Rosie's Warehouse

I stand in a grand pavilion, all red curtains and black marble, distorted by the waves of heat and tension cascading like a flood over the crowd. An Isc speaker warbles, though I am too lost in thoughts to hear what was to be announced. Fellow mages shift nevously in their seats. Some - my cohort - stand, Gravis coats whirring and heatsinks hissing. I look to the rest of my team, standing across the pavilion, half-hidden behind an onyx pillar. My eyes lock with those of Themis, his face just barely visible through the crowd. He nods, eyes wide, panic-stricken.

The crowd goes blurry, like an oil painting, half dried, placed onto a shake table. The heat-currents, just as visible to me as motes of dust suspended in a light-beam, meld together in my head as I seek to calm my racing mind. My skull shakes, doubtless the intrusion of the Isc speaker, but I do not care to process what it has to offer me. In fact, I hardly notice the sound. I need to breathe.

I take a deep breath in, and wake up screaming.

I am no stranger to burning - the warped skin on my forearms and back can attest to that. Seared flesh is as familiar a scent to me as the morning dew, and nearly as beautiful. But to have that burning not on your skin, but in your chest, in your flesh, in your throat, and in your lungs, is an entirely different kind of agony, one not so tamed by my augments and willpower.

It feels like ages before I will my eyes open, held in place by dizziness, delerium, and agonizing pain. As soon as the air hits my eyes, they too lit up in a firestorm of frenetic nerve-activity. I am facedown in alien gravel, fingers desperately scrabbling at the sharp stones, attempting to find a footing. Clouds of red dust jet upwards from where my fingers disturb the stones, and the cloying, burning air lines my throat like a syrup. As soon as I find my footing, my hands are already at my waist, loosing my heat-mask in a half-measured, half-mad struggle. Though initially meant only as a barrier against jets of superheated air, typical of Entropic Eha mages, it was better than nothing in this hellish place. Where was I?

I have no time to worry about that particular conundrum, as my hands and mind are much too busy fastening the quartz-glass shield over my face. I take a breath in, and for once no longer feel the acidic slurry drip down my throat. One of my knees gives out like a steel support beam heated to glowing temperatures, and I collapse once more into the gravel, chest heaving. Once the pain disperses somewhat, I haul myself to my feet once again. My own fate has been secured, at least for the time being. Time to attend to the others.

I turn around, rapidly scanning the surface for any sign of anything other than stone-grey rubble and a blood-red sky. Within moments, I spot yellow and blue sashes, about 15 paces ahead. The blue sash, Leto, is hauling herself to her feet - she displays no visible signs of pain on her face, typical of a 'neuromancer' such as herself, but already blood vessels have burst within her eyes, coloring them a deep red, to match the sky above. The yellow sash, Themis, is in worse shape. He has still not lifted himself off the ground, and instead, the gravel around him has begun to lift and scatter erratically. A Gravis in tenuous control of their magic is a dangerous thing indeed, but I set aside all better judgement and dash towards him.

I make it 10 paces before the gravel beneath my slips from under my feet, and I faceplant into the acid-bleached gravel below. Silicate needles penetrate my polybenzimidazole-fiber coat, plunging into warm flesh as if they hunger for it. Nothing compared to the thermal recognition exam, yes, but still agonizing. I feel the skin split like dried paper, pulling apart as if slow-roasted flesh from bone. There is no time to waste. I scramble forward, leaving bloody trails in the rock below, until I reach Themis. I have no hope of lifting him, as even without the gravitic manipulation he still weighs in excess of 250lbs, despite his short stature. The exoskeleton and mass-dampening augmetics hidden beneath his greatcoat add a great deal of weight to an already well-built frame. With no other options, I smack him across the face, as hard as I can.

He doesn't move. I am lifted from my feet, tossed asunder, further once more from Themis. Once again, I quickly rise to my feet, only to find the neuromancer at my side. Leto had managed to haul herself to where Themis lay, and is quickly going to work on the battered Gravis mage. She has obviously dropped her own protections, and looks in a huge amount of pain. Her Isc neuromancy is the barest of the bare - a set process-loop, physically teleporting neurotransmitters responsible for pain or other sensations out of the body, and into the air. To do so is incredibly draining, and can only be localized in a small area for a short time. Leto had managed to hold off her physical response to the toxin for long enough, and has begun succumbing to its effects.

While Leto works to resuscitate the fallen mage, I quickly scan the horizon further. While unable to spot anything on this side of the hill, the air appears to be lighter, less polluted, further up. I beckon to Leto, who has begun hauling a groggy Themis to his feet, and point her upwards towards the top of the hill. Despite my makeshift mask, the acidic air still makes its way into my lungs, and settles within. I can hardly find the energy to move but eventually, despite my body's continual protestations, I and my friends make our way up to relative safety - above the cloud of poisonous gas and noxious chemicals.

I collapse once more to the scrabble below, catching comparatively fresh air in my lungs for the first time in what seems like ages. The air is still painful to breathe and tastes of oxidized copper, but not actively harmful in the way that the air even just slightly lower down on the mountain was. Soon enough, one of the breaths I gulp down hitches in my throat, and with it rises blood. I know better than to hold it, and spit the blood and saliva onto the gravel. The blood-splatter looks at home amongst the crimson skies.

Leto and Themis are soon at my side. Both are coughing and spluttering, and Leto especially looks worse for wear. Her eyes are bloodshot from strain - it looks as if many capillaries had popped within her sclera. In any other incident, I would cauterize the wound remotely - but when dealing with the eyes, that's not an option. We would have to wait for it to heal on its own.

The city lights spread out beneath me. They are a comfort when flying in the dark - I only have the lights below and the noise of the engine above to keep me occupied in the single-seater service helicopter. Small drones flit about under me. Any big city has a veritable army of them, and Jinzhou has only grown since my last visit. The streets below are swarming with people, mostly dockworkers, let off from their shift and hoping to drink or party the night away. I envy them, sometimes.

I scan the horizon for any open helipads. I find none, but I do spot the massive superstructure of the Venerable projecting its lights onto the calm sea beneath it. The whole ship is illuminated, casting nearly the entire port complex in an orange-yellow pallor. I continue my search for a helipad, swinging my aircraft in a wide arc between the city's tallest buildings. Indicator lights blink slowly on and off, reflections catching in the cockpit glass.
I look once more to the city streets, hoping in vain to see her. Spotting a single person from this high up is a fruitless endeavor, and far from logical, but I can't help myself.

Soon enough, I find a place to set down. I carefully fold my red robes and set them in the cargo hold. I can't be too conspicuous here - if another church-member sees me here, and tells Asterius? I had best not consider the possibility. I have already disabled the radio tracker on the helicopter, and spoofed the signal to another, less suspicious location. It's a routine I'm well familiar with by now. As much as I hate to admit it, my little late-night expeditions have become almost commonplace.

I climb the ladder onto the street below. The fog has rolled in now, blending the lights on the storefronts with the lights on the customers into some over-saturated mess. My ocular implant heats up with the extra calculation. Not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to remind me of its presence. The crowd breaks around me. Despite my civilian clothes, my augments are still on full display, and I stand a head taller than most of the workers on the street. I catch a whiff of salt in the air, despite my ravaged senses.

I am 18 again, and I am aboard the Venerable. Callisto and I stand on the prow of the ship. I hold a pair of holo-binoculars, and she holds me. The wind is cold and biting, but she is warm. She whispers something to me, but I do not hear her. The wind roars too loudly for me to ever hope to parse her words, but the way she looks at me when says them leads me to understand anyways.

The chill of the seaside sets deeper in my bones. I am used to the cold - it has been long since my poisoned body has felt more than that chill - but this is something altogether more familiar. Twenty paces from the streetside cafe, I duck into an alley. The fog is thicker now, even permeating this far into the city's center. Quickly, I weave through familiar alleyways. It is not my first visit to this place, nor do I suspect it will be my last. I deftly pull a cigarette from my inner breast pocket and light it with the flick of my finger.

The rain picks up. I pay it no mind. I duck beneath a particularly low hanging electrical cable - they descend like engorged snakes in these alleys, run haphazardly between telephone poles and apartments. My mind races with the ripe possibilities of sabotage, to make a fire in this part of town look like an accident. Asterius would be proud, I think to myself.

Eventually, I turn down another alley and emerge onto the landing of an apartment complex. The workers have since made it back to their homes, and streets around are empty. A woman, carrying an umbrella and wearing a fancy suit - too fancy for this part of town, no doubt - steps from one of the intersections toward me. The cooling fan on my power pack whines. I know at once it's who I'm here for.

I remain silent.

"Ophélie? Is that you?"

I nod in response.

"You know I don't like it when you call me that, Callisto. It's not my name."

"It's the one I knew you by, isn't it?"

I don't manage to muster a response. She's closed the gap by now, and is already in my arms. I don't put up a fight, instead pulling her closer. My right hand can feel the individual silk threads which make up her coat. My left hand feels nothing. As much as it pains me to say, I have missed her. Though she is a nonbeliever, and personal attachments with those not of the faith is forbidden, some part of me feels like it's worth hanging on. Some part doubtless needing excision and replacement with something more perfect, but I have yet to find the damnable piece of me responsible for it all. If Asterius were to know, he would pluck bits from me like a vulture at a carcass until he found it, and…

"Are you cold, dear? You're shaking. Let's come in from the rain, okay?"

I am wont to accept her offer, and follow her lead. Her gloved hand interlaced with my own, we make our across the street. Halfway across, a dockworker steps out in front of me, catching me across the chest. Quickly he moves along, apologizing for the accidental collision. I hear a hiss emit from my life support package. A sharp pain flashes through me, but does not dissipate as most pains do. The dockworker disappears into the crowd once more. Anger flares through me, and I reach for my weapon, only to remember I had left it about the helicopter. My knees buckle. She feels it happen, lifting me once again to my feet, hurrying me across the busy intersection. A hose slips from beneath my coat, staining my undershirt with a caustic mixture of medication and painkillers. I register the senstation just barely, my sensors overloaded on other stimuli. I fiddle with the instrumentation on my chest with deadened fingers, hoping to get the analgesic drip active once more. The effort is in vain. Callisto ignores my hushed protestations, for her to let me go, leave me to fix this, that I'm in pain, and simply carries me to underneath the awning. She's gentle like that.

Peeling away my civilian coat from my exposed augmetics, Callisto gets right to work. Though not nearly as skilled as I, she quickly finds a pressure leak and patches it, something I could not manage through my haze of pain and confusion. The heat rushes out of me as quickly as it flooded in. I welcome the saccharine embrace of the custom-synthesized morphine analogue, collapsing into Callisto's arms as my augmetics reset, leaving me, just for the moment, vulnerable.

I lay my head against her chest, feeling it rise and fall with her breathing. It's a familiar yet blurred sensation, like looking at one's childhood home through dirty and scuffed glasses. Not that I never needed any glasses. I have always seen things for what they are, after all. Why else would I remove one of my own eyes? I say nothing. Callisto speaks.

"You know what I'm going to say to you, right?"

I nod.

"You should come back home, dear. I promise you can. Things are better now."

I nod. I do not believe her. Nonbelievers will often lie, to get those enlightened to renounce their faith. I am inured against such falsehoods. Regardless, my heart stirs as she lifts me to my feet. I am still shaky, but stand on my own. She leads me to the front desk, and asks if a room is available to rent for the night. One is available. She pulls the cash from her jacket pocket, counts it out, and sets it on the counter. She takes the key in hand, and leads me to the room.

We both sit on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to say. Callisto's eyes, in this light, are hidden behind her glasses. She smiles at me. I watch the way her face creases, the lines left behind once her expression returns to neutral. I see bags under her eyes - doubtless she'd been skipping on sleep. Perhaps to see me. I wonder if it's worth it for her. Maybe it is - it would explain why she invites me whenever the Venerable sets in port. Perhaps it's not, and she only comes here out of some obligation, some guilt she feels. I wonder why I assign this to her. I wonder if I lie to myself.

I reach out my hand - the organic one, I know how much she hates the mechanical hand. She takes it in turn, giving it a chaste kiss. I smile back to her, but quickly purse my lips once more.

"Why do you keep coming to see me, Callisto?"

She hesitates. I record her facial expressions for later analysis.

"Because I love you, airhead! Why else would I want to see you?"

"That's fair. I love you too, Callisto. Have things been okay with work?"

"Yeah, now that you ask. I've been busy managing a materials shipment via Greenway, about 300 tons of scrap copper need transporting to fucking, Brazil, for some reason, I don't know. I just handle the logistics. Greenway keeps trying to weasel out of the payments, but I think I've got them. You know, we need an aerial surveyor, to make sure loading goes properly, and I think you… forget it. It's nothing."

"I'm glad things are okay. I'm really proud of you, Callisto, I hope you know."

"Thank you! It's been so busy lately, it's just so nice to come back to something familiar."

Familiar. I roll the word over my tongue quietly, so as not to seem odd. It sits in my mouth like cigarette ash and sea breeze.

Sensing the tension, Callisto pulls a flask from her coat, and pours a shot of what I assume to be vodka in two complimentary plastic cups. She explains to me that she's been saving this stuff for me, and that I would enjoy it. She says it's a citrus infusion, just how I used to like. She lifts the cup, I do too. Together, we take our drinks. The once-beloved lemon extraction tastes like rust and galvanic corrosion to me. To keep up appearances, I smile. She does too. My head spins. Augmetic reset is a universally uncomfortable experience, after all.

My head is still spinning. I lay down to rest. When I close my eyes, it feels almost like the rocking of the Venerable. I do not know why I lie down. I am not tired. I feel a warmth in the back of my skull. Callisto sits on the bed next to me, running her fingers through my hair. The warmth grows stronger. My vision fades, and with it, my consciousness.

The gentle rocking of the Venerable brings me to my senses. It seems I had dozed off in the engine room. Callisto is gently shaking me awake.

"Ophélie, silly, you can't fall asleep here! You've got a flight to make in an hour, they're looking everywhere for you! Adrien is looking in the bow right now, and I was supposed to find you aft. I guess I have a talent for finding just where you end up. Get up, we've got to go!"

"Callisto! Gosh, I don't know how I fell asleep down here. Thanks for coming to get me."

"Actually, dear, since I found you so quickly, we've got plenty of time before either of us have to be anywhere."

She gives a sly smile. I nod, and Callisto leans in for a kiss. I reciprocate eagerly, feeling her lips gently press against my own. She pulls me closer, and I relent entirely, melting in her warmth. I run my hands through her hair, feeling the silky strands part before me. It's beautiful, and I savor the sensation. It's more than anything a pressure cell could replicate. The revelation gives me pause.

I pull away from her, looking at my hands in growing horror. Where one should be gloved, and the other golden metal, instead both are bones, tendons, and muscle, hidden beneath a tanned canvas of skin. I find a growing needle of pain prodding the back of my mind as I stare at my hands. Callisto stands stock-still in front of me, her face an unreadable grimace.

The pain grows worse, and I wake once more in a darkened hotel room. Nearly blinded, I can sense a cascade failure in my mental augments, as if recovering from an intrusion. I wipe the sweat from my face and straighten out my disheveled clothing. Even through the fog, I can still reason enough to know attracting undue attention is nothing but foolish. I stare into the mirror. My eyes are dark, bloodshot. Just as I know them. I duck out the side door, hurrying for the exit.

The receptionist does not see me leave, as intended. I hurry through the streets, keeping my profile down. Too fast, and someone will notice. Too slow, and I may not make it in time. I check the navigational display behind my eyes - it's been sixteen hours since I fell asleep. Far too much for someone like me, and twelve hours more than I had accounted for. I am already eight hours late for check-in. Mounting stress threatens another failure cascade, but I shunt power from my internal processors to my leg augments. The time until I reach my landing pad passes in a blur.

Each rung echoes with metallic impacts as I practically leap from one to the next. Despite their solid construction, they strain under the weight of my golden frame. I am in the cockpit and running through the checklist before my oculars can even process the sensory input. My mind reverts to emergency rescues aboard the Venerable, to secret missions with Lorelai, and I let my muscle memory take over.

Air intakes? Check. Actuation? Check. Hydraulics? Check. Fuel? Check. Comms? Check. GNC? Check. Engine?

The engine turns over, spitting black smoke into the polluted sky.

Check.

The rotors chop, slowly at first, and then in a blur of black against the blue sky. All at once, the craft lifts against its bonds and jumps up into the boundless expanse. Though my entire existence amongst the Order of the Cog's Teeth could be threatened, and my own personal safety is definitely now forfeit, I feel my worries and anxieties slip away as my craft leans to one side, air rushing over the windscreen and past the open side doors in a deafening scream. The air is so much fresher here at low altitude. Perhaps my younger self would have appreciate it more, without the many redundancies, filters, and processors between my throat, lungs, and bloodstream. Regardless, it puts less stress on my life support, so there is little to complain about. Fuel reserves are high - efficiency be damned, I set course for the nearest spaceport. As I fly away, I can't help but look back at the Venerable, floating in the harbor.

Soon enough, I make my final docking approach with the Iron Hand, that grim, beautiful vessel. The docking port itself belies the state of the vessel proper: its metal corroded, muted red illuminators blinking with the loads of power shunted elsewhere in the ship. Looking further, the ship itself is swathed in this red light, reflected off sharp, imposing corners and sections built out into the void almost organically, as if a great beast laden with steel tumors. There is no void-glass present on this vessel. Any scrying into the deep vacuum that needed doing was handled via massive radar arrays built haphazardly into the exterior. Occasionally, the ship would expand enough to swallow these arrays, and they would inevitably be repurposed into directed energy weapons, reactors, or enhanced repair or interrogation chambers. For now, the torchlights of the thermic lances illuminate the port side of the vessel, reflecting off the void-helms the maintenance workers wear.

As the Iron Hand closes in as the capsule approaches the docking port, the view outside the window narrows to only the indicator lights surrounding the port. I make a 24 Newton-second jet towards starboard and, in turn, the reaction control system motors sputters to life. I regain alignment, balance the pulse with an equal jet to port side. My fingers fly lightning-fast over the flight computer. My formal training in such matters is minimal, but in the heat of the moment I always seem to slip into my comfort zone. Soon enough, the data and life-support tethers click into place and the port door slides open, exposing the long and foreboding hallway ahead. I stand, my breath hitches in my chest, and I begin the walk back to my home.

The interior is uncharacteristically quiet. I fiddle with my aural augmentations, but sensor readouts indicate operation at peak capacity. Eyes stare at me from hidden rooms and workshops; they dip behind doors and windows when I stare back. It feels as if I am being watched. I begin to sing a hymn to myself, for comfort. The sound registers perfectly in my ears. It helps me to put the thought out of mind and focus on the melody. I reach into my robes, and withdraw the hidden picture of myself and Callisto, from years ago. She hasn't changed much. I'm unrecognizable.

I miss her.

Ahead lies the door to the inner sanctum. There, Lorelai, Evie, and myself reside. Asterius lives elsewhere. I do not know where. The door to the sanctum is closed. Not unusual for this place, security is taken very seriously, but I can feel the anxiety begin to take root in my heart as I near the identity scanner. My heart, damaged as it is, working overtime, I lean in to the scanner. The machine reads the unique signature of my right eye's augment, pinging a cheery yellow and sliding out the passageway with a hiss of hydraulics. Swallowing my pride, I step through the port.

The first thing I notice on the other side of the wall is how the amber lights shine off of Asterius' anodized titanium claw-legs, the sodium-vapor pallor mixing with the washed-out blue into some sick imitation of olive. It reminds me of the salt-resistant paint of the Venerable, and how Callisto and I always scheduled our mandated painting shifts with each other, in order to savor every moment we had while still remaining inconspicuous. With Asterius now casting his many watchful eyes on me, it seems our invisibility was no longer a given.

"Aurelia."

"Overseer." I kneel in obeisance. I know it will not save me, but perhaps it will blunt the blow.

"You return to us."

I say nothing.

"And just in time, too, " Asterius crows. "You are needed, you know. You must dispense His will."

I am caught off guard by this. Is he really unaware of where I've been? Did he truly just want to give me a new assignment? As I ponder, a mission briefing plays behind my eyes. A cyborg, an old operative of the Cog's Teeth, needs to be eliminated. The mission is routine, simple even. A part of me wonders why this is even to be done at all. The cyborg in question, designated as Mimas, looks as if he has not been maintained in decades, perhaps even centuries. I scoff to myself - as if one could ever live that long under the tenure of any Overseer of the Holy Orders. It seems Asterius has pitched me a softball, as it were. With one of his many arms, he reaches out to hand me a pistol - a heavy, overbuilt thing, lined with carefully machined copper heatsinks and a slot-shaped projector. It looks like a smaller version of the combustor rifles I have used in the past - it seems like Asterius has not forgotten. I kneel once more to thank him, and he nods. While he does, he flicks a switch on one of his PDAs. As I try to rise, my leg actuators do not obey. Locked in place, without a way to balance myself, I topple over in a manner exceptionally unbecoming of one so blessed by the Steeled God. Asterius, a mischievous glint in his many ocular receptors, hovers one blued claw-limb above my chest. He leans in, running his eyes across my body, looking for something. He does not find it. He presses his limb against my neck, threatening to collapse my windpipe and crush the myriad augmetics stuffed inside.

"Don't think I don't know what you've been up to, Aurelia. I-"

I cry out, perhaps in terror, in pain, or in penance. Perhaps none of these things, or perhaps all. Asterius clicks another button, and I can no longer muster the urge to speak.

"That was rude, don't you think? I thought I taught you better than that. Honestly, I'm not upset with you. The One Within rewards such ingenuity. However, I must ask, do you know why she continues to see you?"

Because she loves me! Have you replaced too much of your brain with wires to even register such things anymore?

I see an unnaturally human expression etched in his metal features. Is that… confusion?

"You… really don't know, do you? I had figured you'd be a bit more intuitive, given the nature of our work here. Although, grateful as I am for it, you've never been the type to question orders," Asterius laughed, a sardonic grin forming on what had replaced his lips, "from me or anyone else. To be perfectly honest, though, you can't take all the credit. The Machine God's gifts play a crucial role, blessed as you are."

To drive the point home, a second claw gently taps against the side of my skull. Already, my head had begun to ache from the extended stress of augmetic application. Soon enough, though, both claws are removed and the distinct rush of power into my servos allows me once more the dignity to stand and face my Overseer. Still, he towers over me, but I am now free of such unbecoming circumstances. I bow once again, pistol and shock baton crossed across my chest like the sword and shield borne by holy knights of ages long past. I wonder what they would think of me. Would they see me as a perfection of their goals? A divine instrument, wrath manifest? Or would they look upon me with contempt; a creature shaped by delusion and needless violence? Would they see themselves in me, and would those who come after me see me in them?

Asterius commands me to stand and make ready, and so it is done. A shuttle awaits to take me to Titan, the home of this Mimas. Crossing the airlock into its waiting bay, yawning and cavernous yet still somehow so claustrophobic, I shove my doubts deeper once more. One cannot afford to question the teachings on such an important mission. The airlock hisses, then closes. I catch a momentary glimpse of the stars outside before the cabin is awash in blue light, signifying an upcoming FTL jump. It will still be minutes before we are far enough to jump, though, and so I increase my morphine feed rate. Just enough to knock me out for a few minutes - the jumps always make me so ill. As I slip into unconsciousness, Asterius' words sit like a stone in my chest. His words combined with the more than unusual dream I seemed so trapped in last night… For once in my life, I began to dread the oncoming dark.

When I come to, I am slumped against the window overlooking the moon abreast our vessel. I take a moment to compose myself before taking in its beauty. From here, the marbled atmosphere gives way to roiling clouds lit with arc-flashes of violet lightning, belying the methane density of its atmosphere. We are on a course for the surface, though I do not know where we will land. In preparation, I pull a heavy environment shawl from the wall and fit a beryllium-gold respirator to my face. I can survive on the surface with minimal equipment; only an oxygen supply and way to stave off the cold is necessary. Besides, one could not expect the church to waste such valuables as a full spacesuit on one lowly operative, no? In days gone by, such things would be necessary, but with increased tidal forces on the planet, as well as industrial activity, temperatures have risen to what would be considered the lower end of habitable back home.

The craft brakes hard against the rapidly encroaching atmosphere. Flames lick the surface of the vessel, but the pilot holds us steady. I wish I could be behind the controls of this craft, but Asterius has seen fit to give me an escort. A punishment? Regardless, the craft descends, the shaking steadily abating until the ride is smooth once more. Through the fog, I can see spotlights illuminating something in the distance. My target, doubtless. Landing gears extend, and the rocket engines flare out a few feet above the surface. The landing is rough, but we remain in one piece. I doubtless would have performed much more in line with our standards, but I hold my tongue. Already in enough trouble as is, needn't exasperate my Overseer further.

The cargo door depressurizes and flings open. Lights scream in red-tinted anger, baying for blood. I take my first steps onto the surface. Just as quickly, the cargo door snaps closed and the engines roar to life, kicking back off into the surface. I'm on my own here. With little choice, I begin the trek to the lights on the horizon.

In these sand-blasted hills, the wind roars unlike anything I have heard before, even aboard the Venerable during its most violent of storms. I had lead myself to believe that I could no longer feel cold, that the icy pallor of my hands, my face, my chest, my body was enough to ward off any chills. I had been lead astray. The wind cuts through me like Asterius' blade, its cold embrace beckoning me even as it slices my nerves apart. I duck beneath my shawl, offering respite enough from the storm outside, but each step is hard-won against this simple battle with nature. I begin to worry. If Mimas can exist here… Perhaps he may be a bigger threat than I could have imagined.

Cresting the next hill, the floodlights are laid out before me at last. They surround a low-lying community of homes and buildings meant to protect against the wind, likely an old mining outpost. Two guards, seemingly a civilian militia, stand at the gate. They, at least, get full spacesuits. The wind bites even harder now, knowing even lowly civilian outcasts can access equipment denied to me. Perhaps I can kill one and take theirs, though the church would see that the use of such unsanctioned technology as unfavorable. One of the guards has spotted me. He raises his weapon, illuminating me in its attached flashlight beam. He seems to be shouting something. Quickly, I scan through available frequencies until I can pick up on his. Dialing in, his voice rings out in my skull.

"Halt! I-Identify yourself, intruder!"

I can hear the quiver in his voice. He's inexperienced. The other, less so. I run through the combat calculations in my head for a few milliseconds, draw, and fire. The sight picture is aligned with the experienced guard, the reticle focused on his chest, as is planned. The trigger depresses. Click. Chemical injectors send a burst of deuterium and fluorine from their containment chamber into the barrel of the weapon. Near instantly, the barrel kicks back from the force of the liquid spray, and a barely-visible laser reaches out, blowing a hole in the experienced guard's shoulder, setting him alight. I reposition my sights onto the rookie, only to find he's already left his perch. Taking advantage of the low gravity of this world, he launches himself into the storm, letting the wind carry him as he looses a spray of automatic fire in my direction. Two rounds pierce the shawl, only to bounce off my arm, but four more collide with my respirator, the transferred energy enough to shatter my jaw. A final round skims the edge of the respirator, sending a hollow-point into the bone of my lower jaw, blowing it apart completely.

I see in slow motion pieces of bone and skin impact the sandy soil below. The sight of such raw biology - my own flesh, even - threatens to send me into hysterics. Blood spurts from the wound, its stains hidden against the red shawl and robes. I maintain my focus long enough to send a laser pulse straight through the rookie's head, his flaming corpse flung haphazardly deeper into the compound by the whipping wind. The pain hits me. For a brief moment, it is overwhelming, all-consuming, even the urge to breathe cannot overcome my desire to fall to my knees, grasping at what once was, prying my broken body back into place. The only thing which keeps my jaw attached to my body now is the respirator itself. Moments afterward, the bitter syrup of the reactive morphine dosage hits my system, blurring my vision and reducing the pain to a dull thud.

I am awash with agony, even though the physical pain has somewhat faded. Blood streams down my face, hot and sweet and so very disgusting. It pools in my throat, and I cough out of reflex. In my head I curse my biological reflexes as the cough sends teeth and bone shards flying into the scrabble below and a coating of blood to the interior respirator. I struggle to catch my breath as a group of blurred shapes run by, doubtless startled by the gunfire. Civilians or soldiers I cannot tell - each is equally guilty, and in my morphine haze the difference matters even less. Still able to shoot straight, I level my pistol and bisect a straggler. The blurred form hits the ground in two separate, flaming pieces. I haltingly haul myself to my feet, servos in my legs eager to continue the mission.

Another figure ducks out from a nearby hab complex. No sooner than they cross the threshold, a laser bores a hole through their shoulder and they fall to the ground, their one good arm batting at the rapidly spreading pink fluorine flames engulfing their frame. I stumble over the body, the slowly fading pink glow licking my cloak. At least it's warm - the cold no longer cuts so deep into my core. I hold my pistol to my chest - the orange glow of the heatsink warms me even more, its serrated teeth hovering ever so close to my chest. Taking a breath, I flick a lever down on the pistol and hear the familiar clatter of a pressurized chemical vessel on the metal floor. Letting muscle memory take over, I reach into my cloak to withdraw the next chemical cell. Looking down to ensure proper clearance of the gun, I do not see the figure cross the threshold behind me. I hear his footsteps, however, heavy and cumbersome like a primitive automaton, but this forewarning does not give me time to properly defend myself. I only manage a half block and a curse for not watching my back before a metallic arm crashes across my body.

The next thing my brain processes is the chill of the floor; metal cold as ice. Immediately after, I register the sensation of two of my ribs cracking as a boot slams into my chest. Warnings scream inside my skull: my morphine feed is tapped, and the rate of administration cannot be increased. Vital signs are fading fast. All things I know already. The boot connects again as I curl up to brace. The effectiveness of the maneuver is minimal. Another rib cracks under the assault, and this time I feel a burning pain in one of my lungs. Is this really how I die? So far from Callisto, so far from home, on a standard portable hab-block airlock floor? A broken machine, sputtering and screaming?

The figure seems to be shouting. In a brief moment before the next kick, my ascended eye analyzes the assailant as my target. Asterius must be enjoying this. After all, he can see through that very same eye.

"You red-robed fucks! Why can't you leave me alone?"

The next kick connects. My right arm blocks the blow, but I hear a sickening crunch. I thank God I shoot with my left - no time to grab my baton. My left! I had forgotten my gun clutched in my metal hand, the heatsink still glowing orange-white.

"I'm not going back, goddamn it!"

The figure winds back for another kick. Despite the flare of pain threatening to send me sprawled once more on the frigid metal, I intercept the kick with the serrated edge of the gun's heatsink. Immediately, the circuitry within erupts in sparking flames and Mimas draws back, giving me enough time for me to roll away and haul myself to my feet. Immediately, he's on me again. In my haze, I fail to block his attack, and his hand slams against my collarbone. Despite the martial failure, his attack opens his neck to attack. The heated serrations find their mark, ripping a bloody and smoking gash against Mimas' throat. He stumbles back, spluttering.

I take a halting breath and whisper a litany. I reserve the precious few seconds of peace to reload my weapon despite my broken arm. Before Mimas can reply with another devastating attack, he is put out of his misery by a bolt through the heart. As the fluorinated flames spread across his chest, I move forward to confirm the target's identity.

As I suspected, it's him. He's more heavily augmented than anyone I've ever seen - all four limbs are enlightened, as well as two servo-arms on his back. I lament the fact he had chosen to reject his innumerable blessings of the Steeled God. The copper-bronze material burns green as the fluorine eats away at its surface, the god's gifts disappearing into smoke. I linger my eye on his face, still etched with surprise. Asterius would want to confirm his identity as well, though the augmetics would certainly be enough.

Something catches my eye. A mysterious mark on the side of his temple - one I would not have even seen had he not shaved his head. In moments, I realize the significance of the mark, and avert my eyes. Asterius is likely still watching through my eye, and I can't let him know what I've seen. I'm surprised it was not instantly recognized - after all, the same scar graces my own form. If he truly was blessed as one such as myself, why or how had he managed to break with the path?

My thoughts are interrupted by Asterius speaking within my skull. Reactively, nausea rises in my chest, but I am unsure what I'm reacting to.

"Well done. Extraction dispatched, wait there."

I collapse, letting my blood mix with my target's, and slip into unconsciousness.

An Interlude:

My name is Callisto Moreau. I am 24 years old. I am a logistics manager for my community aboard the cargo ship Venerable. I am Successful.

I set down my tea - too hot for my tastes, I'll need to see about that - and redirect my attention to the man on the other end of the phone. He's evading, I can tell. Spinning some tale about bank transfers and incurred fees and sanctions which threatens to rob me of my focus if I'm not careful. Thankfully, I am careful. I'm able to keep my cool, and hold steady on my deadline. After all, should the payment not come through in time, there are many buyers in Brazil for such a large shipment of copper. I'm not above going back on a contract should the other not keep their end of a bargain - this, many know well.

I hang up the phone. The sun is getting low in the sky, and I've already handled my share of work. All that yet remains is to check the cargo and head to dinner with the folks. Daylight is fading, and as always, there is precious little time to waste. I secure the loose objects on my desk (after all, despite calm seas now, that can always change in but a moment and I would really hate to have my nice teacup damaged) and leave my office en route for the lower bays. I never particularly enjoy heading down that way. I used to quite often in days gone by, but now the endless cramped corridors carry only memories and dust - both of which I have neither the time nor the energy to handle. And yet- it must be done, so best to get it done quick.

The metal staircase rings out as I descend to the lowest levels of the vessel. Beneath my office, in the stern, lies the engine room. From all around me, the whining of the dual engines echoes through the engineering bay. The engines are an ever-present factor of life aboard such a vessel, their distinctive drone echoing throughout the massive watercraft. I don't know the first thing about them, but Ophélie used to work on them in her spare time. I distinctly remember her telling me the horsepower of such constructs - over 130,000, apparently, but such technological details are lost on me. What I do know is that such engines consume 2,800 liters of fuel oil an hour. Many a night I've spent negotiating fuel prices from stingy dealers. After the advent of fusion power, fuel oil is a rarely consumed commodity, which means I can squeeze fuel dealers for heavy oil at cents on the dollar, so to speak. In reality, nobody has used the dollar in over a century, after the American empire fell.

These engines actually predate that collapse. Built in Germany in 2152, these were one of the last internal combustion ship propulsion drives built before the wide adoption of fusion reactor driveshafts. They've been running with comparatively little maintenance for over 150 years now. The amount of time this colony has been afloat amazes me. For a cultural exclave, an experiment like ours, to last for so long? Other cultural exclaves do exist, but ours is more than likely the most successful. We're not fully immune to the ravages of time, though. The hull itself requires plenty of expensive maintenance, though, and we're constantly in danger of leaks in the lower decks. At least I never have to come down here.

I exit the stairwell onto a catwalk above the engineering bay. Two engineers flit about the hulks of the massive engines - the two Boucher boys, if my eyes do not decieve me. One has to wonder whether they have ever seen sunlight at this rate, or if their existence is best spent down here, among the exhaust fumes and engine lubricant. One of them calls out to me. We rarely see each other, and I assume my presence in these quarters must be a novelty. I return the hail, and the engineer returns to his work.

Passing through the main engineering bay to the maintenance corridors, the grand open expanse of the engine room tightens quickly into claustrophobic corridors. Down here, the rocking of the ship is more intensely felt: despite my graceful and purposeful movements, I can still feel my body sway from left to right as I traverse the route to the cargo bay. In my inexperience below deck, I take a wrong turn, taking me through the side workshops. It's been years since I've been here. It's all familiar, but through a clouded haze. I always avoided this place, even though Ophélie spent practically all her time down here. Above deck was my home. Down here, breathing recycled air and engine soot? Even now, I can hardly stomach it. But she did; she took to it like a duck to water. It's funny how that pans out.

It might as well be a shortcut, passing through the workstations. The first cavernous room I pass through is the machine shop. I stay within the tape markings on the floor, certain to avoid danger, even though none of the machines are on and the lights are dimmed. I see lathes, five-axis CNC machines, drill presses, and many more to which I could not give a name ordered haphazardly thoughout the shop floor. Metal stock lines the walls. All purchased with the ship's limited funds. It hurts me to see such expenditures go unused, but I suppose it does mean I don't have to buy more. Another room passes by. This one is the water purification center. Such tasks are handled automatically, and the machinery which controls its function is hidden behind massive steel tanks. Not like I would understand it anyway. I don't need to.

The next workshop is one I'm quite familiar with. It's the only one with an aircraft lift to the central deck, necessitated by the kind of work which occurs within. The elevator is rusted, now. No pilots or maintainers on board to keep it running, with Ophélie gone. I step into her workspace, a thin layer of dust coating the tool rack in the corner as well as every other surface. The aluminum skeleton of a helicopter prototype rests in a corner of the room, engine bared and disassembled. I remember Ophélie talking about the project with me. I only really remember the part about increased fuel efficiency. Heavy oil may be cheap, but avgas still runs a pretty penny. At least that expenditure is gone now.

As much as I just want to quickly get to the cargo hold, I can't help but survey the projects still left out on display. The far desk is the most untouched; explosive powders still remain secured tightly to the wall. Occasionally, the other personnel will raid some of the equipment from this room, but the far desk remains safely out of their attention. The tools hung adjacent to the explosive vials each glint golden in the fluorescent lamps, sparkless beryllium-bronze. Motes of beryllium-bronze dust coat each machine; airborne agents fallen to earth without the constant agitation of use. One of the drawers remains half open. A hint of golden metal emanates from within, which is exceptionally curious. Ophélie always stored her tools outside, so that she could know which ones were missing and perhaps avoid an incident.

My curiosity grows ever more, until I approach the drawer and pull it open. Unmoved wooden drawers splinter as they're once more called back into action, and the contents of the drawer reveal themselves. A pair of hairpins, machined out of purest beryllium-bronze and engraved with crescent moons. I know at once what these were for. Ophélie left us only two weeks before my birthday. This must have been her gift to me. While such a gift would be much beloved by my younger self, in the years since her departure I've cut my hair short. Hairpins would serve no purpose for me, now. Anyways, gold isn't my color. I wear platinum, and she should have known that.

Once more composed, I make my way through Ophélie's old workshop and head to the cargo bay. As expected, the cargo is all in once piece. Such a cavernous hold threatens to nauseate, but I quickly do my oxidation inspection and head to the stairs leading towards upper deck. I expect my parents and the Lemoynes are waiting for me by now, and I would hate to leave them wondering as to my whereabouts. Aimé has told us he'd be preparing something special - wild caught salmon. Not my favorite, all things considered, but certainly a nice meal to have over discussion.

Thoughts swirl in my mind as the stairs ring out with each cresting step. Dinners with the Lemoynes can certainly be difficult, as Ophélie always seems to linger just at the edge of the topic of conversation, as if she still graced the table with her nevous presence. I don't know where she is now, or if she's even still on Earth. No matter. She'll come home eventually; I'll see to it.

I emerge on the top deck, a gentle wind blowing my hair behind me. The sun is reaching the horizon now, sky lit up purple and orange in resplendent glory. The fading sunlight refracts through glass cups as Elodie, Leander, Aimé, and Genevieve wait at the impromptu deckside table. The weather is predicted to be gentle for the rest of the night, and nights here in the South China Sea are quite warm this time of year. Elodie calls to me immediately.

"Callisto! You've seen fit to join us, I see."

"I'm sorry, mom, I've been busy with work. Had to come up through the bow deck to check the cargo hold."

"I'm proud of you. You're a hard worker," Leander assauges. He wears his characteristic smile well. He's always been an exceptionally kind man, perhaps in part to offset his wife's stone-like personality. He's always been a place of refuge when the pressure of growing up as Elodie's daughter got too intense, but I can't blame either of them. I think I turned out well enough.

"It's good to see you, Callisto! Why don't you have a seat? I hope you enjoy the food I made for us - I had the day off and decided to go all out," Aimé Lemoyne grinned, laughing heartily. He seems quite proud of his work. I would be if I were him - the dishes of baked salmon, grilled vegetables, lemon-butter pasta, and risotto looked delicious, and luckily still warm. Most of the attending had already taken their plates, save Genevieve. She glanced my way, gracing her face with a terse grin before looking back out across the water.

Genevieve took Ophélie's absence hard. We all did, really, except for the de la Fontaines, but even Aimé in time was able to recover and reobtain his joviality. Genevieve was never the happiest person in the world, but since Ophélie's departure she's been dedicated to her work and not much else. I can tell she doesn't like me. I suspect she knew about Ophélie and I, and in some way blames me for her absence. For not trying hard enough? For driving her away personally? For not going to get her back? I can't tell, but the way she looks at me tells me there's a deep animosity there.

I take a plate despite the building tension in the air. A slice of salmon and some risotto should do for now. An empty seat, between Aimé and Leander, perfect for where I'd like to sit. The chair is comfy, and the warm air, fluffy cushions, and gentle light of the sunset threaten to pull the spectre of sleep ever closer after a long workday. I haven't been sleeping well, lately. I'm not sure why, but I wake up in the middle of the night quite routinely, as if roused by a nightmare. I never can remember my dreams for long enough to write them down, though.

The conversation continues from before my arrival. I can hardly pick out even the topic of conversation, and instead focus on my meal. Aimé is telling a story about one time the kitchen nearly burnt down the central hold of the ship. Leander is talking about his students. Everyone seems to be progressing well in learning by the material, but he wasn't lucky enough to escape having a troublemaker or two this year. Elodie joins in with some gossip about one of the other families, and what Captain de la Fontaine sees fit to do to resolve the situation. She asks my opinion on the matter. Lost in thought and ripped back to the present, I compose myself and make a judgement.

"I mean, I agree with Captain de la Fontaine. Am I even allowed to disagree?" I chuckle.

Aimé cracks up at this judgement. Elodie remains stony-faced as always, Leander gives me a knowing smile, and even Genevieve cracks a faint grin. Aside from Elodie, who seems to practically worship the man, Jean de la Fontaine is an infamous man board the vessel. As Captain, he controls where we go, what we do, and how we do it. He's also responsible for maintaining the cultural values of the vessel. I can respect his goals, but our views have certainly differed at times. I thank God that he never found out about Ophélie and I - were we exposed as a couple publicly, we would have both been shunned and likely cast off. We wanted a life together, certainly, but not under those circumstances.

I used to dream about a life away from the vessel. Ophélie and I used to plan our escape - a helicopter ride to one day never return. Then, we could be out openly. I could get work in some financial sector, and she could live with me. I used to daydream about the kind of apartment we'd buy. Maybe something with a view of the sea, but maybe that might have reminded us too much of home. Maybe somewhere in the mountains, where the air is clear and the skies are open. These days, though, I know that without her, I have no reason to leave the Venerable. It's really not that bad here, after all.

I stand up from the table. I only promised a short reunion, and my time has run out. My family and the Lemoynes bid me farewell, and I begin my walk across the deck to the stern superstructure. Ducking into a propped open bulkhead, I once again enter the computer room. Various computational devices line the walls, glowing a sickly green. Gabriel de la Fontaine sits in a rotating chair in the middle of a monitor bank, screens playing various in-progress renderings of different scenes. The contents of some make me blush.

"You have the simulation ready?"

Gabriel turns towards me, leaning back in his seat.

"Just finished rendering today. Domestic simulation, baking bread. Lockout protocol, various integrations. If you need to know more, just stop by, What do you even need this for, anyways?"

"That's for you to wonder and for me to know. Here, does this suffice?"

I count out a stack of bills, confirm the amount, and hand the total over to Gabriel. He palms me over a small chip drive, able to be slotted into my holo-watch. If he knew where this particular program was destined, I'm certain he would rat me out, even at the cost of his own safety. The de la Fontaines still haven't forgiven Ophélie for Adrien's death after all this time, even when ruled an accident. At the very least, the de la Fontaines and the Lemoynes certainly never liked each other. But that's not my issue right now.

With the program in hand, I head below deck to my quarters. As a logistics manager, my quarters are at the very least more spacious compared to other single-occupancy rooms. I at least have an oaken desk, small personal kitchen, cabinet, and wardobe. Certainly nothing to scoff at by any means. I feel Ophélie's hairpins still in my pocket, feeling almost warm to the touch. The sensation is unnerving, and I have the overwhelming urge to hide them - to erase any trace of her here, leave the slate clean as if she never existed in this place. I pour a drink for myself, and begin the process of turning in for bed.

I wake up in a bed unfamiliar to me, silk sheets wrapping around my frame. I flinch in momentary panic, but quickly come to my senses as I remember my mission, pushing aside fuzzy alcohol-dimmed memories of the last night. Rolling over in my best impression of someone still slowly waking up, I reach for my partner. To my slight surprise, I find the bed empty. It was somewhat expected. She seems the type to wake up early.

I sit up in bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My left eye burns - it’s been exceptionally irritated as of late. Perhaps a reaction with the newly installed Mindshackle augment and other neural enhancements? My golden arm twitches. I’m still getting used to the movement, the neural interfacing crude and requiring enhancements. It’s uncomfortable to say the least, but I must put on airs of comfort and refinement. Augmentation without the proper control is simply uncouth. Cheap.

Feeling cheap is nothing new to me, now. Despite being clothed in silken sleepwear I could have never dreamed of affording on my own, I feel worthless. Used. The clothes on the back worth more than the body wearing it. Putting on some overwear, I slowly make my way into the hallway. Corinne hears me despite my intention to remain obscured, and calls out.

“Genevieve? Is that you?”

The name feels unnatural to hear in this context. I had taken a name I was familiar with - my mother’s. It felt wrong to use in such a deception. Despite this, I managed to muster a response.

“In the flesh. You must have tired me out last night - I slept like a rock.”

She didn’t need to know that my rest - like always - was fitful and unfulfilling.

“I think you must have tired yourself out. Did you know you talk in your sleep, dear?”

My face falls.

“Who’s Callisto? Actually - don’t tell me. I don’t need to know.”

At least I had not let slip more than that. I gingerly make my way to the kitchen island, pulling up a chair to the massive slab of marble which stood sentinel in the center of the bright white kitchen. Sunlight filtered in through trees gently swaying in the morning light, and the sound of seabirds echoed outside. Waves crashing could just barely be heard - only perceptible through my advanced sensor suite. Overall, it’s quite calming. It reminds me of home in a way I cannot articulate, stirring emotions in my chest. My hand shudders. Corinne notices, but pays no mind.

She tends to breakfast, eggs and fish cooking in a cast iron pan. Though she’s a busy woman - a council member, no less - today is an off day for her. Probably why she took me home. I see my evening dress haphazardly draped across the sofa in the living room. Evidently, she hadn’t seen fit to tidy up too much. Maybe she wanted to remember.

Breakfast, as much as my stomach turns with stress, does sound appetizing. I curse myself for actually falling asleep - my mission would be made effortless if only I had managed to stay awake - but the mission is not unsalvageable at this stage. Asterius would be cursing me if he could observe, but most signals intelligence has been disabled at this moment. For a better cover story. It would be hard to explain a radar warning receiver activating when I walked by.

Taking a break from tending to the breakfast, Corinne pours me a glass of water. It’s lightly flavored by cucumber and mint, providing an exceptionally refreshing experience I was wholly unprepared for. I had always grown up with rationing, and experienced even more so on the Iron Hand. To flavor one’s own water with these perishables? Such concepts were beyond me. I can tell my mask slips, for but a moment, as I wholeheartedly enjoy the beverage. I catch Corinne’s glance as it happens and see her eyes soften for but a moment. Perhaps, to her, I register as more than simply someone to take home. Maybe she sees something in me. Maybe I could get used to infused water and soft sunlight and sea breeze.

Maybe it’s best for me to stop imagining such things.

The breakfast is done, lightly charred around the edges, my chemical sensors pinging volatiles floating in the air. Paired with lovely French bread (much better than my own baking, as much as I hate to admit it), the meal is certainly delicious and nourishing, suitable after a long night of drinking and otherwise. I politely wait until Corinne has begun to eat until I do.

“How come I haven’t seen you around before, Genevieve?”

I pause. I wasn’t expecting her to ask questions.

“You know, I pay attention to anything going on in the area. Councilmember of the New West isn’t exactly a job where one can afford to not be perceptive.”

I take a breath before responding.

“I’m here on business, I guess. Representing someone hoping to make some expansions on this coast.”

“Interesting! I wonder who you could be representing, sweet thing. I’d say, given the arm and the other augmentation,” she says as a sly smile crosses her face, “you would be representing the-”

“Shipping company! It’s a shipping company,” I blurt out, in a rather unbecoming way.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Tell me about this company.”

“We operate mostly out of Asia, hoping to expand into the City of Angels, I just -”

I take a moment to compose myself.

“I wasn’t expecting to talk business today.”

“I understand, dear. I’m sorry about that. How’s the breakfast?”

“Delectable, Corinne. Thank you so much. I don’t think I’ve ever been treated like this before.”

She smiles once more. The edges of her face crease when she does in such a beautiful way, and her eyes seem to laugh, reflected in the late morning sunshine. My guard slips. I smile back, and she laughs. I laugh with her. The mission slips from my mind like so much water on a polished metal surface, like the water droplets from my new arm in a warm shower.

She’s gorgeous. The teachings of Asterius flare up in my mind, as well as my devotion to Callisto. The guilt hits in waves. First Asterius’ words in my mind, echoing to never let one not so blessed as myself in, as friends or lovers. Such attachments are anathema to us, the rust between our skin and our soul. I wonder what he would do if he knew what I felt for Corinne, an avowed enemy of the church and our enlightenment. Overseer Zure most certainly counted on her psychological profile best priming her to fall for me, but Asterius would be enraged if he knew I felt even the slightest thing for one outside of our own ranks.

And Callisto. I can imagine the heartbreak in her words. I know I should not be affected by such things, that she does manipulate me to cause me to stray from the light, but I cannot let her go. I could not bear to face her if I let myself fall deeper into this rose-colored haze.

I take a drink of water, letting the mint clear my head. Corinne is still looking at me. I cannot tell if she’s imagining a future or just undressing me with her eyes. It doesn’t matter. I can’t afford to let it continue. The sliding glass door beckons, offering escape. I stand, making my way to the door. I open it slightly, letting the sea breeze wash over me. Despite my attempt at escape, Corinne follows, resting her hands on my hips. I shiver at the sensation, though I do not attempt to remove her. I’m almost honored that she still seeks to pursue me, even after she’s had her fun. It will not make my job any easier.

Her holo-watch buzzes. I feel her let go of my waist, and retreat further into the kitchen. It’s a relief in some ways, but I can feel the way my body reacts to the absence of hers. Such an experience is a deeply painful reminder of my own humanity. I can hear the continued buzzing of the holo-watch, what seems like a barrage of text messages. My sensor suite picks up an outgoing call to community police, which could only mean one thing.

I brace myself for what is to come, and turn around just in time to avoid the cast-iron frying pan careening towards the back of my head. I manage to duck out of the way, but the overhand swing catches me in the left shoulder, knocking me to the ground. She shouts something at me, but I cannot parse her through the adrenaline haze. All I am sure of is that she knows who I am. How or why she knows this, I cannot tell, but such details are unimportant. I attempt to rise, only to catch another blow from the frying pan to the arm once more. It sparks and twitches, throwing me off as I attempt to defend myself. I see murder in her eyes, though, and realize that now is my only chance to complete the mission, before the local police arrive. If this gets out… I can hardly consider the possibility.

Corinne is strong. Not as strong as a trained fighter, and certainly not as large, but she’s definitely been training. No one weak could swing something so heavy like she does. She continues to slowly pursue, backing me towards the closed sliding glass door. An idea strikes. An agent of the Cog’s Teeth must be resourceful, or else she is doomed to fall in the line of duty. Though I have only been an agent for a short while, I do not intend for this to be my final mission. With my heavy augmetic arm, I slam my fist against the door, glass shattering behind me. The unnatural movement throws me to the ground as I twist to avoid the worst of it, though glass still embeds itself deep into my thigh. Despite my best efforts, I cry out in pain, the flood of morphine into my system only dulling the agony. Hauling myself once more to my feet, the intrusion of glass into my musculature ripping new gashes in my leg, I fill my right hand with glass shards. Though the material cuts deep into my hands, I’m able to get a good enough grip to send the shards flying into Corinne’s face, blinding and stunning the councilwoman.

Unfortunately, she is not stunned for long. Despite crying out and holding her face, she blindly strikes out with the pan, connecting with the fourth rib down, right side. The bone collapses instantly. As if stabbed, a sharp pain erupts in my lung, made worse by my body’s reaction to instantly gasp. Despite the fortitude offered by my augmentations, I double over once again, broken glass embedding itself into my shoulder this time. I can’t contain the scream this time either. Some blood comes with it, as I curl up coughing dark red fluid mixed with phlegm. Such vulgar displays of humanity would doubtless earn me a punishment at the hands of Asterius, though luckily for me, he is not here. It’s only Corinne and I now.

She must have heard me fall. At the very least, she must have heard me scream. Despite the blood pouring from beneath the hand covering her face, she kicks wildly in my general direction. She’s not wearing shoes, instead opting for softer kicks hoping to discover my location. She connects with my shoulder. Quicker than I can expect, her heel connects with my sternum and pain radiates from the impact site. I try to dodge the next one, but she’s quicker than I expect, the second strike fracturing the bones underneath. Despite the solid hit, she slams the frying pan into my chest again, setting my frayed nerves alight with agony. I cough, the damage to my lungs severe enough to elicit such a reaction. My blood stains the front of my silken nightwear, disgusting, sickly dark red blooming across pure white fabric. I can hardly breathe, my lungs stilling with the repeated trauma.

Corinne, though evidently experienced in self defense, is unable to remove her arm from my reach in time with such a heavy weapon. Mustering all of my fading strength, I’m able to catch her arm and pull her to the ground with me. She screams as she falls onto the bed of broken glass, her piercing cry eliciting great discomfort or even pity in my psyche, something I believed I had already excised. Taking the opportunity and rolling into an upright position, pain flaring in my shoulder as the glass is driven yet deeper, I’m able to secure both my hands around her neck as she struggles against my grip. I’m much larger and heavier than she is, and as such her attempts to dislodge me are in vain. She strikes with the pan against my side, but with such little leverage, it only succeeds in causing pain - no more broken bones. I feel her windpipe give way beneath my fingers, slow cracking and bending under the weight of my body, her protestations morphing into rasping and wheezing. With the vice-grip of my augmetic hand tightening around her neck, it’s not long before her futile attempts of a counterattack slow and eventually stop. Her sightless eyes, despite pooling blood, transition from burning with anger, to terrified and panicky, to pleading, to eventually resignation at her fate.

I wonder what she must have been thinking in her last moments. Maybe she had been thinking about what a mistake it was to bring the tall girl home after the ball. Maybe she had been hoping for the police to bust down the door, shoot her assailant, and help her to her feet. Maybe she had been thinking none of those things. My main objective, now, is the desperate need to stagger to the lawn where I can wait for exfil.

Collapsing in the grass outside the home, I smell the sea breeze as the rotor-wash of a cult helicopter draws closer. I must be a sight. Clothed in expensive nightwear ripped to ribbons with shards of broken glass, the once-white silk stained deep red with blood, both my own and Corinne’s. I remember the feeling of times like these. Learning to fly by the coast, hearing the chopping of helicopter blades as they agitate the salt-laden air. Even the smell of blood is familiar, eliciting memories of flying over a boat unloading bled tuna, the sharp stench of it permeating the cabin air, overpowering even the smell of burning avgas and machine oil.

I permit myself a moment to think of home before collapsing onto the cold, dewy grass.

Pistol-caliber rounds ricochet off the heavy steel slab held aloft by my right arm, servo motors straining against bone while the staccato of submachine gun fire echoes in the restrictive hallway. The remaining targets are highlighted against the reticle of my pistol - nothing can hide them now. One throws a smoke grenade, filling the room with acrid grey clouds. While my expression does not change, I can't help but internally light up at this blunder. They don't know it, but they have just sealed their fates.

I see the first target against the hallway wall, hiding behind a makeshift barrier formed of an emptied filing cabinet. It will not save him. Low-caliber fire pinging off my shield, I level my pistol just to the left of the crouching soldier's outline in the thermal imager. With practiced movements, I depress the trigger, feeling the gas inject into the chamber as the laser reaches out into the hallway. Illuminated pink by the refracting smoke, the laser bores straight through the makeshift cover and halfway through the soldier. The superheated fluorine burst follows closely behind, oxidizing gas flooding into charred wounds, erupting into mauve flames. In the half second laser uptime, I sweep the beam across the target's body, near cutting him in half. With the fluoride-pink flames rapidly consuming his body, he doesn't stand a chance.

His screams lure another target into view, firing wildly into the hallway. I duck behind my shield, with no bullets finding their mark. As reprisal, I bore a hole straight through his chest. Nothing fancy, just a killshot. As if anticipating my reload, the third and final target dashes towards me, hoping to finish things in close combat. I don't have my baton with me, but I break his assault against my shield, knock him to his feet with the superheated blades of my pistol's heatsink, and cave in his head with the base of the sixty pound steel shield. His brains, greasy and slimy like unrendered fat, squelch against my boots as I take another determined step forward. Such raw flesh no longer affects me quite so much as it did on Titan. The exit clear of hostiles, I make my way to the waiting helicopter outside the premises. Getting behind the controls of such a beast has never felt so good. The engine roars to life, spitting and hissing as it does, rotor blades cleaving the air. Incrementing pitch trim, the massive craft leaps off the helipad and ascends into the blue skies above.

It is freeing, in a way, to fly in an open canopy helicopter. To feel the wind in your hair, the deafening roar of the rotors above, the inertia of a five-ton craft beholden to one's every whim - such things are all freeing in a way little in my life is. For a moment, I am able to forget about it all. Callisto's betrayal, the mindshackle, even Corinne (her memory still sticks in my mind, even now), all disappear. I'm able to leave them behind in the trail of disturbed air which tails the helicopter as I make my escape. The flight does not remain so exciting for long, quickly settling into a more peaceful lull as I watch the endless expenses of dry grassland pass beneath. Rolling hills hang in the periphery of my vision, hardly ever drawing closer, as if merely an illusory promise.

The landscape of the central steppes is one intensely uncomfortable yet extremely familiar to me, and has always posed an interesting enough subject of thought. I'm reminded immediately of my true home when I look out across the endless grasslands, the horizon shifting and stirring in the wind just as the sea does. Terra firma has never been kind to me, though. Only in sea or sky can I really feel at home.

Touching down at a nearby spaceport tucked away in the remoteness of the steppe hills, I am able to ascend to orbit easily enough with the vessel I had descended to the surface with. A hardy thing, and has served me well. A transport shuttle since modified with plenty of aftermarket parts and fixes, it's almost unrecognizable from its original form. No name - that would attract too much attention. The cargo space has been hollowed out to fit a small living quarters, with a cot (only long enough to fit my frame if I curl up), bathroom, and record player built into a cabinet. The record has since gone quiet by the time I dock with my new home.

The Iron Hand is aflutter with activity when I step aboard. I am hardly even acknowledged by the technicians - thank God - as I make my way to Asterius’ quarters. A shift gathers in the mess hall for dinner. The choir practices down a hallway. The lights flicker outside the workshop, doubtless the result of some kind of plasma experimentation. Despite it, I keep my eyes to myself, fixed dead ahead on the bulkhead doors at the end of the passageway. Behind them lies Asterius, and with him my evaluation. In preparation for the Church meeting soon, Overseers from across the solar reaches will come together and evaluate their operatives, exchanging and promoting the best. I ought to represent the Order of the Cog's Teeth well.

I place my mechanical palm against the doorframe, a pleasant chime ringing as the bulkhead hisses open.

“Come in, Sister Aurelia.”

I do as I am told, and cross the threshold.

“Overseer Asterius, I did as was commanded. The compound is clear, and the enemy presence has been eliminated. I trust all is satisfactory,” I say, kneeling.

“All is satisfactory,” Asterius’ vocoded voice reassures, “and the remainder of the mission is proceeding according to plan.”

I see helicopters landing at the massive concrete complex, soldiers rappelling down gargantuan slopes of weathered grey stone, and science teams stepping through the cavernous cargo loading bay. The facility, a reconstruction of a colonial synth-template field hospital - complete with exterior AA gun - had been constructed on Earth as a test article and had since become host to anti-Church activity. As such, the area had to be reclaimed.

“I'm very proud of you, Sister Aurelia,” Asterius continued, “And you can stop kneeling. Thank you for your devotion.”

“Thank you, Overseer Asterius.”

“Come with me. By the viewport.”

Nervousness rising in my chest, I hesitate a moment, but do follow his commands. The expanse of the Iron Hand extends beneath us, the tumor-like growths across the surface of the vessel exemplifying the strength and adaption of our people. Asterius takes in the view for a moment before speaking.

“Estimate the length of this vessel for me, will you?”

“I'm not sure. A kilometer?”

“A kilometer and 200. This place is our home, but it is quite small. At least compared to the palaces of Tyr and Helios. Why do you think that is?”

I pause a moment, nervous about saying the wrong thing. Before I get a chance to respond, Asterius continues once more.

“We've always been the ‘cursed’ order. Even before my time, that stain has followed us. Forced to hide behind mediocrity in order to stay under the radar, despite the Earth itself resting beneath us. But, this is our place.”

I remain silent.

“We always have to suffer for what comes easily for the rest. We have to bear the hardships as they come, and remain on top. We have to make the hard decisions no one else will, and we have to face down society at large.”

He pauses for a moment, turning to face me, and runs a hand over my golden arm.

“Like this. A painful reminder, but something that makes you more perfect. No one said it would be easy. But, I can assure you, everything you've endured here I've gone through in the service of my own Overseer.”

The intensity in his eyes - one of his few remaining organic features - conveys the brutal reality behind his words. I believe him.

“Yes, that includes what you're thinking. An operator must be unbreakable, and you are my operator, Aurelia. From the moment I first met you, I've known you've had the potential to be the greatest operator the Church has ever seen, even more so than myself. Everything I've done for you, everything, has been with good reason. You are my pride and joy, and I want to make you into the best version of yourself that you can be. Do you trust me, Sister Aurelia?”

I kneel once more.

“I trust you, Overseer Asterius.”

“Excellent! I have some news for you, before you go. I've decided to loan you out to an old colleague of mine.”

My stomach drops instantly.

“You'll be accompanying Overseer Zure of the Order of Vigilant Steel and his operator Sister Octavia for the foreseeable future. You'll still be acting in my stead, and Zure has no real power to make you do anything you don't want to, so don't worry. I think it would be a valuable experience for you, at the very least.”

His reassurances do help, somewhat. At the very least, it rang better than being loaned out to any of his other ‘old colleagues’ or ‘honored guests’, where the only rule was not to complain. I had heard stories of Octavia, at the very least, and was excited to meet her.

“Thank you, Overseer Asterius,” I say, kneeling once more.

“You may go, Aurelia. It seems you have a guest,” Asterius smirks.

I heed my overseer, exiting through the bulkhead, taking one last look at the stars through Asterius' massive window, the six-legged shadow obscuring the stars behind it, leaving only pitch black where he stood. Wreathed in the cloak of stars, Asterius cut an intimidating figure.

Ducking out into the hallway once more, I can hear the distinctive whir of a microphone, seemingly hovering down a utility corridor, before a familiar voice calls out.

“Aurelia? Is that you?”

“Harut!” I exclaim, turning at once to the source of the voice.

Harut is probably my best friend, both in and out of the Church. Our first meeting is something of an inside joke between us, as we met both modeling for an intra-Church morale campaign. We even had a few shoots together, which ended up being quite a lot of fun. He is as afflicted with the Mindshackle as I am, and as such we were quick to bond, shared miseries providing a wonderful basis to build a friendship.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. While we both enjoy each other's company, he's not the type to drop by on social calls. Overseer Kossa keeps him on a tight leash, to put it lightly.

Hearing my question, Harut smiles, his normally stiff face loosening momentarily at my inquiry. The yellow sodium-vapor lighting reflects off his facial augmentation, copper facial plating reminiscent more of a statue than a man. At least it was tasteful and well crafted, his visage naturally enhanced to seem personable, attractive, and trustworthy. It helped that he was emblematic of such virtues naturally as well, though the mindshackle has dulled his charms somewhat.

“It's your birthday, silly! I certainly couldn't miss that. I know it's not much, but I brought you some gifts.”

Reaching from beneath his robes, he deftly withdraws a few packs of cigarettes - the same kind Callisto used to bring me. How he knew what brand to get, I do not know. I take the gift in hand, quite honored he would even think of me at all.

“Just one more thing, okay?”

Harut reaches into his robes again, this time withdrawing a beautifully woven golden silk sash, simple but elegant. Perfect for someone like me. I try to keep myself together, but tears well nonetheless. Pulling Harut into a hug, I tearfully thank him for thinking of me today, and that even I had forgotten my own birthday. The days blend together now, too much for my taste, hours lost in a morphine haze.

I let him go, his warmth leaving me just as quickly. He gently takes the sash from my hand, pinning it in place over my shoulder.

“Pose for the camera,” he says, the camera drone which follows him everywhere flitting into view.

I do as he asks, taking a demure pose as the camera drone seeks the best angle. Soon enough, it emits a bright flash, and my holo-watch chimes. The sash looks even better on me than I could have expected, its flair brightening up an otherwise drab outfit.

“Follow me, will you?” Harut prompts, after admiring the photos.

“I heard from a friend of mine that you’ll be transferred to work under Verdan Zure. Is that something you want to do?”

“I’m nervous, Harut. But if it’s true he has no real power over me, then I guess it can’t be all bad,” I reply.

“Well, I can tell you this much. I’ve worked with Zure before. He’s not like a lot of the other overseers. It’s hard to know what he wants. But he’s fair, and he’s actually quite nice to work under,” Harut says, pulling me in closer as he does, “at least much better than your butcher here.”

I initially take offense at the implication, but the sentiment rings true. All Harut’s augments were voluntary. The skin around his face was raw, yes, but it was raw in the way ones blessed find beautiful, the melding of skin and steel. My skin was raw, as well, and thus still beautiful, but it was raw against my will. Scalpels and bullets alike carved me to their liking, not my own. Even my beauty was not my own.

“Sister Octavia is at least pleasant to work with. She’s quite closed off, but I think she might like you. She seems like the… sympathetic type,” Harut continues.

“I can work with that.”

“She liked my drone, too. Couldn’t get enough of it. Wanted to get her own,” Harut replies, drone buzzing happily.

“I can imagine! I think it's cute.”

“Cute isn't the word I'd choose, but to each their own. Anyways, Octavia is certainly no Eliana, if that's any consolation.”

“It is. That's reassuring, at least. I don't need another operator pitying me for ‘outdated tech.’”

Harut chuckles, ducking into an adjacent hangar bay. A shuttle sat in the center, cryogenic steam spitting from decaying pipe seals. Not my shuttle, but close enough in form to be mistaken at a distance. Emblazoned with the symbol of the Order of the Crystalline Hand, it's clear enough that this shuttle is Harut’s.

“Don't worry, I'm not leaving yet. Soon, but not now. However, would you be so kind as to step inside, mademoiselle,” Harut coos, mimicking my accent on the final word. He always sees fit to tease me at least once whenever we see each other. As he was plucked from the Venusian acid plants, the idea of a cultural enclave such as the Venerable is almost incomprehensible to him.

“You know, I can still hear that Venusian twang in your voice. And you don't even have an AutoVox!”

“Okay, Aurelia. Turn off that AutoVox and sing for me in that… beautiful voice of yours, won't you?” he replies, exaggerating his natural accent.

Catching me pouting, he apologizes. Sometimes we get caught up in the banter and go a bit too far - my voice is a sore subject for me. I was only implanted with an AutoVox after my work amongst the fumes and dusts of the hangar bay ruined my once clear singing voice. Asterius considered the loss too great, and as such provided the remedy. The same is rarely extended to the technicians and menial workers. If anything, I'm lucky to receive my treatment.

“No matter. Do come aboard?”

I oblige, climbing into the cramped shuttle. The interior is done-up well, better than my own shuttle. A mirror is hung on one wall, above his cot, mildly cracked. The other wall is decorated like a mural, roiling clouds in vibrant colors painted by hand. The only interrupting element is a calendar. Looking closer, my cheeks blush red and I turn away.

“Harut. Tell me exactly why you actually have one of these.”

“I figured we put too much time and effort into this photoshoot not to commemorate it, no?”

I shake my head disapprovingly. Emblazoned above the month of August is a photo of Harut and I posing in outfits far too revealing for my sense of decency. I'm welding metal on an aircraft frame with grossly unacceptable PPE while Harut stands behind with a clipboard, outfit similarly sexualized. Our augmetic scars had been touched up in post, imparting a red blush to the wounds not present in the real article. I remember the photoshoot well enough. It was exceptionally embarrassing, but at least it was with Harut. Neither of us really had a choice in the matter - Asterius and Kossa held our metaphorical leashes tight with the Mindshackle. They figured it was a good morale-building exercise. Not for us, presumably. My mind drifts to Asterius’ words before I left. Was he ever forced to model in his tenure as operator? I highly doubt it. Hypocritical. Yet another sin to add to the order. Was this my destiny?

Harut interrupts my thoughts.

“You know why you're being transferred, right?”

“I can guess, but enlighten me.”

“Callisto. Asterius can tell she's becoming a problem for you. He knows what she's doing to you, after all. He's going to get you set up with a stable presence while you process what's going on.”

"What she's doing to me?" Ever since my encounter with her hallucination, the name Callisto stirs discontent in me, despite my overwhelming love for her. It's hard to explain - as if she is more than what she claims, or perhaps less.

"What's the deal with you two, anyways? I've never seen anything like it. I know I'm not Sierra, and you don't tell me everything, but what is it about her that keeps you so attached? She's a nonbeliever, and you'd better start treating her like one. But yes, what she's doing to you. You seriously don't know?" Harut's tone takes on a more pointed quality as he speaks. As if he's disappointed in me for something.

The pit in my stomach grows deeper. I know on an intrinsic level what he means - my dream back on Earth, Callisto's apparition in the viewport, all our 'shared memories' that I can hardly remember. I don't want to accept it, but what choice do I have?

"Harut, what is she doing to me?" I ask, my voice steely cold.

"She's tapping into your augmentation, Aurelia. I figured you of all people would know when a mindshackle is being used on you. Heaven knows I do. Asterius says she's been loading programs for at least the past year or so. Seems like she's having them custom-built to bypass encryption. What he -and I - don't get is why she's just doing this as opposed to anything else. He wants to help, but…"

Harut's words hit me like jet exhaust. So my fevered thoughts above Kazakhstan were not merely delusion? Callisto had been tapping into my mindshackle and Asterius knew? And it took Harut to tell me this?

I cannot decide what to do. My hand instinctively reaches for my sidearm, but my legs give way before I can draw. I crumple to the floor of Harut’s shuttle, unable to suppress my tears, then sobs. Harut gingerly places his well-kept hands on my shoulders. They're not scarred and calloused like mine, instead strong and tanned despite their seeming lack of hard labor. He gently holds me while I sob, apologizing between breaths for my unbecoming behavior. He reassures me that it's alright, not to worry, he's not going to tell the other overseers, that no one can see me but him. I know that's not true - Asterius sees all I do - but I don't press the issue. My sobs slow, and I eventually pull myself together. Harut helps me to my feet.

“Asterius wants to be that stable presence for you, but he knows he can't be. He thinks Zure is a suitable replacement. At least, so says Kossa.”

I can only hope Asterius isn't listening in right now. Either way, it won't change what is coming.

“Aurelia, I must go. The leash tightens. But I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again soon. Keep me posted, okay? I'll miss you.”

I duck out of Harut's bronzed shuttle, just in time for the door to snap shut behind me. A quiet kick of the thrusters, and the craft lunches into the air of the hangar, before jetting into open space with rarely-seen urgency. I pull the silk sash tighter around my body, and turn away from the hangar. The ghost of a smile graces my chapped lips, despite it all.

Feather. Hear the oars clank against the swivels, a dull thud resonant in the salt-burned carbon fiber, quiet and deafening in duality. Glide through the slide, feel the gentle rise of your chest as you inhale, cold air coalescing in your lungs, bitter in its taste of ocean detritus but revitalizing all the same. Your mouth is dry, now, but the boat waits for no one, gliding across the calm surface of the channel with angelic grace.

Catch. Feel the muscle fibers contract, body tensed and ready like a caged tiger’s, another thunk of the carbon fiber a heartbeat before eight oars descend into the water at once. Minimal splash on yours - Santana ought to thank you for that, though she’s not had quite enough of wet shirts, showboat that she is - but it’s good technique nonetheless. One more heartbeat.

Drive. Sense the oar lock into the water, churning the depths with your unwelcome intrusion, foam and industrial chemicals slurried below you, agitated once again. Feel the slack in your joints give itself over to trained muscle and bone, legs straining against the footplates, body lifting off the seat, levitating for but a moment, oar pulling in its lazy twelve-foot arc undisturbed by your herculean effort. The graceful glide of the boat is disturbed for but a moment, rushing forward in restrained fury, before calming once more.

Finish. Feel your back engage, momentum and core driving the oar home, handle accelerating towards your chest. Breathe out, let the burning in your legs and lungs flow out of you now, left behind in the trail of the slender vessel, drifting away into the tangled trees and pebbles that line the channel. You hear seven oar handles find their mark. Not yours, though. The others, Santana and all the rest, let their oars collide with them, finding a home against their ribs, letting the stroke gasp out its last ounce of power, turning a modicum of pain into the start of another slide. Not you. You sink that power into your hands and arms, coming to a rest just before the oar handle collides, sparing the deep bruises under your shirt.

Feather. More gentle thunk-ing of oars this time, yours once more joining the chorus.

“Angel! Tighten up that finish.”

The voice comes from the stern. You know what it says before you’ve even consciously processed it, but it still stings a little. You choose to ignore it, for your own sake. You’ve got enough on your mind as is.

Your legs burn, of course, as everybody’s do. Lactic acid buildup, creeping anaerobics ever so slowly showing their toothy grins as the boat speeds along the channel, kilometer markers passing like searchlights in the golden sunset, fog creeping in from the sea like a whisper. Rower’s hands are never pretty things, yours included, callouses three layers deep and a bloody blister on your left. Ophelia had never really taken kindly to holding your hand, but she did begrudge the experience for the intimacy of it all. Most rowers carry their bruises on their sternums, where ergometer handles have left their impression, bounced off the chest in frenetic desperation in the closing five hundred meters of a test piece.

Not you. You carry your bruises on your ribs, to your great shame. You’ve gotten good at putting up your hands, but that really only ever does so much. You feel the deep ache whenever you take a breath in. Even now, with your body on the verge of exhaustion, it’s the predominant sensation in your mind, despite its dullness. Breathe in, breathe out. Stay in sync with the boat. Ollie will have your head if you don’t. Catch, drive, finish, slide. Lose yourself in the rhythm of it all. Watch the six-kilometer mark slide by, left behind in the fading sunlight, cast in orange-red long-wave beauty, fingers of clouds stretching to swallow the sun entirely, radiance buried beneath crystal-stained magicks.

Glide it out. Let the boat’s momentum carry you for a change, slowly slowing down your strokes until the boat slows, letting the gentle ripple of the water and your heaving chest lull you into a false sense of security. You could never feel like this at home. Only on the water. Your teammates, not giving you a second glance, not worrying about your shoulders, your posture, your face, your voice, any of it. Just athletes together on the water, heavy breaths and camaraderie.

Grab your water bottle. Struggle with deadened fingers to remove the cap, letting the lukewarm-cold water hit your parched throat. It stings, for a moment, and in a heartbeat you are back there again, with Ophelia, wincing as she tended to a particularly nasty gash left after one of your altercations. You’ve always been good at gritting your teeth - she commended you on that, after cleaning out your wound with water, then antibiotic. You didn’t make a sound, and she noticed. Her eyes met yours for a brief moment, held painful in its tension, before hers darted from you, focused more on attending to your wound.

Rest. Breathe. Let your warm body collapse down into your seat, stretch your back along the cold aluminum rigger at your rear, find your head between Noel's legs, pull yourself back up. Fading sunlight glints across the water now, sun halfway past its expiration over the buildings of Watson's Harbor, timber and red brick washed out in silhouette by copper-tones, ocean breathing in oxide-blue to black. Zinc-treated fishing vessels have begun arriving back in port, and soon enough the birds will too, everyone clawing and grasping at the dwindling harvest.

Port side, row. You're snapped out of your musings by a sharp call from the coxswain's post, echoing through the beat-up speaker system embedded into the delaminating carbon fiber hull. Evidently, someone took care of these boats once, just like someone took care of the docks and the schools and everything else in this place, but that someone is gone now, and no one else is willing to step up to that role. It won't be you today. Regardless, you row. The boat turns slowly, gingerly, but it turns nonetheless, facing back towards the boathouse, two kilometers down the line.

You don't even need to hear the coxswain say it to know when to row. The subtle shifting of the center of mass, rolling of the seat tracks, ripple in the water, muscles tensing in Sam’s back through her tank top - you've always been envious of her - all connected like one all-encompassing nervous system of one massive creature. A hive mind, less than the sum of its parts, driven to simply move forward despite reason, pain, and fear. The creature is familiar to you. You know its face. It’s always there to greet you when the razor meets your jaw in the mirror, wondering why you keep walking into that maze of broken glass. You've never had an answer for it before, and you still don't have one today, so you row, leaving the thought behind in the gentle, eight-marked wake of the vessel you've come to understand so deeply.

The sun's last rays have blinked out, guttering like candles in a storm before being swallowed entirely, fog front moving into the town as a chilled embrace. The electric lights do their best to keep the fog at bay; streetlights glowing as beacons, the flickering argon-blue sign of the Wharf's Edge beckoning sailors as a respite from the darkened docks and as a remedy for their parched throats. The cold has yet to settle in for you, your core burning up despite your sparse clothing, chest furnace-hot and lungs like foundry bellows, but the creeping tendrils of fog will find their way yet.

Power ten, in two. It's the call you dread most. Something to take you out of the routine. Something to wrench you from your dissociation back into the limelight, kicking and screaming, inadequacies on full display. Despite the fear, your legs press with even greater force, feeling the oar wrench into the water, nearly bending with the exertion. Finish, catch, drive. You get four strokes in before your inadequacies show themselves.

On the fifth stroke, the finish comes early for you. As you feather, your oar handle, dragged along by the water, slams into your ribs. The pain is immediate, white-hot, and blistering in its agony. Ophelia is not with you this time, only your darkened room and ragged breaths accompany you now, fog coating your window outside, quiet whispers in your ear. You're sixteen again, keeping your voice down after an exceptionally rough punishment. You know Ophelia is waiting for you at the park, but you can't risk it again. You just need to ride it out. One night.

Five strokes left. If Coach saw your slip, she didn't say anything. Neither did Noel, at least. What they don't know can't hurt them. Find the rhythm again. If you don't, Ollie will have your head. Let those neurons creep back into your mind, let the feel of the boat find you once more, let the pounding in your ribs abate to nothing, let the quiet rusted remnants of the shoreline industrial area fade into a dull blur in the corner of your vision, let that mysterious attic light burn out, let the world collapse itself into feather, catch, drive, feather. Let your heartbeats merge, let your breathing match the twenty-six strokes per minute song of the boat, let your mind go quiet, empty, complete.

You don't know when the power ten concludes. You don't know if it even does. The next thing you remember is a call to glide, and the starboard rowers bringing in the boat gently to the dock. You’re hardly breathing. Let your insensate hands struggle with the gate, eventually lifting the oar outside the rigger. Everyone else is free, now, only your body remains in the shell, still strapped to the foot-plate, splintering composite and synthetic woven shoes keeping you held back.

Santana offers to take your oar, and you let her, being careful not to look in her eyes. She laughs a little at your timidity, but takes your oar and stows it well. You cast your eyes away as soon as is able - you’d hate to be caught staring despite your envy. Reduce yourself, stay alive. Let your waifish physique and nonthreatening demeanor carry you along, your quiet smile an unspoken savior. You don’t have the privilege to be like her even if you wanted to. You could never wear her grin, her strength, her confidence; it would be peeled from you like an unwanted sticker on imported fruit.

Undo the shoes. Simple enough. With some dedicated fiddling, you can free yourself simply enough, slipping your shoes back on just in time to lift the boat. At least this is one scenario where you can relax. You and Robin are too short to make any real difference, taking this moment to cool down and feel the quiet cold of darkened fog creep in, slowly replacing the lactic acid-warm afterglow of the sunlit practice. Boathouse lights do their best, but you could do this in your sleep. With the boat stowed, your responsibilities here have faded. Some retire to the locker rooms, some simply pack their things and go. Kris is changing into her overalls, Ollie is throwing on a coat, Noel is brushing her hair. Not you. Best to slip out now, before anyone notices your absence; let your feet guide you one step after the next on the long walk home.

Wanderers' Sandbox 2

Info