out and prepped for our real goal.¡±

    ¡°Real goal?¡±

    He winks in my direction, lips tight.

    ¡°They¡¯re moving,¡± Hex whispers into my logic core, leading my puppet along the street.

    ¡°You coming or are you slipping out on us, Ham-Ham?¡± Mutt asks, face forward. ¡°We¡¯d cut you in if you stayed.¡±

    ¡°That name again?¡± I hiss through my teeth at him but take my time to consider his words and the reason that I¡¯ve come here.

    Mom has made it to her chair, staring wide-eyed into the ceiling, drool running down her chin. She hasn¡¯t spoken in a while and when I try to shake her she doesn¡¯t move. I can¡¯t leave things like this anymore, but to go further I need to take a risk.

    To reach her, I¡¯ll need to do something more drastic. If I fail, I might just be pushing her further away, and with how close she is to the edge of the cliff¡­

    There¡¯s a reason why I¡¯m down here.

    She¡¯s not the only one I¡¯ve been afraid of reaching out to.

    For years I¡¯ve been watching this group of daemons, feeding them scraps under the table, and helping them where I can. All justified, because I¡¯ll be using them eventually, but¡­

    I want more.

    I¡¯ve always wanted more.

    If I reached out, we could probably be friends.

    But what if I lose them? What if they die on a mission that I send them on? What if they reject me when they find out the type of person I really am?

    It¡¯s the same weakness holding me back, both for them and for Mom.

    Hope is like a burning ember, it is better to leave it floating in the air while admiring its beauty than to reach for it and be burned as you extinguish its flame. Or so I¡¯ve thought until now.

    Watching the embers fall into the endless ocean, I can¡¯t help but think I¡¯ll regret not trying to save them. Will I regret it more than feeling hope die as it burns in my hands?

    ¡°I won¡¯t be much help,¡± I admit, but Mutt¡¯s smile only widens at my words. Seeing the weakness, the opportunity to strike. To reach me.

    ¡°You¡¯re finally one of us, then?¡± He asks, metal teeth shimmering with the pulsing red lights around us. ¡°You don¡¯t mind working as a lowly daemon?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll tag along, that¡¯s it,¡± I push him away, but his smile doesn¡¯t shift.

    I¡¯m far from an asset on this job, I don¡¯t know why he¡¯s so eager to have me with them. There¡¯s something about him that I just don¡¯t understand.

    He offers me a little space as we stalk through the thick caustic haze that rises from the pits and sewer grates along the road, I cannot help but take in the nature of our modern city and the burial grounds buried underneath.

    A central pillar resides beneath the SynnTech building, a thick anchor to hold aloft the elevator rising into space. It¡¯s buried deep into the rust pits beneath us, and through them into the bedrock of the earth itself. Surrounding it are the lesser pillars, thousands of them spread throughout the city, together holding up the towers and city streets of the upper world. A mountain forged by human hands.

    Even should everything else fall, these pillars will remain standing. The gods residing at the peak will not allow it to fall.

    What surrounds us now is what was once that peak a generation ago abandoned to the rust and ruin. As the city rises higher into the sky, what was once the peak is now buried and used to drain away the trash from the ever-climbing city above.

    One day, the city that I live in will be buried beneath new constructions, and those who do not find a means to climb higher will be left behind.

    ¡°Exit located, two hunters on the prowl,¡± Hex sends us the marked location and a quick scope on the bounty hunters watching over the exit to the pits.

    ¡°Only two? Leave them to soften our prey,¡± Mutt orders, ¡°We¡¯ll go by, prep ourselves to jump them. Hex, got a guess on where the meet-up is happening?¡±

    ¡°A few likely spots,¡± Hex messages, sending across directions. ¡°My BATs are on watch, we¡¯ll stay ahead.¡±

    ¡°Doll,¡± Mutt turns to a shadow on the wall. ¡°Stay with the marks, make sure they don¡¯t get caught by anyone but us.¡±

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°Aye-aye,¡± A feminine whisper echoes from a shadow on the wall, a bright woman in a fancy dress and two large pig-tails. I guess Doll is feeling subdued today, usually she¡¯s more¡­ over the top, fixing to be the centre of attention.

    We stalk to the edges of the city where the wall meets the ceiling, pipes and garbage chutes¡ªthe thick veins of the city¡ªrun along every surface, occasionally bursting and raining over the city. We quickly slip through an old door, the hatch long since torn off for scrap.

    ¡°They¡¯re breeching now,¡± Hex spins us the footage of a group pushing through a sewer grate and engaging with the pair of daemons waiting for them. A wave of gunfire bursts out at the escaping pack, but clatters away at the ground missing them entirely.

    The group crawling from the pits have their joints gunked up with rust, limping and swaying all over the place, but even still they manage to slag the two hunters with their return fire.

    Seems they still have some functioning kit from the Hephaestus forges. Of particular interest is the plasma caster, capable of penetrating through any publicly available personal armour without issue.

    ¡°Better not get hit,¡± Mutt whispers with a whistle.

    Looking at them now, they really do resemble some form of inhuman monsters much as the daemons they were named after. Colourful toxins drip from their pitted metal, as they pull each other along, the others in the street rush away at the sight of them.

    Daemon packs: problem solvers made up of the more skilled creatures that have been ejected from the world above. Barely anything more than living trash abandoned to the wastes, their greatest hope is to prove themselves worthy of recycling.

    ¡°I¡¯m picking up interference in the outer walls near you, probably the people they¡¯re here to meet,¡± Hex pushes the data to us. ¡°Keep a low profile, I¡¯ll mask your digital presence much as I can.¡±

    ¡°So, I was right,¡± Mutt whispers with a faint shiver as he eases into his joints. I wouldn¡¯t have even noticed that he was anxious if I wasn¡¯t paying close attention.

    ¡°You weren¡¯t sure they were coming?¡± I ask, keeping as quiet as I can. This body wasn¡¯t made for missions like this, but it does have a few personal defence weapons.

    ¡°It¡¯s daemon work,¡± Mutt shakes his head. ¡°You never know anything for sure. Everything can go wrong at any moment.¡±

    ¡°How do you live like this?¡± I ask, forcing out the words that I would instinctively repress. ¡°Knowing that every step you make, you could ruin everything? Lose everyone you love?¡±

    Mutt pauses, time seeming to slip away as he meets my eyes, lifting my chin up with one hand while shaking his head and releasing a sad sigh.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look down, and don¡¯t look back,¡± he answers, flicking at my forehead to snap me out of the moment. ¡°This whole city is hanging off the side of a cliff, already supposed to have fallen. Don¡¯t look down, and don¡¯t look back. We¡¯ve all lost things, and we¡¯re gonna lose more.

    ¡°Just focus on what you¡¯ve gotta do next, and don¡¯t hesitate to jump for the next handhold, ¡®cause what you¡¯ve got now is going to slip away no matter how hard you¡¯re holding onto it.¡±

    His ideas aren¡¯t strange or new to me, I¡¯ve heard it all before, and I wanted something else. Hearing it now just reinforces the point that I¡¯m not going to magic up any new solutions. If I want to move forward, I can¡¯t let myself become paralysed by the thought of what I might lose when I take a step ahead.

    ¡°This body really isn¡¯t equipped for a mission like this,¡± I warn him, but he shakes his head and places a simple pistol into my hands. ¡°That doesn¡¯t change much.¡±

    ¡°Means you¡¯re properly one of us now, Ham-Ham. Don¡¯t look down, don¡¯t look back.¡± Mutt reveals his teeth, sharp and metal. ¡°Follow us.¡±

    Why are they having me join? I¡¯ve funded them, spent time with them now and again, but I¡¯ve never bloodied my hands with them. Is he trying to have me join them in truth?

    ¡°Stay behind me,¡± Gunner shakes his head at the pair of us. ¡°With Doll and Hex watching over us, no one down here can touch us.¡±

    ¡°Very well,¡± I reply, hesitantly following along feeling like a puppy chasing at the heels of wolves.

    The path we take winds through ancient ruins beneath dripping pipes and through the outer wall that protects even this part of the city from the ruinous power of the weather. The setting of our hopeful ambush lies against the outer wall, where a small rift exposes us to the outside.

    We arrive before anyone else, and I¡¯m silently guided to hide in a rift long since worn through by countless storms.

    Outside, a glowing sunset sets fire to an ocean of pitch and oil, the flames low but constant, forever burning even as the waves smother them against the city walls. The swelling movements reveal buoyant plastics and composites; thousands of razorblades pressing out from beneath the skin.

    Under that?

    Acidic waters slowly eat away at the trash and litter, but it¡¯s never quite acidic enough to keep up with what we dump into it.

    Our city, my home, slopes sharply down from here into the depths. The lapping waves eat away at the metal and concrete foundation beneath us, leaving only the port and key supports surviving anything that comes and even they are reinforced and rebuilt in a constant cycle. A thousand ships gather to unload their space-bound cargo, their hulls blackened by the burning pitch clinging to their sides.

    It''s hard to imagine that both sea and sky used to be blue.

    ¡°They¡¯re nearly here,¡± Hex lights up their approach, and I clutch the pistol in my borrowed hands while we wait.

    The slowing of time is once more a terrible thing, ten times longer for me than for them. Leaving my puppet to rest in place, I turn my attentions back to my home and my Mom.

    She rests both hands on the bench, staring into the stone tabletop with hollow eyes. How much longer has she got before there is nothing left of her? What form of false salvation has she found on the net, and what hope do I have of pulling her away from it?

    Each time I reach out to her, she pushes my hand away.

    I have to get forceful; I have to make her see that something is wrong.

    But if I take this step, she¡¯s as likely to run away as she is to take my hand. If I push her, I might never see her again. I might be dooming her myself¡­

    What I need, what I¡¯ll find in the understeets, is the desperate courage it takes to step forward knowing that you¡¯re going to get hurt. The courage to do what you have to do, even when you¡¯ll end up hurting the ones you love.

    I need to be prepared for that, and I don¡¯t have the time to struggle over this for months.

    These people, Mutt and his pack, are prepared to take on a job knowing that people will die. Each of them has seen those they love die, and they¡¯ve failed more than their fair share of times. Even lying here in wait, ambushing these people, there are thousands of ways this could go wrong.

    They could end up dead only a few seconds from now, but they chose to stand up and do something instead of cowering. I need that strength now.

    I¡¯ll grab these falling embers, and burn my fingers if I have to.

    The prey scurry onto the landing, their eyes turned in every direction, but their lenses permanently fogged over by the poison of the rust pits. The group is only a handful strong, and I¡¯m sure that they were more in number before this, but only so many could survive this long down there.

    ¡°We¡¯re here, this is the place,¡± the lead figure turns to the rest. ¡°Be ready for anything.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re getting outta here, yeah? They¡¯re not going to fuck us, are they?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯ll be here,¡± the first replies. ¡°We¡¯ll have our new bodies and be sent off to one of the colonies. It¡¯ll be hard work, but there¡¯s actually a chance to live there, and we¡¯ll even have our flesh back¡­¡±

    Each and every one of them is pieced together from corroded metal and faded plastic. The few organics carried with them in shielded cases, hidden and safe.

    ¡°I¡­ I wish they could have come with us¡­¡±

    ¡°We drew straws,¡± their leader shuts them down. ¡°Everyone had equal chances of being on either team. If we don¡¯t take this chance, then they died for nothing. Remember them, but make their sacrifices mean something.¡±

    They drew straws to choose who would be on the attack team, and who would be support? Those who died attacking SynnTech knew they were going to die all along, and they did it for this?

    ¡°You¡¯re early,¡± a foreign voice joins the conversation as a hulking figure walks into the room. ¡°You have what¡¯s promised?¡±

    Something was stolen in the attack?

    Waiting for them to get on with it, just grinds at my mind. The longer it goes on the more dissociated with reality I become.

    ¡°We have the data,¡± the daemon responds. ¡°You¡¯re making good on the deal? Where¡¯s our transport? How are we leaving this place?¡±

    ¡°Hand over the data.¡±

    ¡°Not before we see the inside of that transport.¡± The acid-pitted daemon pack is preparing themselves for a fight, their weapons are shivering as they peek from their armoured sleeves. ¡°You think we won¡¯t melt this data before you can touch it?¡±

    ¡°You won¡¯t see your rewards if you don¡¯t hand it over,¡± the foreigner steps forward, pulling aside his cloak to reveal a muscular form, rippling with flesh-mods. The kind that you won¡¯t see in this city filled with plastic and metal, these genetic modifications are the rare sort that can compete with modern metal.

    Rare means expensive.

    ¡°Rewards?¡± The daemon spits at the ground. ¡°You promised us a way out of this city. A new life¡­ with Gaia corp¡­¡±

    ¡°The deal has changed,¡± he shifts, the flesh of his arm twisting into something alien but vaguely shaped like a weapon.

    ¡°You got here somehow, the way I see it, we go through you and we¡¯ll get exactly what we worked for,¡± the daemon lifts his own weapon, ready for the fight to start. ¡°But you¡­ what happens to you when we scrap this data?¡±

    The foreigner hesitates, grinding his teeth as he glares at the group before him.

    ¡°We can take one of you, if you have the data,¡± He declares. ¡°Boss didn¡¯t want any of you, but this is the biggest concession we can make.¡±

    ¡°That wasn¡¯t the deal¡­¡±

    ¡°No one expected you¡¯d actually live long enough to make it this far,¡± the foreigner shakes his head, laughing at them. ¡°What did you expect when they were offering you the world on a platter? That you¡¯d be made immortal and given a place in the fucking heavens? You were meant to die here.¡±

    ¡°Now, now, don¡¯t go thinking yourself any smarter than them,¡± Mutt announces stepping into the room to join the party. Everyone jumps, including me. ¡°You really don¡¯t know this city, do you? Let me guess, they told you that your job is to clean up the witnesses?¡±

    The foreigner shifts uncomfortably in place, his eyes taking on a slightly different hue as something inhuman activates inside him. Trying to figure us out.

    For a moment, everyone is focused on Mutt.

    Which is why they don¡¯t see the trap close around them.

    Electricity floods from the ground to the ceiling, while metal wires whip around all the marked targets. Gunner moves to launch a few extra bolo shots at the bio-modded foreigner to keep him down as a pair of scrappers dive from holes in the ceiling to get their work started but the bounties are putting up a fight.

    Gunner dives into the battle, he tries for the plasma caster first, but the target gets a shot off. A blue lance hits him in the shoulder powerful enough to cut through light vehicles, but it just fizzles out against his armour. Before the man gets a second chance Gunner blasts another bolo round, separating the man¡¯s arm from his shoulder.

    All this is happening, while I¡¯m still lining up my first shot with shaking hands. Everything is moving so incredibly slowly, and the sensation of drowning I thought I¡¯d gotten over is only worsening with every tense breath. It hits both my body in the real and my puppet in the understreets.

    A shot of adrenaline running through my blood fills me with a need to move, that I just cannot fulfil.

    Finally levelling my pistol, I get a few shots off and take down one of the daemon pack, but even with time slowed there isn¡¯t much I can do to help here. Gunner disassembles the daemons with cold efficiency, by the end taking special focus on dealing as little damage to their parts as possible.

    Meanwhile, Mutt with the help of the scavengers, subdues the foreigner, working loose his limbs before he can get enough leverage to take a shot at us.

    In a matter of moments, limbs are torn apart at their rubber seams, ready to be sold at the nearest smithy. This city is mostly metal synns, modified flesh like his is a premium product that should sell even in the upper streets. Meanwhile the bounty targets are stripped down to torsos for easier carrying.

    ¡°They didn¡¯t send you with compensation, because you are the compensation,¡± Mutt speaks to the man from Gaia Corp, a faint reticence to his voice, as if he regrets this. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s a lie. ¡°Your bosses thought their hired daemons would end up dead, you¡¯re right about that, but when they realized that their hired killers survived, they figured they might be working with professionals.¡±

    ¡°So they sent you, of course they¡¯d prefer that you¡¯d clean up this mess and that¡¯s what they told you to do, but the truth is that you were the reward. A box of bits that would sell for a tidy profit in this city. That¡¯s why you¡¯re here alone.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not alone,¡± the man growls, and laughs as he glares all around. ¡°You¡¯re all dead.¡±

    ¡°Incoming, ghosts in the data stream, can¡¯t see how many,¡± Hex warns as we all tense up.

    ¡°Here I thought this was going to be boring,¡± Gunner responds, guns up and ready.

    ¡°Mutt, pull the data from the mark, now!¡± Hex calls and he leaps on the lead daemon, connecting to his emergency access ports and feeding our spider into his mind.

    ¡°You have something we want,¡± Another foreigner calls out to us, entering the room with weapons raised and ready. Though organic, I notice the sequence of spinning rings that identify a plasma caster.

    Bad news.

    ¡°Data¡¯s here,¡± Mutt responds pulling up a data card in time for their arrival. ¡°But our services don¡¯t come for free.¡±

    ¡°We have no contract with you, thief. Hand it over.¡±

    ¡°Oh? So you don¡¯t want the data then?¡± Mutt flips the data card in the air, looking away from the new group. ¡°Then we¡¯ve got no business, sorry for wasting your time.¡±

    ¡°Stop right there, hand over the data or this ends ugly,¡± the leader steps deeper into the room, his team, six of them that I can see, spread out to secure the room. Oddly, they don¡¯t seem to notice me at all, their eyes looking right past me.

    ¡°Ended well for us the last time, didn¡¯t it?¡± Mutt replies, kicking the downed man¡¯s head. ¡°Seven more bodies will make for some decent money in these parts, I wouldn¡¯t turn the offer down.¡±

    ¡°Fine, three gold awards,¡± Their leader replies, lying through his teeth. Gold moves what silver doesn¡¯t, the two currencies are a world apart. Things that would ordinarily be nearly impossible to get would be drone delivered to any location for only a few gold awards.

    ¡°Deal,¡± Mutt smiles with a shit-stirring grin, stepping closer to the group, just to be cut down by a flare of plasma. His body topples over and¡­ he vanishes?

    Even watching in slowed time it¡¯s difficult to catch the flaws in the image. One of Doll¡¯s hard light illusions, not a data hack like I had to deal with back in Kali¡¯s apartments, but actual light projections so convincing that even advanced scanners struggle to tell real from fake especially when they¡¯re not looking for it.

    In the same moment, a pair of the Gaia warriors shout out in pain, stumbling back and a few moments later falling apart at the seams. The scrappers, Mutt, and Gunner are working together to catch them by surprise all while their illusions are standing there smiling, Gunner¡¯s face even shimmering with delight.

    ¡°The fuck¡­?¡±

    As a group they fire at everyone they see, before shifting their shots in every other direction hoping for a lucky hit on us when they realise what¡¯s going on. A few plasma blasts hit near me, shrapnel flies all over, and I watch as one shard of steel shedding a blue trail behind it, flies right for my chest. I shift, pushing my hosts body as quickly as I can, but it still hits in her side. Emergency warnings flash through my system, while I focus on triaging the injury.

    It¡¯s lethal, but not immediately so. Twenty minutes before death. I let out a breath of relief. More than enough time.

    The shooting finally stops when a third man falls, they close ranks and summon short blades from their wrists.

    ¡°We¡¯re keeping these parts, too,¡± Mutt declares, and they fire in his general direction, hitting nothing. ¡°A payment for your last transgression¡­ Those five gold awards?¡±

    ¡°Four,¡± the leader grumbles, emptying a pocket and scattering a number of glimmering data cards across the ground. ¡°Don¡¯t spend ¡®em in one place.¡±

    ¡°And here¡¯s the data,¡± Mutt, tosses it to the leader. ¡°Watch your step on the way out¡­¡±

    Gunner and Mutt cackle as the group retreats, while they¡¯re looking for a chance to attack us, they all awkwardly stumble over their own feet. The ground itself seeming to fail them as Doll¡¯s illusions warp reality.

    ¡°Now that was a good payday,¡± Mutt declares, skipping to my side. ¡°How bad is the hit? Hex is saying it¡¯s nothing too bad.¡±

    He¡¯s already moving to hook my hosts body up with an organ-box to stabilise her condition. Gunner is still standing watch, and Doll is probably keeping us hidden with her hard light illusions.

    ¡°Get her something nice from the smithy, if you would. She¡¯s a reliable body for me,¡± I tell him, hooking the organ box to her chest and checking that her limbs remain undamaged. ¡°The box will be enough to keep her going until then.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll need to move these goods to a few shops, it won¡¯t hurt to buy her something pretty on our way through,¡± Mutt smiles, patting my shoulder. ¡°You did good.¡±

    ¡°I barely did anything,¡± I shake my head.

    ¡°You survived,¡± he squeezes my shoulder and turns me to look out over the ocean. ¡°Don¡¯t look down, and don¡¯t look back.¡±

    ¡°You still haven¡¯t said what your goal is¡­¡± I whisper, staring up into the night sky, a few lights are visible through the fog. Satellites or low orbit ships coming in to pick up loads from the station.

    ¡°Ever made a wish upon a falling star?¡± Mutt asks, reaching up as if to grasp one with his hands.

    ¡°Haven¡¯t ever seen one.¡±

    ¡°I have, once,¡± Mutt smiles, his eyes gazing into something beyond what I see. ¡°I wondered back then; just how many wishes it was carrying with it? How much hope can a falling star carry on its back?

    ¡°How many people do you think are staring up at the sky right now, waiting for that one bright light to fall and help them give voice to their hopes and dreams?¡±

    We stand there, waiting, but even when it¡¯s time to leave no star falls from the sky.

    I turn my gaze to Mom, still frozen in place staring down at the tabletop, a puddle of drool forming under her face. I¡¯m going to lose her, and Dad, and everyone else, eventually. Immortality isn¡¯t something we¡¯ll ever grasp, but if I make the wrong move I¡¯m going to lose her even sooner than that.

    I might even end up being the one to kill her.

    Turning away from the empty sky, I return home withdrawing my connection and covering my tracks as well as I can.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look down, don¡¯t look back,¡± I shake my head and focus.

    Mom needs my help, even if she doesn¡¯t say it. Even if she¡¯s just going to turn my hand away. I might fuck this up, I could lose everything, but if I do nothing then I¡¯m going to lose it all anyway.

    I don¡¯t feel any more courageous as I reach out to find a spider that can help me save. I feel more scared than ever, I¡¯m too scared even to erase the fear from my code, though I know I could. There¡¯s a strange comfort in that cloak of fear, holding me back, but for the first time, I push through and I reach out to ask someone for help.

 Chapter 10 - False Hope

    ¡°Mom, I¡¯m worried about you.¡±

    So much time has slipped away writing and rewriting this simple message, searching for the right combination of words that will convey my concerns. This was all I had the courage to say, anything more might invite the very disaster I¡¯m trying to prevent.

    ¡°I¡¯m busy, we can talk later,¡± Mom replies with a message of her own, even as she continues to stare down into a puddle of her own drool. It¡¯s impossible to even know for sure that this is still her, and not some spider hiding in her hardware.

    I¡¯ve spent a week in real time, more than two months stretched into my time, watching her decline further into this madness. I thought that this synn would give me the power to change things, but so far I haven¡¯t been strong enough to use the time it¡¯s given me.

    While I sit here watching, Mom has done nothing. Nothing in the house, no hobbies, and no work. She¡¯s just staring into the dark corners of the net, slipping away day by day into the depths of purgatory where the spiders weave their greatest traps.

    She¡¯s been ensnared by their fictions, I¡¯m sure of it. It¡¯s the only thing that could explain this behaviour.

    Slipping from the widenet into the deep limbo where they make their homes is a deceptively easy mistake to make, and much more dangerous than it seems. The spiders are¡­ odd creatures. They make all sorts of entertainment for themselves, for each other, and for the unfortunate travellers drawn in by their pretty promises, easily consumed by worlds beyond our own.

    Mom has all the indications of prey caught in their webs. The constant distraction, losing time, forgetting to eat, and neglecting any sort of personal care; abandoning all connection with the real. The rate at which she¡¯s taking on new symptoms means that there isn¡¯t much longer until she¡¯s too far gone.

    Her complete despondence will be followed by a near catatonic state where the victim inevitably tries to upload themselves to the net, even without the connections and hardware that would make it survivable. I can¡¯t let that happen again.

    I should have reached out sooner, but¡­

    Even now I¡¯m scared to say anything at all. Still paralysed at the thought of making the wrong move.

    I can¡¯t let that fear stop me anymore.

    I have to be better than this.

    She¡¯ll disappear either way.

    I¡¯d rather have her blood on my hands, knowing that I tried, than do nothing and watch her die.

    Checking my accounts and dipping into my savings, I fix together the silver I¡¯ll need for this job. I¡¯ll need to hire a professional if I want to even find her, wherever she is.

    If I lose her now¡­

    Flickers of memories float to my mind.

    The darkness. The pain. The screaming.

    The false light of hope shining from the depths of the net, and diving headfirst into it not knowing you¡¯re just dashing your brains against a concrete wall.

    I can¡¯t let that happen again.

    Reaching out to my list of potential contacts, I search for a spider that will be capable of the job. I¡¯d rather Hex for something as intimate as this but contracting her would create too many ties between me and my false identity. Right now, only the most powerful should be able to find the connections, and I will never be important enough for them to bother. But, if I get her help here, then any experienced daemon would have a chance of figuring it out.

    I can¡¯t risk it.

    Before I settle on any, a wave of interference bubbles through my logic core spinning wildly in every direction. Programs move through my mind, twisting me with foreign code as something takes me over.

    ¡°A nice home, very, very nice,¡± The familiar spider takes on a reflection of my own body, relaxing on the couch and looking even more at home than me. ¡°Many, many eyes watching. It is the centre of the universe. Or the city. Yes, tonight this is the centre of our fine city.¡±

    This is the one I hired for the test.

    Its control over my systems is¡­ absolute, and that¡¯s after my security upgrades.

    This thing is much more dangerous than I expected.

    ¡°She doesn¡¯t know. She really doesn¡¯t.¡± It whispers straight into my mind, speaking at my speed. Spiders shouldn¡¯t be underestimated when they¡¯re in their own environment, those that have properly uploaded themselves have no biological components left to limit them.

    ¡°Why are you here?¡± I ask, repressing a shiver. With Mom standing frozen in place the world itself is at a standstill, even the dust in the air is afraid to move.

    ¡°You had need of me,¡± the spider reveals a set of fangs, smiling at me with my own lips. ¡°So here I am, your own fairy godmother. What is your first wish?¡±

    Do not show it weakness, it hears every thought.

    ¡°She¡¯s the target,¡± I nod towards Mom, but the motion lags behind our conversation. Whatever this spider wants, I¡¯ll have to figure it out as we go. ¡°I need to know what she¡¯s getting pulled into, and then drag her out of it.¡±

    The spider turns to look at Mom, phasing to her side before dancing around her. She pauses, a hand on Mom¡¯s shoulder as she stares deep into my eyes, an alien smirk rising on her lips. I¡¯ve never seen myself smile before today.

    It¡¯s unsettling.

    ¡°A child seeking to save her mother from the dangerous spiders, but is it too late? Have our fangs already struck too deep? Is she already bound inside the depths of the web? Can she be brought back from the bliss of the world beyond the real?

    ¡°Let us follow her into the spider¡¯s nest, shall we?¡±

    She opens her hand to me, weaving a digital thread into my logic core and dragging my mind deeper into the net, into a world apart from this one. For a moment that stretches on, I stare into the new world forming around me trying to make sense of it, but it makes no sense at all.

    All we ever know of the world is lies.

    Deceptive data pulled through cracked glass lenses or tumorous organic retinas, passes through old wires and numbed nerves, only to be processed in a mind trained to manipulate that data to fit the answers they already have. The results, invariably, are a twisted patchwork of conflicting ideas and ideals that barely even reflect reality.

    Few even try to separate fact from this mess of fictions, curating their pick of lies to instead paint the insides of their prison cells. Would knowing the truth do anything to change their fates?

    Finally, after a while lost in the data stream, one lie becomes clear enough to visualise.

    A colourful bed of flowers bloom alongside the pressed dirt path littered with fallen leaves, their perfume enough to nearly overwhelm me as I stumble into this false world. A forest of trees tower overhead, their thousands of branches smothering the blue sky, yet somehow permitting a dappled light to fall over us here at the edge of some magical village.

    The spider, still wearing my skin, dances in the falling autumnal leaves barely a step ahead of me, her motions slowed in time to mirror reality as a few stray strangers take notice of us, staring and giggling at her antics. There is no hint of suspicion or guile in their faces, their shimmering eyes and breezy attitudes simply lack the qualities that define a real person.

    ¡°Where is she?¡± I ask her, my words stretching as the programs defining this world reject any attempts to move at my natural speed.

    She grins in response, her dancing steps leading us further along the dirt path.

    The foreign faces of those around us have the peaked ears of elves, pale skin, and an eerie inhumanity in their lacking synns. Yet, they are vapid, empty, hollow creations that imitate life but lack all the negative traits that make us real. There is no suspicion of us strangers, or paranoia over what surrounds them, they are entirely unguarded with no weapons about. It¡¯s eerie.

    ¡°She is deeper still,¡± the spider spins in a circle as vines rise from within her clothes to bloom into many flowers along the edges of her dress. ¡°We can¡¯t just appear inside town, there are too many protections to keep this place safe. And it¡¯s rude. Very rude. Not nice at all.¡±

    Perhaps it would disrupt the illusions that rule over this world?

    ¡°Right,¡± I nod, pretending to understand. ¡°And what is this place you¡¯re trying to protect?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t already know? No, no, you do. You already know, don¡¯t you? You wouldn¡¯t have called for me if you didn¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t call for you, and I¡¯d like to hear it from you,¡± I press her, but she doesn¡¯t answer. Her expression urges me to explain what I think of this trap.

    ¡°This artificial world, hidden in the deep limbo of the net, was made for your entertainment but is also occasionally hired out for corporate interests. It¡¯s where you bring vulnerable people like my mother to manipulate them, stealing valuable information, fucking with their heads to get them to work for you, or just plain tricking them into thinking this is the real world. Or sometimes, you just use them like toys.¡±

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°A little truth, but not whole. More lie than truth. The work is not the purpose. A side gig to pay the bills; to keep the lights on. It¡¯s how it is. The meaning of this is different. All you have to do is look and you can see it, feel it. Can¡¯t you feel it?

    ¡°Look. See.¡± She forces my head to turn to a tall tree, its trunk reshaped into a house. It¡¯s all living, the walls, the vines creeping along the window frames, and the door itself; not even a hint of concrete or dried wood to be seen.

    It¡¯s no different from its neighbours, but something about this particular house calls to me. Something about it is familiar. The colours of the flowers by the windows, the scrawled ¡®welcome¡¯ on the door, and the familiar musical hum echoing from inside.

    I have time to drink in every odd detail of the scene as we pass by the window to find a family sitting for breakfast.

    My family.

    Mom, Dad, and me.

    Another fake me. The spider wears a disturbingly keen smile as it watches for my reaction. I try not to feed the monster the fear it craves.

    Mother is inside, smiling and laughing like I haven¡¯t seen from her in so long.

    ¡°We can listen in...¡± the spider offers eagerly reaching out to warp reality, watching me for the slightest twist in my expression. I offer her nothing.

    The words carried out to us are spoken torturously slow, but I¡¯ve had enough practice to figure it out and I¡¯m recording to review later if I miss anything.

    ¡°-and you¡¯re going to be home before the lightning bugs go to bed.¡± Mom insists, her stern expression directed at the fake ¡®me¡¯ sitting opposite her.

    ¡°But Mom~!¡±

    ¡°No buts,¡± Mom insists, levelling a glare at ¡®me¡¯. ¡°You¡¯re getting too close to that boy and I won¡¯t let you become the talk of the town because of any unplanned grandchildren.¡±

    ¡°Mom!¡± The fake stands up, blushing brightly. ¡°You know that we aren¡¯t like that!¡±

    ¡°Yes, of course,¡± she rolls her eyes. ¡°Your father and I ¡®weren¡¯t like that¡¯ when we brought you into this world.¡±

    ¡°Gross.¡±

    I don¡¯t disagree with the skinwalker program.

    It¡¯s awkward. The conversation is uncomfortable, and yet somehow comfortable in being uncomfortable. They¡¯re willing to be open about these things, whereas in the real we¡¯re always hiding our true thoughts and feelings from each other, and the spiders that are always about.

    ¡°It¡¯s life and I¡¯ll not let you make the same mistakes I¡ªAh! I don¡¯t mean that you¡¯re a mistake or anything! It¡¯s just that you¡¯re too young! And-¡±

    ¡°I get it Mom!¡± the program cries over her, but the back and forth continues for a while longer before the topic finally drops. They¡¯re both so expressive in how they talk, how they move and act. It¡¯s almost like watching a play but there¡¯s no stage and I¡¯m the only member of the audience.

    The conversation soon moves to Dad¡¯s work, construction; shaping trees into homes. There are still callouses on his hands, and he¡¯s built as large as the metal him ever was, but there¡¯s something off about him. He hasn¡¯t noticed me staring from the window.

    Dad is always watching, always ready. If this were the real him, he would already have a weapon ready while keeping an eye on us. This fake isn¡¯t anything close to the real him.

    The skinwalker ¡®me¡¯ cuts in on their conversation here and there, never quite the same way that I ever would.

    The fake me is so¡­ alien.

    Is this the version of me that would have been born into a world without SynnTech? Is it a lie, or a dream of what could have been? The affection Mom shows for that thing digs deep into my chest, but I¡¯m not even sure what it is that I¡¯m feeling.

    Is it jealousy? Longing for the me that I couldn¡¯t be? Or is it something else?

    Slowly the mechanical wires composing my new mind decode the mysteries behind the flesh, centring on one idea that crushes me more than any other.

    What disturbs my heart the most is just how much more honest this lie can be.

    The way the skinwalker blushes, smiles, and talks, it would be eaten alive in the real. She would never survive in a corporate institution, backstabbed much too easily and left to rot in the rust pits¡­ this is the me that Mom would rather have?

    Would I want that too?

    A familiar face draws me out of the moment, and I lose myself as I see him.

    A single flower in his hands, he smiles awkwardly before straightening out his clothes and brushing off imaginary lint. Waiting at the front door, his hand lingering in preparation to knock as he licks his lips searching for a greeting.

    The skinwalker ¡®me¡¯ opens the door before he can knock, reaching out to hug him and accidentally crushing the flower as she does.

    ¡°Janus!¡± she cries out, ¡°Come on, let¡¯s go before Mom gets here and starts with that conversation again.¡±

    She pulls him away into the village.

    Janus.

    The boy that died. He has the same mannerisms, the same eyes and face but older now. How many of his fractured pieces did they put together to construct this fictional ¡®him¡¯?

    The boy that could¡¯ve been and the girl that I could never be.

    ¡°What is this?¡± I demand.

    ¡°It¡¯s a peaceful world. A world where everyone can be who they truly are. What they are meant to be.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not me; not him. None of this is real.¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t it? Through my eyes, she¡¯s more real than you,¡± The spider reflects my smile back at me and I barely hide a flinch. ¡°Nearly every moment of your life has been recorded, the data stored, patterns and personality replicated perfectly, then polished into something more belonging to a place like this. Freed from the shackles of the outer world.¡±

    ¡°So, a person as flawed as me doesn¡¯t belong here?¡± I ask the spider whose features have become gradually indistinct, shifting into an alien form. ¡°Is that what you¡¯re doing to Mom? Purifying her? Fixing her?¡±

    ¡°A broken world broke her, is it so wrong to seal the cracks in her soul?¡±

    ¡°How do I get her out?¡± I ask aloud, knowing now that the spider doesn¡¯t want me to succeed here.

    Mom is living an ordinary life here, the spider floods my mind with historical data of her time in this fiction.

    She¡¯s not doing anything special; this is no power fantasy. She has no superpowers, no magic, she isn¡¯t some hero, and she isn¡¯t even all that important to her community.

    ¡°She could have all of this in the real¡­¡± I whisper, gritting my teeth.

    ¡°Could she?¡± The spider asks. ¡°Could you smile like that in the real? Could your father?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ No¡­¡± I admit letting out the frustration in a long sigh.

    The real world is a tense place, we always keep up the act for the watchers and listeners. There are some thoughts that can¡¯t ever be said aloud, and some ideas that must be repressed. It¡¯s impossible for me to smile as honestly as that dressed-up doll does inside my mother''s dreams.

    Dad¡­ Dad is never that relaxed. He¡¯s always on guard and waiting for something to go wrong. It¡¯s how he has to be.

    ¡°We¡¯re all tainted, cursed, by the world that we live in,¡± The spider whispers. ¡°Here, living in lies, we can be our true selves. Do you really want to take away her smile?¡±

    I glare at the spider as it loses my shape, trying to find an argument to beat down the devil that whispers in my ear, but there is sense in its words. If there were a way to escape the real, to get aboard a spaceship and leave behind all our new ¡®gods¡¯, I wouldn¡¯t hesitate.

    Yet, that was never an option.

    And this?

    This is just a delusion.

    ¡°Which corporation owns this place? The servers it¡¯s on?¡± I ask. ¡°Not Synntech that¡¯s for sure, a ¡®Lilith¡¯s & Sons¡¯?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not theirs, it¡¯s ours,¡± the spider hisses.

    ¡°Oh, so you stole away a fraction of the heavens, tying it away in your little cobwebs all so that you can play at being gods for yourselves?¡± I ask. ¡°This is your playground. You collect corpses of the dead and dress them up for your own satisfaction.¡±

    I stare into the surroundings seeing the signs that I missed before. The spider never even sought to deceive me, and there is truly a depth of honesty in this lie that would never survive in the real world.

    ¡°This is your hope, the lie that you make yourselves believe is real,¡± I whisper, recalling Janus and his last moments. How he desperately grasped for something that could never exist in our world, looking for it in the limbo where the widenet is scattered between so many corporations and corrupted programs.

    This place was born out of desperate naivety, not the evil I expected. The spiders are trying to create new worlds and if they succeed, they¡¯ll become new gods themselves. But they will never reach divinity, and their worlds will always be pale imitations of the real.

    Patterns of electrical pulses travelling along the threads winding into knots inside our minds, data designed and engineered to craft a beautiful deception. Is it a cage? A playground? Both? I suppose that it all depends on perspective.

    Whatever it is, it will always depend upon the real to survive. Slaved to the power networks, relying upon servers that will rust and decay, and to afford all of these services this new world will always be servant to whatever gods rule over the real.

    They choose to live in a painted cell, but no matter how much you look away from it, the permanence of reality will always overcome the pretty fictions that we build. Reality is the end of gods, the fading of ideals, and the death of all species. Eventually, when the universe itself burns its wick down to the last flickering light, the fading of reality will overcome any lie of salvation.

    Marching past the skinwalker ¡®Dad¡¯ as he leaves for work, I kick in the door to Mom¡¯s delusions and reaching inside, I take her by the collar, forcing her to look me in the eyes. She squeals as I hold her there, her panicked eyes looking between me and ¡®Dad¡¯ unable to understand what¡¯s happening. For the first time, I¡¯m glad I have the time to figure out what to say.

    ¡°Mom,¡± I start, just holding her there as my fists shake. She blinks at me, reaching out and holding me cutting down all the words that I try to force out.

    ¡°Art¡­¡± She whispers, rubbing my back. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I need you, Mom,¡± I force the words out but even here it¡¯s barely a whisper. I pull her closer, feeling her warmth.

    It isn¡¯t comfortable, her bones are digging into me at odd angles and I didn¡¯t even know it was possible to fuck up a hug this badly.

    ¡°I need you, Mom,¡± I continue, biting my lip. ¡°We have to go back to the real.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Mom shudders pushing me away and shaking her head. ¡°No, I¡¯m not going back. I don¡¯t want to go back.¡± Her eyes are wide, as she gasps for breath as if suddenly drowning.

    ¡°We can¡¯t stay here Mom,¡± I tell her, reaching out but she only takes another step back.

    ¡°We can,¡± she insists, gripping her own arms, her fingers bone white. ¡°You can stay too. You¡¯re wrong. You¡¯re broken. I haven¡¯t seen you smile since you were five!¡±

    She¡¯s shaking now, pushing herself against the wall before sliding to the ground and covering her face.

    ¡°It¡¯s my fault. I know it¡¯s my fault. I couldn¡¯t protect you. I couldn¡¯t save you from the world.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so, so sorry. I can¡¯t save you.¡± She weeps, covering her face and refusing to see me.

    ¡°We can stay here.¡± Her voice is so weak that I¡¯m afraid to say anything for fear that I¡¯ll break her. ¡°This world, the people here, they can help us both. They can save us. I¡¯m a better person than I was and they promised that I can finally become the person I always wanted to be.

    ¡°I can be a better mother here than I ever could in the real, just stay here with me,¡± she pleads, finally looking up at me with tears dripping from her eyes. ¡°Please don¡¯t make me go back¡­¡±

    I¡¯ve already lost her.

    There are no words I can find to convince her. There¡¯s nothing I can do.

    Mother freezes in place, her eyes closing before her expression turns empty.

    ¡°Mom?¡±

    ¡°We promised to help her heal,¡± the spider returns, its form now vaguely resembling my mother. ¡°It is not an easy thing to fix someone so broken, but we try our best.

    ¡°The first step is to understand them and understand the people that they want to become. Your mother has been here for a long time, lingering at the edges for so long before finally becoming a part of our home here. She came to us because no one else could save her.

    ¡°But we can help,¡± it says as Mother twitches in place before being pulled up as if by a puppet¡¯s strings. ¡°She is still healing.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ of course I¡¯ll come back with you, Art,¡± Mom smiles and I rush to step back before she can touch me. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Did I do something? Is it what I said before? You¡¯ll have to forgive me, your old lady was a little panicked and¡­ I wasn¡¯t in my right mind.¡±

    ¡°What just happened? What did they do to you?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ had a change of mind,¡± Mom explains shuffling about and smoothing out her dress as if to hide the creases.

    ¡°You¡¯re not my Mom,¡± I shake my head, stepping back and glaring at the spider. ¡°What did you do?¡±

    ¡°People change,¡± Mom insists standing between me and the spider. ¡°But sometimes we¡¯re too weak to change ourselves, but this is what I wanted. This is who I wanted to become, and they helped me.¡±

    ¡°This¡­ this is what you wanted?¡±

    I can¡¯t breathe.

    ¡°I wanted to be a better person, strong enough to face my fears,¡± the thing that was my mother says, meeting my gaze. ¡°Let¡¯s go back home. Whatever¡¯s wrong, we can face it together.¡±

    Every hint of hesitation, every unspoken fear that caused faint shudders in her hands is gone. She meets my eyes and even this feels uncomfortably intimate.

    I look away.

    Through the window, the other me is skipping through the town dragging Janus after her.

    Would I be happier if I could be her instead?

    ¡°Let¡¯s go home,¡± Mom says reaching out and taking my hand.

    ¡°...Okay.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t save her.

 Chapter 11 - The Ideal Cage

    The hands of time form iron bars to a prison we cannot escape: the present. Mistakes we¡¯ve made cannot be righted, people we¡¯ve lost aren¡¯t coming back home, and for every second spent obsessing over these things that cannot be changed, the future slips further away.

    Yet, for all that the past is beyond our reach, we are still firmly within its grasp. The dead I cannot save still haunt me with their whispers in the night, and the unhealing scars imprinted upon my mind tear me further from the person I was meant to become.

    The day that I saw the world for what it was, and discovered that I was not welcome, I changed myself into something that would belong. An amateur butcher, I hacked at my own heart tearing apart the innocent child that I once was, discarding all that made me weak, and forging the wretch I am today; little more than a quilt of mutilated parts. A creature far more marketable in this modern world, a useful cog that will not easily bend or break.

    I have done all of this, not to serve the gods others have imagined into existence, but to give me the strength to ensure I don¡¯t have to lose anyone else. So that the chorus of whispers in the night does not grow any louder, and that the scars that I wear might be my last.

    I failed.

    Mom busies about the kitchen exuberant in every mundane motion, attempting to reshape artificial food products into a meal that doesn¡¯t reek of plastic and iron. Hopping from foot to foot and smiling as she hums a tune, she¡¯s happier than I¡¯ve ever seen her.

    Until she¡¯s not.

    Her eyes widen in shock, tears trickle down her cheeks, and her humming stops as silence forms for but a short breath before it¡¯s all gone again like a flash of an old memory. The confident smile returning to her lips is so genuine that it can only be a lie.

    The spiders have crafted her a new personality, and if they¡¯re to be believed, this is Mom¡¯s own ideal; the person she wanted to become. As with all wishes that come true, it takes a macabre form. Her ideal self has been contorted by alien minds and shaped by alien hands into a prison of flesh and steel, and I don¡¯t think that she¡¯s going to be alright.

    Yet¡­

    Even knowing it is a lie, the beautiful smile printed onto that iron mask draws a withered warmth out of my heart. This is something that I¡¯ve longed for since I was a child. If only this were real, I would fall into her arms and cry as I tell her every terrible thing that¡¯s happened to me and every terrible thing that I¡¯ve done.

    I don¡¯t, of course.

    This is but a performance, and her; a puppet moving on a spider''s strings.

    ¡°Aaaand, there we go,¡± Mom waves her hands over the oven as if casting a spell, a playful act borrowed from the spiders¡¯ fantastical world that this code is native to. ¡°Lunch will be ready in one hour, so let¡¯s put in some work and earn it!¡±

    She doesn¡¯t even notice the tears still tracking down her cheeks.

    Her smile unwaning as she pulls me up from the couch for the day''s physical therapy, I try my best to shape a lie just like it, imitating the skinwalker program from that elven village she would escape to. Even without seeing my reflection, I know that it looks wrong.

    It feels wrong.

    ¡°What¡¯s on the schedule for your physical therapy today? Stretches? Weights?¡± the puppet asks.

    ¡°Weights while talking,¡± I reply, careful to pace each syllable properly else I grow impatient and mutilate the words. ¡°Physical and mental workout.¡±

    With the puppet actively helping, I¡¯ve made great strides in mastering the ability to walk and talk again. Slowly I¡¯m breaking free of the isolation cell that is my new mind, or at least I¡¯m smashing in a window.

    Simple conversation does wonders for redeveloping my speaking skills, and learning to walk is so much safer with someone there to catch me. Playing pretend on my own simply couldn¡¯t compare.

    If only this could be real.

    If I could just accept this lie, then it wouldn¡¯t hurt anymore. Would it even be wrong to lean into my role for this theatre show that we¡¯ve both been cast into? Is it wrong to admire the woman that mom wanted to be? Is it wrong for me to wish that she could have always lived up to this ideal?

    I don¡¯t even know why she¡¯s in pain, or why she¡¯s crying.

    She¡¯s finally the person she wanted to become, isn¡¯t she?

    It may be fake, but¡­

    Am I all that different?

    My fleshy brain isn¡¯t keeping up with the speed of my enhanced logic core and spine-trap digitalised simulacrum. Is the real me trapped inside and screaming for freedom?

    I doubt it.

    She, just like me, would be glad just to have someone trustworthy and competent taking over. There is no rest in this world, and we are always vulnerable to the whims of those above us every moment of every day. Having the chance to just escape into your own thoughts, without obsessing over every moment must be the closest thing we¡¯ll get to heaven.

    So why does it torment her?

    The spiders changed her personality. They crafted a digital mimicry that can force her to be this puppet before me, but who knows what else they¡¯ve stuck into her code. It¡¯s likely that they can now take control of her whenever they please and force her into doing anything against her will.

    Is that why she¡¯s so terrified? Does she realise now that her own body has become a living cage? That her mind is just a passenger to whatever code the spiders have infected her logic core with?

    I don¡¯t understand.

    What can I even do to help her at this point?

    ¡°You¡¯re doing good, let¡¯s keep it up!¡± She cheers me on. A flash of pure horror emerging from her eyes as if begging for help, but I don¡¯t know how. ¡°We should try playing some games this afternoon, what do you think?¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± I respond, observing my arm and feeling the muscles working as I slowly lift the weight up.

    The conversation is uncomfortable in that it¡¯s entirely unaffected by these flashes of reality between the iron bars of her new personality. Her tone is unflinchingly cheerful, and her words only pause where natural to do so. Without my slowed time, I might not even notice the flashes of truth between the lies.

    As I am, I cannot do much else other than watch and think, I cannot escape from the prison called the present. Everyone is racing about their lives to try and keep up with the spinning of the world, too busy to ever waste their precious time to account for every detail and make the best of choices; not me. Not anymore.

    Every step that I take now, I wait for gravity to catch up and pull my feet to the ground; every conversation I have, I carefully measure each syllable as they crawl on by.

    I have time in the palm of my hand. I can take all the time I need to decide on my future, but what do I do when there are no good choices to be had?

    I slowly hide away inside my mind, looking for some clue or miracle that might change our fates. Perhaps Mom will just grow accustomed to her new mask in time? Maybe I don¡¯t need to do anything at all?

    Recoding my mind to split my focus more evenly between tasks, I keep my mouth moving and words flowing, while moving my arms to keep pace with the exercises. A few iterations, built in the passing minutes allow me to lend my focus elsewhere, expanding my search for a miracle into the digital world beyond.

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Sifting through various data feeds, I pick out interesting scraps of news that survive the censors. There are dozens of official news networks and countless more digital backalleys worth prying for information, but I always return to the handful of sources that I best understand.

    All sorts of headlines catch my eye as I pull data from wide-net links.

    ¡®Hephaestus employees are being scrapped for parts!¡¯

    ¡®Daemons hiding in the glow, corpo hires?¡±

    ¡®SynnTech is crumbling from the inside, we need to organise and take them out!¡±

    ¡®Don¡¯t trust the spiders, they¡¯re eating our souls!¡±

    The current access point is through a necro-punk music server, but what I¡¯m looking through is the underground counter-cultural news outfit IDL, ¡®In Dubiis Libertas¡¯. It¡¯s fully decentralised and no one person or organisation writes for the IDL, which makes it a bloody battlefield for competing factions trying to control information.

    Most writers find themselves at home on the ¡®media relations¡¯ floor of SynnTech, or one of their competitors, but countless self-styled ¡®rebels¡¯ eat up the propaganda without a second thought.

    It¡¯s all anti-corporate sentiment carefully packaged and sold into a ¡®necro-punk¡¯ product for self-styled rebels, all so that one corporation can manipulate the poor little ducklings against another. Janus¡¯s mother was caught up in something like this, playing her part in a ¡®rebellion¡¯ by selling SynnTech out to a competitor.

    The only lasting thing she achieved was killing her whole family.

    ¡®New attack on SynnTech changes everything!¡¯

    ¡®SynnTech is the powerhouse behind the corporate oligarchy ruling humanity, if we can knock the legs out from under them now we stand a chance of recovering our future. With their leadership in question, we need to act now! It will only work if we strike as one and focus on destroying SynnTech for good.

    ¡®A guide on disrupting the corporations can be found here, keep fighting!¡¯

    If trends are anything to go by then this was written by a Vulcan Industries employee, but there are a few other groups that could be making this play. While I can¡¯t trust the words themselves, it does suggest that there¡¯s blood in the water and SynnTech is being targeted.

    The site is stirring with talk of a new attack on SynnTech in the past few minutes, something big influencing company leadership. Finally, I dig out some footage revealing nothing but the distant echoing of cannons and the hissing of plasma, but the location is concerningly near to Kali¡¯s apartment.

    My spinning logic core freezes in place, adrenaline warming my flesh as one thundering heartbeat follows another. An out-of-place article seizes my full attention as I dig through the hidden intentions.

    ¡®New SynnTech head is one of us?¡¯

    ¡®The assassination of SynnTech¡¯s head of city operations could lead to a bright new future as the down-to-earth ¡®Diomedes Smith¡¯ takes the role. From his interviews you can tell that he¡¯s not like anyone else in corporate management, with his leadership SynnTech employees might finally see the changes that they were wanting from the corporation.¡¯

    Assassination?

    New SynnTech head of city operations?

    Someone is replacing Kali?

    Who would write this and why?

    The only person this would benefit is ¡®Diomedes Smith¡¯ who is supposedly replacing Kali. It¡¯s too close to pro-SynnTech for any corporate competitors to be behind this, and genuine rebels wouldn¡¯t say anything positive about the mega-corps in the first place.

    That would suggest that Kali is dead, or otherwise disposed of¡­

    I try to find more info about the attack but the site isn¡¯t producing anything useful. Which is another worrying detail because the author of the article is either making it all up, which makes no sense, or they¡¯re too well informed about an attack that no one has clear information on yet.

    Spinning my logic core into overdrive, I drift through official news sources looking for anything that might corroborate the story.

    ¡®Potential management handover at SynnTech, what it means for you. Meet ¡®Diomedes Smith¡¯¡±

    ¡®Is SynnTech in need of a change in direction?¡±

    Old articles that I never paid much mind to before, but seeds that would support a sudden change in leadership.

    My stomach sinks, as I sort through lies, but I find nothing to explain the situation. Whatever happened isn¡¯t making it through corporate censors, and they haven¡¯t finished writing their own version of events.

    There¡¯s only one more place I can rely on for answers, though I hate the idea.

    The spiders.

    They¡¯ve successfully carved out their own community, free from the direct manipulations of the corporations, though still materially bound to them by the servers in which they exist. They will have the information I need, but getting it could cost me.

    Drawing up the old list of spider contacts, my logic core glitches out, cutting the contacts down to nothing as a voice whispers in my ears; my own voice. A familiar trick.

    ¡°You need something?¡±

    A cold shiver passes down my spine, the sensation lingering far longer than I¡¯ve ever experienced.

    ¡°You should already know if you¡¯re this deep into my system,¡± I think back at the invasive spider crawling into my ear canal and nesting in my skull. My mistake in reaching out to her is still lingering.

    ¡°I do, I do! But where is the fun in skipping the conversations? What are we without human interactions, the lies and deceptive words, the manipulation¡­ the games?¡± she asks, appearing beside me, still wearing my own face.

    ¡°Just¡­ get to the point, you¡¯re not letting me contact anyone else. What do you want?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Now, now, you don¡¯t even know why you need to rush just yet,¡± its giggling is filled with a joy that¡¯s entirely inhuman. ¡°For our deal, I will show you what you do not want to see, I will tell you the things you do not want to know, and even aid you in doing the things that you so much do not want to do. All of this and I¡¯ll even put it on your tab.¡±

    ¡°Another favour?¡±

    ¡°Yes. A favour. A little thing. Nothing that you will not want to do anyway. Your answer?¡± the spider continues. ¡°Can you feel it, time slipping away? How much do you have, I wonder?¡±

    Dad is Kali¡¯s bodyguard, if something happened to her, then something happened to him.

    ¡°Fine,¡± I agree, swallowing hard as the creature smiles too broadly revealing more teeth than I have.

    ¡°First, the things you do not want to see¡­¡±

    Images fill my mind of twisted metal, still glowing from the heat, sizzling flesh and giblets of organs so scattered that I can¡¯t count the corpses. Glowing copper skin, oddly familiar, still clinging to a metal frame which¡­

    Coppelia?

    I blink, taking it all in.

    The images form footage.

    Kali diving in front of Coppelia, taking a glowing shot of plasma to the side of the face protecting the machine with her own body as they collapse together. Plasma eats away at Kali¡¯s metal, cooking the flesh it¡¯s bound to, as she shudders atop her fallen friend. A hit like that has a good chance of causing irrecoverable damage¡­

    Azra stands atop the two struggling to keep Kali alive, while weapons on his shoulders and hip fire wildly into his surroundings. A good quarter of his metal is shed on the ground, and even his weapons are glowing as they burn themselves out.

    Dad is¡­

    Chunks.

    The largest piece of him is the remains of his head, and I only recognise it because of the spider highlighting it. His face is gone, teeth scattered, and most everything beneath his neck is long ribbons, even the metal has been sliced down its length.

    But.

    His head is still mostly whole. I don¡¯t know the specs, but the metal loaded in his skull should keep him alive until they can connect him to an organ-box. He¡¯s made to survive something like this, and even now some of his hardware is swivelling about to fire at whatever is attacking them.

    That means he¡¯s still alive.

    But¡­ what about Kali?

    If she¡¯s dead, or worse if she¡¯s been replaced, what does that mean for us? Will Dad still have a job? Will he get transferred?

    ¡°I will tell you what you do not want to know.¡±

    Dozens of unpublished articles flicker by my mind¡¯s eye, new content added even as I read through them. Pieces of the puzzle fly by as I uncover the meaning behind their lies.

    ¡®Terrorist attack¡¯

    ¡®Executive confirmed dead at the scene¡¯

    ¡®Security failure¡¯

    ¡®Traitor on the inside¡¯

    ¡®New executive cleaning up SynnTech¡¯

    The facts:

    Kali is reported to have died.

    There was an internal power shift, ¡®Diomedes Smith¡¯ has taken over Kali¡¯s role as head of city operations.

    Hephaestus weapons were used in the attack.

    The attack is being blamed on a security failure, blaming Dad and Azra, calling them traitors. Very, very bad.

    Their story: Dad and Azra cooperated with Vulcan Industries, formerly Hephaestus, to assassinate Kali. Which is obviously a manipulation.

    Vulcan industries aren¡¯t involved. Gaia was behind the previous attacks, pushing the public blame onto Vulcan Industries. For an attack on Kali to succeed, the attackers needed to get through layers of security that aren¡¯t even being mentioned in the media, and that would either take firepower that I¡¯m not seeing present, or it¡¯s an inside job bypassing that security.

    This ¡®Diomedes Smith¡¯ was conspiring with Gaia and various internal departments at SynnTech to have Kali killed, and her security detail blamed, and he¡¯s already solidifying his position. Dad and Azra are going to take the blame¡­

    Dad is still there, a dying brain in a box fighting to protect SynnTech; loyal even now. All the while the media is preparing to paint him as the one responsible for this.

    There will be no medical care for a traitor to the company.

    Instead, they¡¯ll stack us with debt. Every expense that results from this attack they will lay at our feet. We couldn¡¯t ever afford it.

    ¡°Art?¡± Mom is slowly reacting as I freeze in place.

    The articles are slowly being released. Things are moving beyond my power to influence them.

    Time stretches infinitely as I watch the news start to fall. Mom¡¯s eyes glow, as she slowly tries to figure it all out. What is she reading? How much does she know?

    I catch every moment as the terror seizes her eyes, and Mom, within her cage, comes to realise the same thing as me. Even the ideal version of her is frozen in place, unable to process the information. The iron mask only knows how to smile, and now it can¡¯t even do that¡­

    Dad¡¯s not getting fixed. They¡¯ll leave him to die when his metal can¡¯t keep him alive any longer if they don¡¯t just repossess it before that.

    Mom and I will be settled with all the debt they can impose on us, and then they¡¯ll come for us too. They¡¯ll cut the metal from our flesh and leave us with a cheap plastic set that will stop working in a month without another payment that we won¡¯t be able to afford.

    Our lives are over.

    Janus shivers as the scrappers saw open his skull.

    No.

    No, I still have a plan for this.

 Chapter 12 - A Fleeing Ghost

    For all that we are constrained by reality and its unforgiving laws, we humans do not understand this world we live in; we choose not to. Through physics, mathematics, and chemistry we flirt with the edges of the underlying truth of the universe, borrowing from its power to better shape the dreams we would rather drown in.

    The first men and women to glimpse into the cold eldritch void of reality were driven mad by their understanding, and thus they sought only to protect others from the same fate. Truth was wrapped in countless layers of lies and upon that blank canvas, we painted light; thus we began to form our first and our greatest lie.

    Painting with promises and threats we gave birth to the first gods so that we could be their favoured children; so that we had someone to tell us we were special, that there is more to us than meat and bone. Most of all, we believed with desperate hope that something of us would persist even when our meat is rotten, and our bones ground down to sand.

    As ages wore on, we wove the lies more intricately and dressed ourselves in more layers to shield ourselves from that eternal cold. Always seeking new shapes and colours, we confound ourselves and our children to such a point that we never again think to ask what we are hiding from. Yet no matter how intricate the weave of our clothes, whether filthy and threadbare or clean and vibrant, we are all stripped bare before the very end and made to face what our painted gods have protected us from all our lives.

    Every lie, every colourful paint, and every God we have ever killed, all exist to serve this one deception, the greatest of them all.

    Tomorrow will be as yesterday was.

    The sun will always rise again come morning.

    The stars will shine on for eternity.

    The ground will forever remain firm beneath our feet.

    And everyone we love will eventually come back home.

    ¡°Everything is going to be okay,¡± Mom whispers the most ancient lie, empty sounds that never touch her fevered eyes. The cold truth has already stripped this lie from us both, yet we can¡¯t help but cling to the torn rags desperately hoping to capture a fraction of the dying warmth that escapes through our grasping fingers.

    ¡°Mom¡­¡±

    I reach for her but she stumbles back and I catch only air. She cannot see me through the flickering lights that consume her eyes, a glimpse of understanding that can lead only to madness. Even the skinwalker does not know how to respond any longer, Mom¡¯s own ideal self fails her in this moment when she needs it most; the moment that I need her most.

    ¡°She still needs some fine-tuning...¡± Mom whispers, twitching only once before losing any resemblance of herself. Though her flesh and metal has not changed, her bearing is no longer her own, not even an imitation as the skinwalker was.

    The spider approaches, wearing her skin, smiling at me even as I scramble away. Each step I take back is matched until I¡¯m cornered, the creature wearing my mother as a skinsuit looming over me, her cold dead eyes proving her kind expression as only a carefully crafted act.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Art,¡± It speaks in her voice. ¡°You have planned for this. You are strong and wise beyond your years, everything your father and I could have-¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t! Don¡¯t even dare!¡± I shove her, but the Spider weaves her arms through my own and clutches me tightly, embracing me as if we were family. ¡°Stop pretending to be her!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s what she would want to say,¡± the spider presses, her hug much warmer and kinder than what I felt from Mom. Too practised and too perfect; a performance. ¡°She loves you.¡±

    ¡°Shut up!¡±

    I struggle and fight, but I can¡¯t break free.

    ¡°Does it really matter who guides these lips and shapes the words, Art? I carry her intention, isn¡¯t that what matters most? Isn¡¯t this what you always wanted? You can finally cry into your mother¡¯s arms and share everything that hurt you.¡±

    ¡°Please...¡± I beg, giving up the fight. ¡°Please stop.¡±

    ¡°Is that what you really want, Art? Are you certain you won¡¯t regret missing this opportunity? Even if imperfect, you will not have another chance¡­¡±

    ¡°Let me go...¡± I whisper, and with a resigned sigh she finally does.

    ¡°You do not understand what it is you plan to do, Art,¡± the spider follows me as I rush to reach my room, every slow step a torturous wait for gravity to catch up with my racing feet.

    ¡°Dad is dying,¡± I reply, a dull cold spread through my chest. ¡°He is dying, and he won¡¯t be saved.¡±

    ¡°You say the words, but you don¡¯t understand them,¡± the spider haunts me every step I take. ¡°I can feel it in you, the hope that he will return home come evening. You can¡¯t simply crush it.¡±

    ¡°Being human, means living in delusion,¡± I whisper verbalising these thoughts feels almost sacrosanct, these are the words never meant to be said aloud, but it is the only way I can think to keep her voice out of my head. ¡°When a limb is removed, we can still feel the phantom in its place.

    ¡°When a loved one dies, we still feel their presence in their favoured haunts. I still feel Janus with me some days, I sometimes wake up forgetting that he¡¯s gone. Every natural instinct written into me tells me that this is a trick, that you, spider, are toying with me and that this is all some grand deception.

    ¡°Everything will be alright. Dad will recover and be home by dinner, Mom will overcome the challenges of the new software ruling over her logic core, Janus will return from the understreets, and everything will go back to how it was.¡±

    ¡°But it won¡¯t,¡± the spider whispers with Mom¡¯s stolen lips.

    ¡°No, it won¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen this tragedy before, and I know how it ends. Dad is being held responsible for the attack on Kali, whether it¡¯s sold as negligence or traitorous allegiances, the particulars of their lies hardly matter at all, they¡¯ve already decided our fates for us.

    ¡°Dad will be executed, just like Janus¡¯s Mom was.

    ¡°Mom and I will be removed from SynnTech housing and levied with a debt for the damages Dad¡¯s ¡®failure¡¯ has cost the company. Then, Recovery will be sent after us. Little more than corporate-sponsored daemon packs, they¡¯ll tear us apart and sell the pieces to some meat vendor in the understreets.

    ¡°If that¡¯s where we¡¯ll be ending up either way, then I¡¯d rather take us to market myself and pocket whatever silver I can earn.¡±

    Feeling out for the familiar contracts that I prepared for this day, I still find myself hesitating. The moment I set this into motion, there is no hope of going back. My life is over.

    ¡°You still can¡¯t believe it, can you?¡± The monster whispers.

    Art will die; I will be killing her with my own hands.

    It is better to lose it all by my own hands than to let it be taken by someone else.

    I take the leap. My contacts confirm my message and move to prepare for my passage.

    In mere moments, I receive directions to a gateway and a decent meat vendor down in the understreets. I don¡¯t involve Mutt or his crew. They¡¯ll shield me from suspicion as the hunt develops later on, which means they must be kept as far from these early stages of my escape as possible.

    Whoever was behind the attack on Kali, they are moving quickly to cover it up, but they are still slow enough that we stand a chance of escaping before Recovery starts the hunt. We are not a priority. I need them to find us dead, with no more profit to be squeezed from our cold corpses.

    With all my other plans falling through, I¡¯ll have to scrape by in the understreets until I can find my way out. The world above is for corporate employees only and even with a false identity, if I don¡¯t have a residential address and corporate employment, I won¡¯t survive two nights up here, and Mom¡­

    Mom isn¡¯t going to be okay.

    She can¡¯t survive in the understreets, and there is nowhere in this world that is safe for her anymore¡­

    The moment I arrive at my room, I wind up a kick and smash in the wall. Prying through shattered remains, I dig free my go-bag, taking half a moment to sort through everything. There are enough silver merits here to fund our escape and cover our tracks, and a pair of gold awards that should cover other expenses.

    Aside from the money, there are three burners and a plasma gauntlet. The burners, looking like little more than bundled scrap wired to a finger-length needle, are electronic interference devices intended to take a daemon pack off-line for undercover operations. Functionally, while in effect, users are unable to be hacked.

    With a twist and a snap the first burner warms in my hands before I awkwardly angle it to the back of my neck and jam it hard into the emergency port. Fire erupts through my artificial synapses, my logic core spinning so fast that it nearly overheats, I can¡¯t fully restrain a scream as I fall to my knees.

    As the fire fades, I slowly push myself up again. The blackened earth of my digital mindscape is cut off from the digital world, though blind and numb, I¡¯m shielded from immediate threats.

    Ordinarily, SynnTech wouldn¡¯t go too far in pursuit of Mom and I, but there is a coup ongoing at the corporate management level, and we¡¯ve been recognised as members of Kali¡¯s faction. At this point, it¡¯s not impossible to have our metal bricked while we¡¯re still on the run.

    ¡°Mom?¡± I call out for her, flinching as the spider pilots her through the door to my room, her finger trailing over the frame as if reminiscent of some history that she does not have here.

    ¡°You know what is coming, what you must do, but that doesn¡¯t mean you understand,¡± the spider continues, taking the plasma gauntlet from my pack and preparing it for installation. ¡°You are tearing yourself apart.

    ¡°And it is beautiful,¡± it continues, pressing the metal to my arm as it holds me closely, its eyes swimming with passion and madness in equal measure. ¡°You are beautiful, Art. A shattering mirror caught in a whirlwind, the shards shifting in constant motion, reflecting one another, and occasionally even capturing a glimpse of true understanding.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± I try and fail to push her away.

    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t,¡± she presses into me. Activating the auto-install on the plasma gauntlet. ¡°This was your father¡¯s gift to you, do you remember?

    ¡°Keep it hidden,¡± its words resonate with Dad¡¯s as I look over the weapon. ¡°Cracked metal this powerful is rare, the corporations like to have a kill code in anything that can cut through armour. If anyone checks your system and sees it, they¡¯ll know you¡¯re up to no good. Don¡¯t use it unless you have no other choice.¡±

    Eight pins whirr to life, before my arm becomes fire. I try to pull it away, but the spider holds me firm as the pins drill through flesh, anchoring themselves into bone. Everything is pain and fire. My bones vibrate, and my teeth clatter, as I fail to even scream.

    I knew this was coming, but¡­

    ¡°You didn¡¯t understand,¡± the spider whispers. ¡°You will. Immerse yourself in it, experience it for what it is.¡±

    As the pain rises ever higher, something inside of me shifts and my mind is plunged into frigid waters. The pain is not gone, but it no longer rules me, it is but a distant concept. Something to be measured and accounted for, but nothing more than that.

    Analytically, I observe the installation process of my new metal. The worm-like ¡®seeker¡¯ module writhes its way through my arm until it sinks its fangs into my nervous system. An electrical pulse, pushes through the pain, reaching into my mind and requesting confirmation of installation.

    ¡°Now you understand, pain is just another lie,¡± the spider whispers to me. ¡°This is the gift your father gave to you. A gift of pain and promises of violence.¡±

    ¡°Because he loves me,¡± I almost shout at her.

    ¡°Because he knew he failed you. He knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to protect you from harm. When your little friend was taken away, it affected more than just you.¡±

    A plasma caster was shaped to hug the outside of my arm like a bracer, but as it whirrs to life metal links form a set of perfect circle bangles around the length of my arm.

    Touching the new connection in my mind, the circular ¡®bangles¡¯ spin about, the metal components flipping to form a sequence of rings upon my outer arm as they hum with barely contained power. They form an invisible containment field to direct the plasma charge.

    ¡°He could not protect you from the world, so he prepared you to face it. Will you?¡± She gazes into my eyes. ¡°You do not have to. You could join us in our world.¡±

    I shake my head, stretching my new metal joints. A scorpion tail rises from the back of my gauntlet, near my elbow, practically dripping power as it prepares to inject blue plasma into the containment field, but I relax before it releases anything dangerous.

    With a thought, the spinning bangles return into place around my arm and the scorpion tail sheaths back into the gauntlet.

    With this, I can fight if I have to, and the burner offers enough protection to keep me hidden from the first daemon packs Recovery will send hunting after us. That should give me enough time to get to the understreets and prepare my own corpse.

    ¡°Thank you, Dad,¡± I bite my lip and close my eyes. The cold metal on my arm still hurts, but the pain is just another stream of data feeding into my logic core.

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    ¡°I could connect you to him,¡± the spider whispers. ¡°His encryption is powerful but not so much that I can¡¯t break through. I think he would like to spend his last moments speaking with you as he kills the infidels that dare to besmirch SynnTech. Loyal father and subject both.¡±

    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± I shiver at her offer and try to back away, but I¡¯m still in her grasp. Either she¡¯s lying, or ungodly powerful. I¡¯m not sure which I¡¯d rather believe. ¡°What do you want from me?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll find out eventually,¡± her smile for the first time seems real. ¡°You¡¯ll want to help when the time comes.¡±

    ¡°What do you want from me?¡±

    ¡°Spoilers, spoilers,¡± she touches a finger to her lips. ¡°Everything must happen in order.¡±

    Some things cannot be said aloud¡­

    Whatever she wants from me, it is something big. Something terrifying.

    I look down at the burners still in my hands, if I can jam one into her, maybe¡­ If I distract her¡­

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask, gazing into my mother¡¯s eyes.

    She takes the gadget from my hand, activates it and plugs it into Mom¡¯s logic core, not even flinching as she continues to smile at me.

    ¡°A rudimentary trick, but useful enough. A way to dance without anyone watching, to think without anyone listening, but I am not just anyone, Art. I am not anyone at all.¡±

    I shiver, frozen in her grasp.

    ¡°I¡¯ll give you a moment, let those pretty little shards sparkle with stolen light, Art. Let yourself be beautiful,¡± the spider whispers, her breath tickling my ear, before her expression fades and Mom returns.

    ¡°Mom?¡± I call out for her, catching her before she falls.

    She¡¯s twitching uncontrollably fighting off the invisible demon that¡¯s been possessing her. The skinwalker program hijacking her hasn¡¯t been this inactive since it first took her place, and now the spider is gone as well¡­

    ¡°Mom, can you hear me?¡± I forcibly hold the quiver back from my voice. I check on the burner but nothing seems to have gone wrong with it, this is just Mom breaking down ¡®normally¡¯.

    Looking down at the third and last burner, I roll it back and forth in my palm before letting it fall to the ground, the delicate components shattering into jagged shards. I can¡¯t save everyone I love. I might not even be able to save myself.

    ¡°We need to go,¡± I tell Mom, but she still doesn¡¯t move. Tears stream down her cheeks and her eyes shine with paralysed thoughts and feelings that she¡¯s not been allowed to express. A mechanical smile returns to her lips as she twitches, her face spasming with false life.

    ¡°Everything is going to be okay,¡± she repeats the lie. ¡°Lunch should be ready soon¡­¡±

    ¡°Mom¡­¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s not going to move,¡± the twitching stops as the spider returns. ¡°She¡¯s even broken her ideal self, trying to wear it as a mask¡­ what will she look like as we work to glue the pieces together? How might she grow?¡±

    I need to leave, and soon.

    ¡°You will give her to us, and we will help you get away from the hunters.¡± she declares, turning to me and stretching out her arms as she trails her fingers along her stolen skin.

    ¡°That¡¯s part of the deal? You want her?¡± I ask, and the creature laughs, higher pitched than Mom ever would.

    ¡°Oh no, that you will choose to do, because you want to save her,¡± she replies. ¡°There is nowhere in this world that would have her and keep her safe, but our world is different. In our world, she could live her dream life, she could have her beloved husband back and live as she was always meant to.

    ¡°You will give her that peace, it is not a favour to us.¡±

    She isn¡¯t wrong.

    There¡¯s nowhere in this world or beyond that would be safe for her anymore, she¡¯s unwanted by the new gods and incapable of surviving in the darkness beyond their light. I don¡¯t have the strength to protect her.

    ¡°Just walk her down there and get her plugged in, help us both get there. Pay is a gold piece. Untraceable.¡±

    ¡°No gold, this was all for one favour from you,¡± she says, her eyes no longer holding a trace of my Mom¡¯s. ¡°You will not regret it.¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± I sneer, rushing on as I feel a string of code break through the burner and dig into my logic core. My gut sinks like I¡¯ve made a pact with the fae of the old myths and legends. ¡°I¡¯ve bought access through a gateway. It¡¯s only going to be open for an hour before it¡¯s buried.¡±

    ¡°Oh, these old games? How fun.¡±

    ¡°Come on.¡±

    The elevator from our apartment ticks away uncomfortably as I tap my foot and wait and wait. What if it gets hacked while we¡¯re in it, trapping us here? What if they¡¯re already after us? What if there are already Recovery packs out there ready to pluck the metal from our meat?

    Anxiously waiting for the doors to open, the shifting advertisements coil around us embracing us with offers and promises that will never come true, a closed box filled with madness.

    When the doors finally open, the glow spreads its claws into the walls around us and we dive right into its hands. It is thicker today as if anticipating our rush, it¡¯s working to pull us deeper into its depths. I can hardly tell the sidewalk from the road, and the passing cars are but rushing gusts of air that I am not certain are even real.

    The spider wearing mom¡¯s skin obediently follows with a creepy smile plastered on its lips. Is that true, or another twisted corruption of the glow lying to me?

    Closing my eyes for a heartbeat, I warm up a string of daemon code, linking it into my systems.

    Counting my steps and navigating by map more than vision, I push through to a storefront that I can¡¯t even make out through the thick neon lights.

    ¡°What can I-¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m here to pick up order 315952.¡±

    ¡°Ah, yes. Right this way,¡± the man leads us through a formation of posing mannequins dressed in shifting illusions. Their eyes watch us closely, unable to lock in on our identities with the burners active, the light writhes in frustration never quite able to take complete form.

    A rusted door squeals in resistance as the man ushers us into the backrooms, leaving the glow behind us as we enter into a world of dull, pulsing red lights. Corroded pipes line the corridor, hissing and rattling against rusted shackles that bind them to the walls.

    ¡°Down that way for another two hundred metres,¡± the attendant tells me before reaching out with a cable, directly linking and confirming that both of our systems are actively running the daemon code. As part of the deal, he should be forgetting our entire interaction the moment he returns to his shop.

    I doubt this is a setup, my daemon identity should buy me that much confidence, but I do have a secondary access point if I need it. It¡¯ll just burn through more of the silver in my pocket.

    The spider remains eerily quiet as we navigate the network of utility alleys that connect every inch of this city to every other. The low pulsing light is only broken by the occasional seeping of the glow that breaks through the walls as if it is pursuing us.

    The hum of distant generators merge together in a chorus of echoes that fuel the heart of this terrible city, and very occasionally there is a loud pop. Either a pipe breaking from its fittings, or a distant gunshot, it¡¯s impossible to tell for sure.

    A little red devil, complete with curved horns and bat wings, dances upon the wall marking our gateway into the understreets. The door squeals on rusted hinges, as I watch for any sign of someone waiting for us beyond.

    Old machines, long since quiet, line the walls but there is no one hiding in their shadows and no other entrances that I can make out at first glance. Machines just like this keep the city alive, yet no one cares to keep them running. No one earns a promotion by running maintenance, it is better to let what¡¯s broken fall into the rust pits and build something shiny and new on top. A city climbing to the stars atop an infinitely growing mountain of trash.

    The dancing devil appears again on one of the old machines, on top of a large intake pipe. I can¡¯t even begin to guess what is meant to be fed into these old machines, but this is clearly the gateway that I¡¯ve purchased.

    I open the hatch and toss a handful of silver shards down first.

    ¡°Order 315952.¡±

    ¡°Ghost? You¡¯re a quick one,¡± A voice calls through the darkness and mist flowing up from the depths. ¡°Come on down, we¡¯re waiting for you.¡±

    Suppressing my hesitation, I crawl up into the gaping maw of the old machine, rust crumbling in my hands as I hold myself at the precipice. The spider is waiting patiently for me, nodding and smiling as if telling me to go ahead, only making me that much more unsure about this.

    There is no other way forward but to take this risk, and abandon everything I once had.

    I dive feet first into the throat of the old machine, my thick clothing is the only thing protecting me as I slide through the mechanical guts, quickly bursting out of a break in the pipe into a large maintenance room. Hanging in the air, I carefully analyse the situation even as I prepare to land, my body is still stiff, controls aren¡¯t as clean as they ought to be, but I stumble to somehow manage to keep my feet.

    ¡°Welcome to the underworld,¡± A hulk of a daemon says, opening his arms wide as his pack stands ready circling around me. There is no flesh to them, only bundles of old tech tethered together mostly resembling the human form. One daemon at the back of the room, however, does operate an old quadrupedal platform, to help carry a weapon reminiscent of an old naval cannon.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been burned and I¡¯m expecting a tail,¡± I inform the pack, wiping at the flakes of rust that cover me as I try to ignore the opportunistic glint in their eyes. Their weapons are spun up and ready for a slaughter. ¡°After my asset is through, close the gateway and scatter quick.¡±

    ¡°Whatever you need,¡± their leader chuckles flipping a few shards packed with silver merits, the ones I sent through ahead of me. ¡°We¡¯re all glad to have our favourite ghost returning to the true depths of our fair city. There¡¯s been rumours about you, y¡¯know?¡±

    With a clatter, the spider falls out of the pipe behind me, her eerie smile turning to the group surrounding us licking her lips eagerly as they turn their greedy eyes to her. They eye her, calculating the price of her metal, while she is preparing to consume their very souls.

    This isn¡¯t Mom anymore, but¡­

    She is still in there, isn¡¯t she?

    Still panicking, lost amidst the madness, just without control over her own body or mind. A witness, and nothing more.

    ¡°Your asset?¡± The leader asks, his metal tensing for a fight, a remnant instinct that never left when he traded in his flesh and bone.

    ¡°A mission asset,¡± I shake my head at him. ¡°Not your concern, just know that the spiders of the deep limbo have already marked her. Important spiders.¡±

    They back off quick at that, no one wants to mess around with a faction as unpredictable as them.

    ¡°So, you didn¡¯t forget how it works down here,¡± the leader chuckles as one of his men sets up some explosives to collapse the gateway. ¡°Your daemon code authentication?¡±

    ¡°Here,¡± I hook into his isolated system and send a handshake, confirming with him that both our codes are running and wiping every detail of our interaction. If either of us is caught, then the other will not be implicated, a necessary insurance for doing work like this.

    ¡°Do hire us again someday,¡± the leader laughs at his own joke as I lead the spider away. Our business is done, all that¡¯s left is to forget one another.

    Pitted concrete walls and floor littered with rust dust and corroded pipes lead deeper into the bowls of this city. Decay spreads like a disease over every surface, leading us out into the depths, the top of the rust heaps; the understreets.

    Standing top-floor in what was once an apartment building, the stairs that once led to a rooftop now bring us out from the basement we escaped. The entire structure shakes as an explosion rocks the city, closing the gateway behind us and ending the daemon code that I¡¯ve been running.

    Memories are shredded, overwritten and shredded again, leaving not even shattered fragments behind. Staring through the wide void, a window stripped of its glass, I gradually ease myself into the situation.

    I can¡¯t remember how I got here, why I¡¯m covered in splinters of rust, or why the backs of my clothes are torn to shreds. It doesn¡¯t change what I need to do next.

    These ruins were once luxury apartments but vast spaces have now been stripped of all furniture, glass pulled from the windows, and wires torn from the walls. What paint remains is weathered and covered in shrivelled mould that is itself struggling to survive in this toxic environment. Everything of value has been stripped away, leaving only the concrete bones to become another pillar, holding the city above the oceans.

    Outside lies the world I only know through footage and second-hand experiences. My lungs burn as I breathe it in for the first time.

    Far below, through criss-crossing bridges connecting all the many towers like ours, a toxic fog drifts up from the rust pits hiding all those who crawl through the wastes of the lowest streets. Those I see scattered here and there, are always nervous, always watching, ready to fight off a pack of hungry daemons or desperate scavs.

    This entire world is illuminated in the pulsing red glow of ancient lights, while the vast ceiling above us is painted with the encroaching fingers of the glow that sinks it¡¯s claws even down here. Hints and visions of a better world that is forever just above them, yet that light is a lie even for those who live above.

    Massive pillars of steel and concrete, interwoven with top-secret materials to grant them impossible strength, hold up the artificial sky. The only well maintained and protected structures in this underworld. All else is in some degree of decay and ruin.

    Networks of pipes weave through the ceiling dripping with sewage, occasionally bursting and bringing rain down over the people of this lower world. Beneath chemical plants and waste facilities, lie sinkholes that constantly fill with the worst of what this city creates.

    ¡°We need to go,¡± I tell myself, gripping my fist tight as I spin up the containment field of my plasma caster. Shadows dance in the fog below, creatures ready to hunt us for whatever scraps they can pull from our corpses.

    Our path to the meat vendor is mapped clearly in my mind, and if I wasn¡¯t running a burner I¡¯d be using various scanners to locate the nearby threats. I try to load up a prepared heat scanner in my optics but the software doesn¡¯t even respond.

    Moments later my eyes flicker with red warnings before everything goes dark.

    I try to swear but my tongue is too slow to keep up with the strings of expletives working their way out of me.

    ¡°Not as well planned as you¡¯d thought?¡± The spider chuckles. ¡°You think they would ever let their pets live free? Cutting the leash doesn¡¯t rid you of the collar.¡±

    ¡°The hardware bricks itself when disconnected from the net too long,¡± I conclude, shivering as I think of what would happen if my Spine-trap and logic core weren¡¯t gifted to me by Kali. She didn¡¯t want anyone else messing with her property, incidentally freeing me from SynnTech.

    ¡°For our future of cooperation,¡± the spider declares, taking my hand and walking me blindly through the building, each step a stumbling affair that I¡¯m sure she could make easier for me; she chooses not to.

    ¡°Careful, this bridge likes to play,¡± she says as the ground almost slides out from under my feet. She pulls me into my Mom¡¯s arms and holds me tight until the swaying stops.

    ¡°She loves you,¡± it says.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s not good at expressing herself, but she loves you, and she wants you to know it.¡± Mom¡¯s fingers brush through my hair as I close my eyes and grip her tighter.

    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°She wants to help you, even now, but she doesn¡¯t know how.¡±

    ¡°Stop.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s sorry that she couldn¡¯t be a better mother to you.¡±

    ¡°I said¡­¡± my throat choking the rest of the words.

    ¡°Come on,¡± the spider pulls me again, releasing me from her hold. ¡°This isn¡¯t going to be goodbye, you know where you can go to visit her when this is over.¡±

    ¡°Will it really be her, or will it be the skinwalker you built to imitate her?¡± I ask, stumbling into another building.

    ¡°They are both real, they¡¯re both her,¡± the spider declares, leading us on. ¡°Or are you a fake as well?¡±

    I can¡¯t respond, spinning the containment rings of the plasma gauntlet, wondering if it isn¡¯t best to just let it all end here. Mom is going to be dead either way, isn¡¯t she?

    Do I really believe that?

    ¡°Scav band ahead,¡± Spider says, using Mom¡¯s hand to guide my own. ¡°Shoot now.¡±

    I pressure the gauntlet to release a burst of shaped plasma and feel the heat rush over my skin for an instant before it flashes ahead. Desperate screams fill the air not quite drowning out the sounds of metal and flesh melting together into slag.

    ¡°Shoot.¡± It burns the air around my arm, but the Spider adjusts my hand again. ¡°Shoot.¡±

    The air around us is warm enough to make me sweat and the skin on my arm stings with a faint burn.

    ¡°They¡¯re done,¡± The spider declares, pulling me along.

    I carefully measure each and every step as I watch the saved data of this area of the city, all while walking ever closer to the meat vendor that should already be prepped for our arrival.

    The faint sounds of people trying to be quiet whisper through the air around us, the heavy breathing, the tapping footsteps, and the low whistling breaths of those whose lungs are either too scarred or rusted to work properly.

    ¡°Here,¡± the spider declares, standing beside me as we both stand outside the shop. I lift a hand and reach for the door, pushing my way in and stopping as the door snaps shut and locks behind us.

    ¡°Identify yourself,¡± a voice crackles through a speaker, an old model by the static.

    ¡°A ghost with an emergency order,¡± I declare, reaching out to him with my daemon code confirming our contract, ¡°You have the parts prepared?¡±

    ¡°Ah, finally burned yourself, did ya?¡± The man chuckles as a door winds open. ¡°People in certain circles have been curious about you, a nobody with contracts prepared for years but never left to rust. Not many of us last so long in the light up there.¡±

    If I¡¯d known I was building a reputation, I¡¯d have done something to hide it. I try not to let myself become unnerved as he presses on.

    ¡°Where¡¯d you get this young skin, anyway, not a seem to be found and a product that would sell well even up above. Real-flesh too, still has spirit in it.¡±

    ¡°Where I got it doesn¡¯t matter, I need to lose it,¡± I declare, trying to tell where he is standing from the sounds he is making as he circles us.

    ¡°Burned bad?¡±

    ¡°As I sent in the message. I need to be found soon and I¡¯d rather they find me dead,¡± I declare, reaching out and finding myself led to a seat. ¡°You can do that, yes?¡±

    ¡°Who do you need to convince?¡± He asks as the spider reaches out for my hand, standing beside me.

    ¡°Recovery,¡± I tell the meat vendor, a smith of the wrong sorts. ¡°They¡¯ll be looking to squeeze us for sizeable unpaid debts.¡±

    ¡°A simple enough job,¡± the man nods along. ¡°Pay is as described?¡±

    ¡°Silver merits and a single gold award,¡± I nod to him.

    ¡°And her?¡±

    ¡°The spiders have claimed her,¡± I inform him. ¡°Her parts are yours when she¡¯s gone.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll get started on her first, then. One quick dive into limbo, and I¡¯ll keep the body warm while I strip it down.¡±

    ¡°Do it,¡± I whisper, hearing only a vague shuffling around me as the smith and the spider work outside of my vision.

    ¡°Goodbye Art, I love you,¡± Mom whispers, her voice breaking. I blink away the tears in my eyes. It is just another spider trick. ¡°Meet me again in the new world.¡±

    ¡°Remember, little Art. You owe us a favour,¡± the spider whispers, the voice her own and entirely echoing inside my head. ¡°Your mother will be waiting with us.¡±

    ¡°Upload starting,¡± the smith declares.

    Flesh beats against metal shackles as Mom gasps for air, she fights to survive, to resist her coming death. She tries to scream¡­

    Then.

    Silence.

    She¡¯s gone.