Work Text
3 months ago
Protektor Quarters — Kuchiba Central Terminal
Sektor C, Kimihara Province, Rotfront
It’s a simple door, really.She’s seen hundreds, if not thousands, of doors over her three-and-a-half-year operational lifespan so far. What is it about this door in particular that inspires so much dread in her?She already knows the answer. It doesn’t matter. She is a woman on a mission; if she turns around now, she’ll lose her nerve.She’s a 220cm combat Replika with outstanding range scores; the power of the government and the Nation rests upon her shoulders and the badge and gun sitting on her duty belt. Nothing should frighten her. And with that thought, before she can lose her nerve, she raises her hand, takes a deep breath, and raps her knuckles on the door three times.Dread settles deep down in the bowels of her stomach as a familiar voice, mirroring her own in pitch, tone, and quality, answers seconds later. “Come in.”She presses the door access button, and the pocket door slides open with a hiss to reveal a rather aged Starling lounging behind a sturdy hardwood desk. The walls and floors are bare; the only decoration in the room is a small table behind the desk with a coffee machine and several mugs sitting on the top surface. The point of interest in this room is not the furniture; it’s the singular occupant herself.STAR-R16-07 appears to be in the middle of flipping through a Manila folder stuffed with documents. Her eyes flicker upwards as the door slides open, and she immediately sets the folder down, standing up, folding her hands behind her back as she greets her visitor. Tucked into her duty belt is a slightly worn yet well-maintained garrison cover. Were it not for the transparent riot shield propped up next to the desk or the grizzled air about this Starling, her rank as a squad officer would not be readily apparent.“Dagan, guten tag.” A smile splits the older unit’s well-worn faceplates; the scar that slashes across her face twists as the corners of her lips curl upward. Her red-rimmed eyes soften noticeably. “How can I help you? Is everything okay?”Dagan swallows, hard; her Adam’s apple bobs up and down as she answers. “Oberfeldwebel Maryland, we need to talk.”Maryland’s smile falters: clearly, she was not expecting Dagan to make use of her formal title. “Of course, of course. Please, have a seat.”Dagan swallows again and remains standing. “I don’t think I will, actually.”Maryland’s eyebrows shoot up into her bangs. Her eyes flicker to the side; her posture stiffens. Still, her recovery is impressive. Four long strides, and she’s rounded her desk: two more, and she’s at Dagan’s side, a mirror image of Dagan’s towering frame, shell, and faceplates, albeit much older, significantly hardened by hours upon weeks upon years of street work. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”Maryland’s eyebrows are furrowed, cerulean orbs glimmering with concern; before Dagan can say anything, there’s a hand cupped around her chin, one finger gently tracing her jaw. The same touch that once filled Dagan with unspeakable pleasure now inspires dread in the deepest pits of her synthetic bowels, even as she resists the urge to fold under that alluring touch.“Um –” Dagan resists the urge to swat Maryland’s hand away, curling her hands into fists at her sides, her back ramrod straight. “Maryland, when were you going to tell me that you had six prior girlfriends who all initiated the breakups on their side?”“Oh.” Maryland’s face visibly falls, as does the hand stroking Dagan’s cheek; to see such a grizzled unit assume so bashful of an expression is certainly an event to be remembered. “I was going to tell you at some point, rest assured that I was. Well, I am an open book. What do you want to know?”Dagan almost takes a step back. What kind of question is that? Perhaps Maryland thinks that Dagan wants some sort of twisted play-by-play of every act of intimacy, or a historical rundown of every partner she’s had. Dagan wants none of that. She simply wants answers; answers to questions that Dagan, frankly, should have been posing up front in a very straightforward way instead of dancing around the fact. “I…” Frustration wells up in her chest. “I want to know why you didn’t tell me.”For all intents and purposes, Maryland appears to be listening very closely; she seems sincere. The officer unit is leaning in slightly, lips pressed into a thin line, brow creased, eyes filled with sympathy. In response to Dagan’s query, Maryland shifts on her hooves, folding both hands behind her back; the very image of a dignified older officer, a mentor figure: reliable, worthy of trust, a confidant to whom Dagan could trust her life. A girlfriend, to whom Dagan could trust her secrets, her body, her life. “Well, Dagan, you never asked me,” Maryland says softly, her tone solemn, almost pensive. “I suppose that would have been a good thing to be more… upfront with you about. I’m sorry this is upsetting you so much and that you feel this way. Might I ask what about this upsets you so?”An invisible weight drapes across Dagan’s shoulders; the atmospheric pressure in the office has doubled. “W-well…” she stammers, caught off guard. It’s hard to put a finger on it, really; after all, she hadn’t asked for specific details when she’d found out, and Maryland was an older Starling, too. “I…” Maryland glances to the side; frowns. “Do you have a preference for partners who have never been with someone before? That’s perfectly fine if so—”“No.” Dagan cuts her off and flinches right away at how sharp she must come across as. Even so, she continues. “It’s… it’s not that. It’s just — I would think that six partners prior would just be a bit of a red flag, you know? Especially since you never brought it up at all?” Maryland studies Dagan carefully, eyes raking over her like a fork through coals. The motion is greatly unsettling. “Might I ask where you heard this from, and why you were prying into my past romantic relationships?” Try as she might, Dagan can’t tear her eyes away from Maryland: that proud officer, a true veteran of the streets, standing tall before her like a statue. She’s gotten this far; she might as well go all the way. “I’ve been wanting to bring this up for a long time, truthfully. Some of your behavior towards me I don’t appreciate. I feel like I can’t talk to you without this itching feeling of being looked down upon. I can’t ask anything from you without being challenged.” Dagan licks her lips nervously. “This no longer feels like a relationship. It feels more like a power play. I’m sorry if this hurts, Maryland, but this is my attempt to communicate how I’m feeling. I want to work together on this.” Maryland hums thoughtfully, shifting on her hooves again. The sunlight streaming through the window bounces off her badge, projecting ripples of light onto the far wall. “Can I ask you to clarify? And what is so bad about being challenged? Surely you realize that a few clarifying questions as to why you want this or that is not an assassination on your character, neither is it meant to be.” Dagan bites her lip. This conversation is not going the way she anticipated it would; she’s growing ever more upset by the second. “Maryland,” she pleads, and it appears for all the world that Maryland is listening. “Please. It happens all the time! And it’s — it’s not just that. It’s the way you never listen when I ask you, the way you make time for others that you never seem to have for me.” Now it’s Maryland’s turn to frown, scar twisting. Dagan almost eats her words; something about the way Maryland scowls, that downturn of her lips and the steely gaze in her eyes, is wildly attractive to Dagan for reasons she doesn’t quite understand. Maryland switches her pose, shoulders drawn in, one arm crossing her chest while the other hand rests on her chin: thinking, pondering. “Help me understand, then.” Maryland glances sideways at Dagan. “Provide me with some specific examples when that’s happened. Maybe I can explain my reasoning for why I was perceived that way; we can work this out.”Vexation finally takes hold. Dagan jabs a finger at Maryland, using the other hand to run her fingers through her hair in exasperation. “That — that’s exactly what I’m talking about! This, right here. Don’t you understand; you know, we’ve talked about this before!”“Dagan, please.” Maryland finally looks over and meets Dagan’s eyes, folding both arms across her well-polished plate carrier. “Keep your voice down. There are Replikas trying to get work done—”“Since when have you ever cared about—” Dagan takes a deep breath in. In through the nose, out through the mouth; just like Maryland herself taught her. Composing herself, she picks up her line of thought. “You know what, forget it.” Now Maryland’s eyebrows furrow, again. Her mouth curves slightly downwards, lips pressed together: is she pouting? “I’m only trying to listen, as you requested. If it happens all the time, then surely you can describe specific instances of such behavior on my end.” It’s taking every damn ounce of willpower in Dagan’s body to not break down crying in front of her girlfriend. Maryland does have a point: to Dagan’s unending aggravation, she can’t even name a single specific instance where she could describe, in detail, the offense she accuses Maryland of. And yet the sentiment remains, the emotions have not ceased running high, and neither has that look of quiet judgment and expectation on the scarred officer’s face. “You know what, I — we’re getting off track here.” Dagan’s voice cracks, and she swallows her own spit before continuing. “Six girlfriends. What went so wrong with all of them that you couldn’t continue?”Maryland turns, and now she’s squared up with Dagan. “Did you ever bother asking for names, or Replika type? How about the details behind those breakups?”Dagan blinks back tears. Maryland’s concern is quite genuine; almost too genuine. She wants nothing more than to fall into her girlfriend’s arms, to hear her praise, to feel her touch. Dagan is a Starling, a Protektor unit built for close combat; and yet here she is, folding like a piece of flimsy notepad paper under the gaze of someone who for all intents and purposes was created as her equal. “I — I…” Dagan mumbles, her voice trailing off in shame: no names, only the knowledge that two of those six were Storches and possibly one Kranich. And now there’s something else in Maryland’s gaze, too. Pain; anguish. “Dagan,” she begins, her voice heavy; arms folded tightly, shoulders drawn in. “This hurts me very much. You know me. You know me better than most of the Replikas here, better than most of the Protektors in Sektor C; better than my own squad. That you would barge into my office during the busiest time of the day, accusing me of behaviors for which you cannot provide concrete proof, listening to gossip that is completely unsubstantiated?”“You told me I could come visit you at any time I needed you!” Dagan almost interrupts, but the sob in her throat and the tightness in her chest, coupled with the steady cadence of Maryland mounting her defense, decide otherwise on her behalf. So she remains silent, ashamed that a Protektor like her could be so easily broken; determined not to show any cracks to Maryland, lest the older unit split them open with that axe pick of a tongue of hers. “I know this may sound harsh and uncaring, but perhaps it couldn’t have been saved for later?” Maryland sighs. “You don’t look that well, Dagan. Maybe you should take some time to think about this, then we can reconvene later and discuss this, after-hours. When you’re feeling better, that is.” Dagan hides one hand behind her back; her hand is trembling something terrible. In her three years of life thus far, she’s faced down Gestalts and Replikas alike wielding guns, knives, fists, and a host of other improvised and deadly weapons on and off the rails of Sektor C’s metro. None of those situations inspires that sinking feeling of dread that creeps across her entire being like a ripple steadily spreading out from its epicenter; it’s not comparable. Two words; two words, and then it’ll be all out there, and over and completed. Dagan opens her mouth, blinking back tears. “We’re done.” A pregnant pause as Maryland reels from shock, that goes into labor again as the officer unit finds her voice. “Done? Dagan, whatever could you mean?” “Don’t play stupid.” Dagan’s voice almost breaks; she presses on. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, see? This — I can’t continue this way.” Dagan jerks sideways as fingers brush her arm. Maryland almost succeeds in wrapping her hand around Dagan’s bicep, right over top of where the red armbands are placed. “Don’t touch me!” Dagan almost shouts, and Maryland flinches. “This is it between us. I — I’m sorry things had to end this way. But we’re done.”Maryland stops. Pauses. Draws into herself. The left side of her mouth and her eye twitches; Dagan’s breath hitches. The last time Maryland reacted this way to anything was the day Maryland received the news that a Gestalt she’d arrested for possession and distribution of a Schedule I drug would be sent to re-education instead of jail or the execution chamber. Yet she remains calm, remarkably so; six prior breakups indubitably provided her with much material to practice with.“I’m sorry things had to end this way, as well.” Returning to her desk, Maryland plops down in her chair. “You’re dismissed, Aufseher.” Her tenor is a sword being drawn out of a sheath, all steel with a razor-sharp edge to it. Yet her nonverbals, examined closely, tell another story. Brow down, lips slightly pursed, hyper-focused on her paperwork: she’s either genuinely upset or an expert at faking it.The sword is now buried in Dagan’s chest, seeping away life and breath, embedded in her lungs, scraping against her ribs. Choking back another sob, Dagan snaps a ramrod-straight salute before turning on her heel, but not before offering one final farewell.“Auf wiederhesen, Oberfeldwebel.”Maryland doesn’t spare Dagan a single glance. “Wiederschauen.”It doesn’t occur to Dagan until she’s well on her way back to her squad apartment that Maryland never returned her salute.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Present day 39S 50P A Kuchiba Central Station, Sektor C, Rotfront The streets of Rotfront are hauntingly alluring at night.EULR-L1135 draws her scarf around her neck as she steps out into the brisk and chilly air. Towering skyscrapers pierce through swirling clouds into a lifeless, formless void of gray; proverbial spears, pointed in the direction of the heavens in defiance of whatever gods might be looking down from their celestial abode. The Red Eye churns overhead, a vast slurry of creamy white, rusted rose red, and various shades of tan and brown-orange. Under the ever-present gaze of the Eye, the harsh luminescence of artificial lamps cast long shadows over the mostly vacant streets.It’s well past curfew for most of the denizens of Sektor C; nonetheless, there’s still movement outside. Gestalts and Replikas who work night shifts are exempted from the curfew rules, provided they carry proper documentation and present it to any Security Technician or law enforcement officer who challenges them. Lucrezia is one such exemption; for the remainder of this period, at least. Her employer is the local coroner’s office, required by law to retain a staffer on call around-the-clock in case of an emergency. Coroner’s technicians take turns manning the office during the night hours, and this week, it’s Luci’s turn.Luci hurries down the street, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her long woolen overcoat, fingers wrapped around her government-issued ID and her laminated curfew exemption card for instant access. Normally she would take the metro back to her apartment, but the rail line is closed to pedestrians at this hour: she has no choice but to tramp through the streets, braving the windchill and the withering stares of the STARs on duty.The metro station looms ahead; Luci slows, pauses. Somewhere in the bowels of that unforgiving mass of steel and concrete, Luci’s girlfriend is diligently toiling away: something about a drug sweep, she had said. A single late-night shift is enough to knock Luci out for a good 12 hours or so, but it’s just another cycle in the life for Unteroffizier STAR-R16-01, callname Delaware. Delaware hadn’t disclosed any specific time she would be conducting the sweep with her squad; there’s an above-average chance she’s still in the metro station.A glance left, a glance right. One STAR on the street corner to her right, a good distance down; another Starling pacing back and forth in front of the portico covering the metro entrance; a third Starling posted beneath the portico, arms folded, leaning against the wall. As always, cameras everywhere, electronic eyes sweeping over every inch of the street. Two Eules approach the entrance; their body language indicates unfamiliarity with one another. Luci waits; watches.The Eules walk right by the first Starling, who barely spares them a glance. Both approach the door; both are supposed to badge in. Neither of them badges in. The STAR unit manning the door stands up, walks over to the Eules… and swipes her own keycard against the card scanner, holding open the door for both owls with a nod.“Main concourse and train platforms are closed; stick to the offices. Vice is doing a drug sweep.”“Vice?” That’s one of the Eules for sure: a lilting soprano that carries on the wind like a dandelion.The gruff contralto-tenor of the STAR unit, tinged with irritation: “Morality Maryland and her goons. I highly suggest you stay clear of them while they’re working, otherwise you might not leave this place tonight.”The Eules must be here to take over the graveyard shift. Luci checks her internal clock. It’s quarter ‘til midnight. The Eules are about to clock in; Delaware’s squad is busy. The stage has been set. The actors are all in place.“Uhhh… Th-Thank you, Frau Protektor. We’ll keep that in mind.”The Starling grunts in response as the Eules file inside. Luci considers her options. She could turn around and walk back to her apartment and be a good, law-abiding worker. Or, she could indulge her curiosity: she’s never seen Delaware at work, and she’s never been inside the metro station at this hour. Maybe she can catch Delaware after the squad finishes their search; maybe she can even heat up a mug of hot chocolate to welcome Delaware with. None of the Starlings posted outside the metro appear to be sufficiently motivated to challenge Luci. If she’s going to go through with her plan, now is the time.Drawing her scarf partially over her face as if bitten by the windchill, Luci makes her way to the entrance, swallowing hard. She knows what STAR units are capable of: she’s witnessed countless arrests on the streets, the ease and efficiency with which they form an impenetrable wall of black armor and PMMA on short notice in response to public incidents, the strength and power in their grip as they shake hands with her or lay those same hands on suspects resisting detainment. Yet she also knows how easily bored they can get on duty, how shockingly lackadaisical under the right circumstances. She’s been around enough STARs to read the ones in front of her like an open book. She’s not getting challenged tonight.Sure enough, the STAR pacing in front of the portico doesn’t even turn around to look at Luci. The Starling at the entrance itself lets out a chuff of air upon laying eyes on Lucrezia, her unspoken complaint as obvious as day: “Again? Why couldn’t you have come in with the other two?” Still, just as Luci predicted, none of the Protektors ask to see her ID or question her reason for approaching the metro; just as Luci anticipated, the second Starling scans her own keycard and props the door open, delivering the same monotone speech.“Main concourse is closed; train platforms are off-limits. Stay in the offices. Drug sweep.”An innocent widening of the eyes, a smile as sweet as syrup imported from Vineta; a nod of gratitude, and she’s in.A hallway before her; to her right, a set of tunneled stairs leading down into the main concourse. Luci happens to glance up at the camera closest to her. No blinking red dot, no movement; the camera has been shut off, as are the main lights in the concourse. Bright yellow tape stretches across the stairway: an announcement, a caution. A warning.
POLIZEIABSPERRUNG
NICHT KREUZEN
Beyond the police tape, out of Luci’s sight, something hits the ground with a wet slap, followed immediately by a low grunt and the telltale shhhickk-click-click of handcuffs being tightened around someone’s wrists. Raucous laughter, throaty, deep. Hooves clattering against pavement; flashlight beams. Hotel Squad must have caught a fish in their net.“I didn’t do it, I swear!” That’s a Gestalt: a middle-aged man by the sound of it: slightly hoarse, well-used, panicked. “I have no clue — I have no— aaauughhh!”The man’s desperate plea is interrupted by the sound of a fist hitting meat and a low, raspy chuckle. “You can tell that to the Blockwart.” That’s a Starling. “Or to your future comrades at S-23, which is where you’ll be headed if you’re lucky.”“I swea—”“Shut the fuck up.” That’s Delaware. She sounds bored. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”Another round of laughter. “Someone’s been watching too much CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. Gestalt, you have the right to go fuck yourself.”“Shhhhh!” another Starling interjects. “Don’t let the Oberfeldwebel hear that. You know how much she hates that show.”“Yeah, yeah.”A low gasp; footsteps. Luci peeks around the corner. The Gestalt stumbles forward with Delaware right behind him, prodding him with her stunprod. “Texas, New York, help me get these Gestalts out of here.”An ominous giggle. “Ja, Unteroffizier.”Luci ducks into the shadows as two Starlings march by, dragging the Gestalt as they go. A distant yellow-white beam of light morphs into a brilliant glare, washing out the concourse; a magnanimous rush of wind is accompanied by the deafening screech of metal-on-metal tracks. Tucking herself even further into her hideout, Luci shuts her eyes as the bullet train screams by, drowning out any all and other activity and sound in the station.Just like that, the train is gone. Silence reigns once again. Luci opens her eyes. Farther down the hall, two Starlings disappear into the front lobby. Now only she remains. The police tape lies strewn across the stairs. The squad must be leaving scene cleanup for the maintenance crew to take care of.Sigh. No surprise hot chocolate for Delaware; not even the chance to greet her. Luci’s disappointment surprises even herself. She knows just enough about Protektor squads and the sort of work they carry out in the area to have anticipated this. Maybe she can still catch Delaware at the Protektor barracks, which just so happens to be along the route Luci needs to walk to return to her apartment.Luci turns, intending to leave, before something off in the distance, echoing through the concourse, arrests her attention; she’s not alone. She hesitates for a few seconds. What she should be doing right now is leaving. She’s in a restricted access area already. If she’s caught, she knows she’s going to pay dearly.She doesn’t leave.As quietly as a mouse, Luci slides past the police tape and tiptoes down the stairs, peering around the corner. Her eyes flicker over the concourse, bathed in every imaginable gradient of blue-gray, a cinematic still-life scene cropped straight from a photography exhibit were it not for the two figures conversing in the distance. Judging by the silhouettes and the dramatically lower-than-average pitch of the conversants, they’re Protektors: one STAR unit, one STCR unit, standing past the CAUTION tape marking a dilapidated train platform.The Replika types are easy enough to make out; the topic of conversation, not so much. The lack of carpeting, the wide-open layout, and the arrangement of pillars, arches, tunnels, and other architectural features contribute to the unique acoustic profile of the concourse. Hushed whispers carry in the still and heavy air. Syllables and phonemes do not.Even lacking in coherent sentences and phrases, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what exactly is going on. A heated argument is brewing; that much is apparent by the body language, nonverbal cues, and general demeanor of the two Protektors. The Starling’s hands are folded behind her back, but she keeps shifting on her hooves; her back is turned to Luci. The Storch, meanwhile, appears to be working herself into a frenzy: frantically gesturing, raising her voice, running a hand through her hair.Now two voices are raised in chorus; now a third joins them. A hum of power, ground trembling; power sparking, rocketing straight up from the floor, underneath Luci’s hooves, right through her spine; all the way to her head splitting open at the top. Farther down the concourse, the second tunnel whites out in a blaze of gold and a flame of mechanical fury. Metal on metal, a deafening scream of massively displaced air, wind kicked up into a howling pressure tube; now, the Storch turns her head; now, a sudden tangle of arms and legs, of movement so swift that it belies the towering stature and monolithic chassis of both units.Luci winces as her optical feeds flicker, warnings flashing on her HUD: now gold, now brilliant yellow; nothing but white from the depths of hell. No choice now but to look away, to allow her central processor to run a diagnostic before kicking into repair mode; the sensitivity levels in her audio module dial down in tandem with the white-balance auto-adjust built into her eidetic modules. Something flies up; are those body parts? Light, sound, and shadows kaleidoscope together; the bullet train screams past ——Where is the Storch?Luci scans the interior of the concourse. Maybe the Storch ducked out of sight; perhaps she tired of the conversation and walked off. Maybe Luci is overlooking something.No Storch.The Starling’s back is still turned to Luci. She’s once again assumed that innocuous position of hands folded behind her back, watching the train rush by; jet-black hair whipping in the wind, contemplative pose, steadfast in the face of this steel trap of death ripping past at an impossible speed: poetic.The Storch is gone. The train is gone just as quickly as it comes.Luci blinks, and the Starling is gone, too.Several hundred meters away, tucked away in a cramped office on the second floor of the Protektor barracks, a storm is brewing.“Damn you and your impulsiveness!” A low, rough voice; beleaguered, weathered by age and use. “You should’ve just waited!”“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.” The respondent’s voice is much the same in pitch and tone; the sharp edge to the gravelly rasp indicates a somewhat younger speaker. “It was better that things turned out this way. There will be no evide—”A sigh; a fist brought to bear on the flat surface of a desk. “We have a potential witness.”Silence. Now that is one hell of a revelation.Hooves tapping on the floor; one of the two parties present is pacing. “A what?”“You heard me. A witness.”The creak of a chair; the crinkle of a notepad being flipped open. “Details?”“Most likely a Eule. I didn’t see a face. Whoever it was, was out of range for an RFID ping. I’m not even sure whether she saw anything. I’m just letting you know out of an abundance of caution.”A pregnant pause, that immediately goes into labor: “For her sake, let’s hope it’s the latter.”“Yes, ma’am.”Another creak; a finger, tapping on hard plastic, slowly but rhythmically; a drumbeat heralding doom. “You know what to do.”“Yes, ma’am.”Hoofsteps; shinkkkk: a door bar being thrown.“This conversation never happened.”“Yes, ma’am.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The sun has yet to peek over the horizon when Dagan arrives at her office. Rubbing sleepers out of her eyes, the Starling swipes her access card through the keypad. The electronic lock releases with a buzz that’s so obnoxiously loud that Dagan swears she can feel the ground shake beneath her hooves. One quick press of the door access button directly below the keypad, and the pocket door slides open on mechanical tracks to admit its lone occupant.Dagan steps inside, placing her free hand on the frame as she crosses the threshold of the office; her office. It’s been barely a week since she first donned her garrison cap, that much-coveted trademark of a status and rank that most STARs spend a non-insignificant amount of time drooling over. It’s been barely a week since she’s come face-to-face with the realities and burdens of her rank; it turns out being an officer isn’t all guns blazing and media glory. There’s paperwork to be done, forms to process, and reports to write; no shortage of such to keep Dagan occupied.Dagan checks her internal clock as she makes her way to the fax machine sitting behind her desk. The Storches of Sektor C are granted a fair amount of latitude in how they communicate information to their underlings; Protektor Controller Ben Gurion prefers the fax to deliver daily security bulletins, containing information to be disseminated at dawn roll call. Dagan has fifteen minutes before roll call: plenty of time to check the printout and annotate the document as she pleases.Sure enough, a fresh printout awaits Dagan in the receiving tray of the fax machine. Propping her riot shield against her desk, Dagan reaches for the fax; an abrupt rap-tap-tap of knuckles on the doorframe of her office interrupts her train of thought. Dagan promptly raises her head to greet the newcomer, another Starling peeking out from behind the exposed doorframe.“Gut-morgn, Unteroffizier. Glory to the Nation.”Squad corporal STAR-R16-36, callname Halevy, promptly returns the greeting with one of her own. “Glory to the Nation, and good morning to you, too, ma’am. Can I talk to you about something?”Dagan straightens up and sets the fax down on her desk, devoting her full attention to her subordinate. “Of course. What’s wrong?”Three long strides, and Halevy is at Dagan’s desk, setting down a single sheet of paper. “It’s about Hotel Squad.” She hesitates, standing at half-attention, waiting for Dagan to reply.Suppressing a groan, Dagan glances down at the paper Halevy placed on her desk. When was it not about Hotel Squad? Her eyes flicker over the bold letterhead and the half-legible scrawl filling up the blank areas; another personnel grievance form. Fantastic. “What did they do now?”Halevy takes off her own garrison cap, turning it over in her hands nervously. “Some of them ignored calls for backup yesterday.”“Backup calls from our squad?” Groaning audibly, Dagan plops down in her chair and motions for Halevy to take a seat across from her. “Halevy, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but are you sure this was intentional? Not due to a bad radio signal, or something of the sort?”Halevy sits up ramrod straight, eyes fixed on Dagan’s. “I’m certain. Barnea checked the signal strength on her radio afterwards, and Pardo reported seeing several of the Vice squad Protektors in the lobby of the terminal around the same time.”Dagan picks up the grievance form, nodding in appreciation as her eyes scan it quickly from top to bottom. Halevy has always been exceptionally thorough when it came to report writing; this is no exception. Everything is there: date and timestamps, locations, and a description of the event, along with names of the Vice Starlings who were on duty in the area at the time. “Thank you, Halevy. I’ll take care of this.”Gratitude flashes in Halevy’s cerulean orbs; she rises to her feetpads, resetting her garrison cap on her head as she does. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll see you at roll call.”Interpreting the gesture to mean that Halevy has nothing more to report, Dagan waves at Halevy as she stuffs the grievance form along with Ben Gurion’s fax into a Manila envelope. “I’ll see you then.”
「Personnel Grievance Form P-14」
Date of filing Personnel Grievance Form:
39S 50P B
Full Protektor ID of unit filing grievance:
STAR-R16-36
Status:
CORPORAL
Department:
TRANSIT
Full Protektor ID(s) of involved unit(s):
STAR-R16-02, STAR-R16-04
Date-Time of Incident:
39S 50P A 15:40
Location of Incident:
Kuchiba Central Terminal
Description of Incident:
On 39S 50P A at approximately 15:40, STAR-R16-33 and STAR-R16-34 put out a radio call for an additional response to an incident in Kuchiba Terminal. STAR-R16-02 and STAR-R16-04 were reportedly in the main lobby of the terminal and willfully ignored the radio call. This act resulted in a delayed response to the situation, putting everyone in that lobby at risk. See incident notes for #R16K89902385.
The briefing room, capacity 30, is tucked away in a corner on the north side of the Protektor barracks. Roll call and the morning briefing is just as unremarkable; same old, same old. Nine STARs (including herself), one STCR; weather updates, BOLO reports, projected headcount of pedestrians and train passengers, special considerations. Storch Ben Gurion stands to the side, arms folded, severe frown plastered to her faceplates as Dagan reads off the pre-printed briefing bulletin. As much as Dagan does not care for Storches, at least this one does her job; Ben Gurion’s insistence on typing up daily bulletins with highly precise wording saves Dagan time and energy on preparing the briefings for roll call.Dagan can’t help but allow her mind to wander. Her eyes flicker over her squad: her squad. All of these Starlings she has served alongside for a little over three years now. Now she’s their NCOIC, the one they’re expected to look to for guidance, direction, and mentorship. The burden of leadership is a weighty one, indeed.“…That section of the station is still under renovation. Be careful in those areas, particularly the couple platforms marked with CAUTION tape. No one, and I mean no one, is to cross that tape without prior authorization from the foreman or maintenance head. That’s all for today. Any questions, comments, or concerns?”Two hands shoot up. Dagan’s grip tightens on her papers, creasing them; this many hands at this hour of the morning is never a good sign. “Harel, then Barnea.”“Any word on when we’ll get a replacement for Yatom? It’s been almost four periods since she was transferred.”Dagan sighs. Yatom was one Starling, yes, but one Starling in this line of work could mean the difference between life or death, a successful mission or a botched one. She glances to her left; her eyes meet Ben Gurion’s. The Storch huffs, once, before standing upright and facing the squad. “Command is working on a replacement. We have two candidates for transfer, one from Leng and one from Sektor D. A final decision will be made by the end of this period.”Shiloah’s hand also goes up, but she’s already talking before it’s fully raised. “Is it true that Maryland was supposed to lend us one of her squad members until we got a replacement, but she refused?”Now that elicits a reaction from the squad. Hushed voices; low chatter. Ben Gurion’s scowl deepens; she takes a few steps forwards until she’s right at Dagan’s side. “Everyone shut up!” she roars. “We are Protektors, not Gestalt teenagers. Do not let me catch you gossiping or engaging in idle talk about the matter. Aufseher Barnea, what’s your question?”Dagan shifts on her hooves. Ben Gurion’s expectations are unreasonably high. These are Starlings, after all; social creatures prone to gossip and rumor-spreading. The Controller unit’s non-denial of Shiloah’s concern has only served to fuel the fire; that much is obvious by the gleam in several of the STAR units’ eyes. To Barnea’s credit, she immediately picks up on the unspoken warning encoded in the pointed look Dagan shoots her. “Ma’am, given the projected inclement weather next period, will that joint training exercise with Hotel still happen as planned?”Ben Gurion huffs. “I have a meeting with Controller Innocent later today. We will discuss the matter then and notify you when we reach a decision. Anything else?”Silence. Dagan can tell from the varying expressions of the Starlings in front of her that there is no shortage of questions or concerns; Ben Gurion’s heated glare and general demeanor suppresses any further potential queries. The Storch waits all of two seconds before turning on her heel. “You’re dismissed. Glory to the Nation.”The squad obediently sounds off as one. “Glory to the Nation, ma’am.”As the Starlings file out, Dagan quickly shoves the bulletin back into her binder, biting back a groan; there’s the personnel grievance form, waiting to be filed or addressed. This is probably the worst part of Dagan’s job, in her opinion. As the squad officer, it falls primarily on her shoulders to mediate disagreements and file the appropriate paperwork when necessary. Nonetheless, it’s a necessary role to play. Dagan is beginning to appreciate the constant frown of Ben Gurion; the bulk of the Storch’s job duties constitute exactly that.“Unterfeldwebel?”Dagan glances over. Barnea lingers next to the door; she and Dagan are the only ones left in the briefing room. “Yes?”“Did you get my personnel grievance form?” Barnea cuts right to the chase. Dagan holds back a smile. Always straightforward, always to the point; Dagan has always appreciated that about Barnea.“Yes, it’s right here.” Dagan shows Barnea the contents of her binder. “It will be addressed.”Barnea lets out a soft chuff of air; she nods gratefully. “Thank you, ma’am. They’ve been getting real bold with their little passive-aggressive annoyances over the past few months. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this feels like a full-blown turf war.”Fantastic; this, again. “I agree with you, just for the record,” Dagan begins, “but don’t let Ben Gurion or anyone else hear such things coming out of your mouth, you hear me? You might get written up for slandering comrades, and I’d rather not have to deal with that.”Barnea rolls her eyes but turns to leave. “Understood. Glory to the Nation.”That all-too-familiar, overused benediction; its meaning lost in repetition, relegated mostly to a convenient phrase to signal the intended end of a conversation. Dagan nods in Barnea’s direction and motions at the exit. “Glory to the Nation, Comrade Protektor.”Dagan exhales softly as Barnea takes her leave. A familiar pang in her chest; Maryland. Maryland. Maryland. She hasn’t spoken to Maryland except to greet her at the bookends of the weekly command staff meetings. She’s still convinced she made the right decision to split from the senior squad officer. Nonetheless, there’s no getting around the fact that there’s a Maryland-shaped hole in her heart. Gestalts in ages past dedicated a seemingly inordinate amount of time writing songs and books about breakups; now Dagan understands why, at least in part.Heading out the door towards her office, Dagan takes out her radio module and tunes into an all-too-familiar frequency. Just in time; a familiar voice is already speaking, announcing herself over the airwaves.
“Starling Romeo One-Six Zero-Seven to Dispatch, I’m 41 and 8.”
“Romeo One-Six Zero-Seven, 10-4.”
“Show me at the armory. Glory to the Nation. Zero-Seven out.”
“You got it, Zero-Seven. Glory to the Nation.”
Speak of the devil. If there’s one good thing to be said about Maryland, it’s that she’s a stickler for protocol. She’s announced her check-in and current location, a textbook-perfect radio call; her squad knows; Dagan knows.Dagan glances down at the binder in her hand. Maybe she can talk this one out. Maryland sounded perfectly calm over the radio; Dagan knows the armory is a home away from home for her, the veteran officer’s happy place. Yes, if she wants to catch Maryland in a good mood, now is as good a time as any to try. The central Protektor barracks occupies two city blocks and includes indoor rifle and pistol ranges, a dedicated dispatch center, a jail, offices, and apartments, to name a few of its features. The armory is located just off the rifle range, inaccessible from the outside; thankfully, the briefing room is directly connected to the range. Hallways snake through the building; were it not for Dagan’s mapping module or the maps posted on the walls at occasional intervals, Dagan would easily get lost in the maze.A few twists and turns, and Dagan is approaching the reinforced steel door with a knot in her stomach. The STAR unit lingers outside, eyes tracing the bold lettering engraved on the metal placard bolted to the side of the door.
WAFFENKAMMER
Taking a deep breath, Dagan unclips her ID card from her belt and swipes it through the card reader. Her card trembles in her fingers as she inhales shakily; deep breath in. Everything will be fine. Maryland will be in a good mood; she’ll listen.Yes, Maryland will be reasonable. She’s on the clock, after all; if past experience is anything to go by, she’s strictly professional when it comes to professional things.The piezoelectric buzzer emits an obnoxious beep, and the door slides open on well-oiled tracks to reveal the interior of the armory. Dagan steps inside; her olfactory sensors drown in the rank stench of gun lube, that signature coppery-bitter tang of well-worn metal, and the lingering scent of gunpowder. Her optical feeds work in tandem with her processor, identifying the respective sources of those smells, visible behind the security grid separating the reception area from the workspaces: a disassembled carbine on a nearby workbench; the firearms lined up in racks of immaculately ordered and labeled shelves; the handloading presses and their associated paraphernalia on yet another workbench.A lone Starling mans the desk behind the security glass. Dagan doesn’t remember who she is, but she can figure that out easily enough. One ping to the STAR’s RFID module later, and she’s got a number to match with a name: STAR-R16-11, callname New York.New York glances up as the buzzer sounds off; immediately, she devotes her full attention to Dagan as the latter enters the armory lobby. “Good morning, ma’am. Glory to the Nation.”“Glory, comrade,” Dagan replies, exhaustion seeping into her tone. “Is your officer present? I need to speak to her.”Instead of answering Dagan, New York tilts her head back and shouts into the void. “Oberfeldwebel, you’ve got a caller!”Seconds later, the clack-clack-clack of approaching hoofsteps announce the arrival of a third party. Clipboard in hand, faceplate fixed in a Storch-like scowl, scar winding across her face; it’s Maryland, no doubt about it. The senior unit pauses as her eyes lock with Dagan’s from behind the glass; her eyes soften, her lips curl upwards.Shouldering her way past New York, Maryland disengages the deadbolt on the screen door before stepping through, presenting herself to Dagan, larger-than-life. There’s a warmth in her red-rimmed cerulean orbs, almost motherly, or deceptively so; as always, her armor is polished, badge and gun hanging on her belt in their proper places. Surprisingly enough, she’s wearing her garrison cap on her head today. “Unterfeldwebel Dagan, it’s good to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Come to have your Einhorn tuned up, perhaps?”Dagan suppresses a sigh. Maryland appears so sincere, so genuinely concerned; it takes every ounce of willpower in her not to fall into Maryland’s arms, to beg for forgiveness, to plead with the older unit to take Dagan back under her wing as a girlfriend and a mentee. “N-No thank you,” she stammers. “Do you have a moment to speak with me? In private?”Maryland’s smile falters: she clearly has some idea of what bodes for her. Dagan immediately regrets her words, which came out sharper than she intended. “I mean — I know you’re b-busy now. We can always do it later—”A single polyethylene-skinned finger brushes against Dagan’s lips. “Don’t be sorry. I can always spare a few moments for a fellow officer.” Dagan almost flinches as Maryland claps her on the shoulder, motioning towards the workbench sitting in the far corner on the lobby side of the security grid. “Shall we take a seat?”Dagan swallows, hard; Maryland really is in a good mood. Wincing, Dagan takes a seat, and Maryland pulls up another chair, sweeping her garrison cover off and laying it down on the table with a gentlemanly flourish. Silently sending up a prayer to the Great Revolutionary to spare her from another one of Maryland’s mood swings, Dagan opens her binder and shows Maryland the personnel complaint form. “Maryland, several members of my squad intend to lodge formal complaints against some of your STARs.”Maryland sets her clipboard down and takes the paper, scanning it; she frowns, leaning back in her chair, crossing her legs. Displeasure overshadows the warmth in her eyes; her lip quirks unhappily. “About what? I must protest, you understand. I keep close tabs on my squad to prevent these sorts of things from happening; I neither heard nor saw anything that would warrant such action; otherwise, I would have said something.”Well, there goes any hope of a mature and productive conversation between two squad officers. “Maryland, please,” Dagan half-chokes, humiliation welling up in her chest. Here she is, an officer, a leader, pleading with Maryland like a beggar on the streets; the thought fills Dagan with shame. Even so, she presses on. “This hasn’t been filed yet. I’m here with you because I want to avoid lodging formal complaints if I can help it. Please, work with me.”Maryland hands the sheet of paper back to Dagan. Her scar twists as she frowns. “I see Aufseher Pennsylvania and Aufseher Georgia are listed as the involved units. They are some of my best Protektors, you know. That is quite the far-fetched assumption your corporal has made about them, that they would endanger the lives of your own squad as Halevy alleges.”Now it’s Dagan’s turn to frown unhappily. Rubbing her temple with one hand, she slides the form back into the plastic sleeve in the binder with her other hand. Just as she feared, Maryland has taken the complaint quite personally; regrettably, Dagan can understand and even empathize. If someone made a complaint against one of her own squad members, Dagan would be similarly upset. No, she shouldn’t be so quick to judge Maryland for her reaction — right?Well, Dagan figures, she might as well go all the way at this point. “Oberfeldwebel,” she begins solemnly, “I might have told Halevy to kick rocks were it not for persistent complaints from my Starlings about your squad, spread out over the course of several months. They have come forward with concerns about being kicked out of investigations, denied or delayed access to resources they need to do their jobs, a refusal to cooperate and form a good working relationship across the two squads, and now, being ignored when they call for backup.”Maryland’s eyebrow twitches unpleasantly; Dagan plunges on, determined to finish before Maryland can cut her off. “There are rumors going around that you were supposed to lend my squad one of your girls while we find a permanent replacement for Yatom; that you fought Command’s request and succeeded.” The narc opens her mouth to protest; Dagan holds up a hand. “No, Maryland, let me finish. I don’t want this to be true, any of it. I want to trust you; why do you think I’m here and not talking to one of the Storches right now?” Dagan’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Work with me to fix this. Please.”The scarred officer folds her arms across her chest, eyes flickering to the side, lips pressed into a thin line; she’s pondering. Dagan waits with bated breath for a reply. The wait is not terribly long. “Well, Dagan, if you say you want to trust me, why don’t you simply trust me?” Maryland shifts in her chair; the grip of her handgun catches on the armrest with a dull clunk. “You know me; you know me quite well, in fact. I find it interesting that you say you want to trust me, but it seems like you don’t seem like you believe your own words very well.”Dagan bites her lip. She knows exactly where this is going. She should’ve known better; this venture was doomed from the beginning. Best to let Maryland finish her spiel and save face by making a swift exit before things escalate.“…Is this true, Dagan? You don’t trust me? You can be honest with me, you know. If you say no, I won’t be offended. All I’m asking for is the truth.”Maryland picks up her garrison cap and toys with it, turning it over in her hands, running her fingers over the three stars pinned to the side; waiting for a response. Frustrated, Dagan can only murmur, “…Not really,” in response to Maryland’s very straightforward question.“Well.” Maryland’s smile returns. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? I do appreciate your honesty very much. Now, as to the topic you originally brought up…”The officer’s head snaps to the side. “New York,” she barks, “you better mind your own fucking business! Stop eavesdropping and get back to work. If you have time to sit there and listen in on a confidential matter between two officers, you have time to start on that audit that’s due by the end of next period.”“Sorry, ma’am,” New York mumbles before disappearing into the back of the armory.The scowl disappears. Two cerulean orbs settle on Dagan’s; once again, Maryland is at ease. “I’m not sure what it is you want from me or the two Protektors listed on that complaint form. I will speak to Pennsylvania and Georgia about their alleged inaction on that backup call. If the allegations are found to be substantial, they will issue written apologies to your corporal and Aufseher Barnea. There. Does that satisfy you?”“It’s not about personal satisfaction,” Dagan wants to retort, but she knows that will get her nowhere. Instead, she simply nods. “Thank you, Oberfeldwebel.”“No need to thank me.” Maryland’s nonchalance is contagious; her smile is as charming and dashingly handsome as ever. Dagan’s anger dispels like a group of unruly Gestalts after being shown the business end of a live stunprod. Her eyes trace Maryland’s scar; somehow, the physical disfigurement hasn’t detracted from her physical appearance at all. The scar ripples with every twitch of Maryland’s eyebrow, every wrinkle of her nose, every new shape her mouth makes. “Might I ask you one question before you go, Unterfeldwebel Dagan?”Dagan checks her internal clock, then compares it to the chronometer on the wall. She has things she needs to get done; nonetheless, she supposes she can humor Maryland for a while longer. After all, she’s been avoiding her ex-girlfriend for far too long, leaving a gaping hole in her heart; as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, there are aspects of Maryland that she misses dearly, the latter’s conversational skills being one of them. “Sure, go ahead.”True to form, Maryland rises to her hooves, gesturing for Dagan to do the same. She’s picked up on Dagan’s nonverbal cue; she, too, surely has business she needs to tend to. “Dagan,” she says, eyes filled with concern, “you and I haven’t spoken properly for three months since we last… saw each other. You ignore my greetings in the hallways, you avoid me in the streets and refuse to look at me during meetings; this could have been an email, and yet you sought me out today for a face-to-face conversation. Is everything okay?”Suddenly, Maryland’s gaze is an unbearable burden, a weight cast over her shoulders; a yoke locked around her neck, chained to a boulder, dragging her down. Dagan casts her eyes to the floor. The tile patterns are of great interest to her now; for the first time, she notices the gray and black streaks snaking in and out of each other, marble-like patterns weaving in synthetic plastic. “I…” Dagan murmurs, and to her everlasting mortification, tears well up in her eyes. “That’s not…”Out of the corner of her optical feed, Dagan’s targeting module detects movement. Maryland is calmly tucking her garrison cap into her belt, lithe fingers hooking underneath her duty belt, curling around her Protektor badge, working the cap into the space between composite nylon-leather and the jet-black polyethylene shell protecting synthetic skin from the elements. Those same hands once buried themselves in Dagan’s scalp, stroked her cheek and jawline lovingly, burrowed their way into the space between Dagan’s legs; lit her on fire, aroused those sensual passions that filled Dagan with a perverse satisfaction and an everlasting craving for more, more, more! Even now, three months estranged, Dagan is still reliving those highs, fantasizing about Maryland’s attention and affection like a drug-addicted Gestalt. And just like a drug addict, that reptilian side of Dagan’s brain, inflamed by sinful passions, has finally phoned home.“Home” extends a hand, as if reaching out to stroke Dagan’s cheek, a callback to the good ol’ days; just as suddenly, she retracts it, folding it behind her back as she always tends to do. Dagan will not get her fix today, it seems. Dagan opens her mouth to speak; she can only whimper. “M-Maryland…”Maryland’s head snaps up; one finger presses against the coiled wire snaking into her ear. Dagan flinches at the sudden movement, taking a step back. Maryland pays her no mind; Dagan blinks. A radio call. Maryland is receiving a radio call.Holding up a hand apologetically, Maryland presses the PTT button on her radio module.
“Dispatch, that’s a 10-11.”
The sudden shift in atmosphere jerks Dagan out of her trance. Switching right into work mode, Dagan cranks up the volume on her own radio. She’d neglected to switch channels back to the Transit Police frequency; convenient, since she landed right on the Vice channel. Picking up nothing but static interspersed with idle chatter, Dagan’s mind is all confusion for a good minute; then, her lightbulb moment.Working the appropriate dial on her radio module, Dagan tunes in to the frequency reserved for command staff — every Protektor in the Sektor ranked squad officer or above. Bingo. Maryland is still speaking; there’s a delay of about one second between the words that come out of her mouth and the same words repeated over the airwaves. Thankfully, Dagan reaches the appropriate channel just as Dispatch broadcasts a response to Maryland’s query.
“Dispatch to STAR-R16-07, I’ll repeat this for everyone else to hear. Officers who are available to report to 105, you’re needed for a Code 12.”
A hand closes on Dagan’s shoulder; for the second, or perhaps third, or fourth — whatever — time this cycle, Dagan nearly jumps. She whirls around; looks right into a pair of eyes identical to her own, albeit aged far past her own. “Well, we’re both officers, and we’re both available to report to 105, no?” Maryland motions at the door. “Why don’t we go see what this is all about, and then we can continue this lovely conversation of ours at a later time.”The proposal is all too agreeable to Dagan, who nods meekly and scoops up her riot shield. Maryland briefly disappears into the back of the armory to fetch hers before motioning at Dagan to follow her. The older unit’s eyes are grim, professional; she nods once at Dagan before pressing the door access button, and the door slides open.Both Starlings make good time, thanks to their absurdly long legs and Maryland’s fast pace. Just as Maryland reaches her hand out to scan her keycard, the door opens from the inside.“Officers.” Storch Rommel motions at the interior of the conference room, which is buzzing with conversation in hushed tones. “Key in and sit down.”“Yes, Madam Protektor Controller.” Maryland swipes her keycard without hesitation. The LED on top of the reader lights up green, and the buzzer sounds off, announcing her arrival to the occupants of the conference room. Dagan follows suit, closely tailing Maryland into the room, doing her damnest to ignore the stares of several of the other Protektors waiting for them inside.Dagan barely has time to plant her rear end in a chair before a lumbering geriatric of a Storch reeking of cigarette smoke makes her way to the glassboard up front. “Everyone at ease,” Day Shift Watch Commander Eins rasps, her gravelly tenor slicing through the oppressively quiet atmosphere with little effort. “I know you’re all busy, so I won’t waste your time. This morning at approximately 06:17 hours, a maintenance crew responded to a callout for an obstruction on the metro tracks and discovered the crushed remains of STCR-R16-03.”A collective hushed gasp. Dagan’s oxidant pump almost skips a beat; even without the callname or any personal connection to STCR-R16-03, Dagan knows of (or knew of) the Storch being identified. Storch Innocent was Hotel Squad’s controller, and before that, the Protektor Controller for the Mandelbrot campus security squad. Before Dagan can glance over at Maryland, a growl from Eins and a pointed rap-tap-tap of a dry-erase marker against the glassboard snaps everyone’s attention back to the front of the room.“We will be launching an investigation into the circumstances of her death, but the cause of death appears to be a fatal accident.” Eins sets the marker down; steely eyes roam over the occupants of the room, warning one and all of the consequences of speaking out of turn. “On behalf of the Nation, my deepest sympathies to those affected by this tragedy.” The words are spoken flatly, with a cool air, almost as if she’s reading off a script. “You may inform your squads of this development, either at shift debrief or at appropriate intervals throughout the day.”Shock washes over Dagan like a bucket of cold water; from the varied reactions around the room, the sentiment is a shared one. Eins continues to ramble on. “I trust I do not need to remind you all of the consequences of facilitating or spreading rumors, untruths, or anything regarding this matter that has not been disseminated through the proper channels.”Eins pauses, gaze raking over the assembly. “STAR-R16-07, step outside the room as soon as this meeting is adjourned and notify your corporal that she will be leading today’s shift. Report to my office immediately once this is done. The rest of you are dismissed. Glory to the Nation.”“Glory to the Nation,” the occupants of the room reply in practiced unison. Eins is already halfway to the door; Maryland quickly rises as well. Her back is partially turned towards Dagan, her expression indeterminable.Another STAR officer pauses, turns in Maryland’s direction. Her eyes are narrowed; her left hand clenches her shield with enough force to bend the handle ever so slightly. Without any warning or provocation whatsoever, she marches right up to Maryland, poking the senior unit in the chest with enough force to shove Maryland back down in her chair. “You’re responsible for this!” the officer hisses. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say you did it yourself!”Chaos erupts. Storch Brandy grabs the officer’s elbow; another STAR steps in front of Maryland. Several other Protektors quickly separate the two. “Enough!” Rommel snaps. “Whatever grievances you two have can be settled at a later time. Zero-Seven, see yourself to Eins’ office. Four-Two, one more outburst like this, and I’m handing your officer position to Sturer.”Maryland calmly rises to her feetpads. Brandy and another STAR officer clear a path to the exit for her. Instead of taking the opportunity to leave, Maryland sighs, shoulders slumping as she turns to face the other officer. “Sturm,” she begins, her voice heavy, “that really hurts me, that you would assume such things about me. Do you understand the weight of such an accusation? Murder is a grave matter, and to accuse a fellow Protektor of it without proof is a serious, serious thing indeed.”Say what you will about Maryland’s infidelity or tendency to hide information; she’s as charming and unwavering in the face of murder accusations as one can possibly be. Dagan can’t help but stand against the wall and observe the scene unfold in admiration for her ex-girlfriend: Sturmgeschütz’s heated charge, leveled in a sudden and unprovoked outburst of emotion; Maryland’s calm response, the innocent party wrongfully accused; the subconscious response of the surrounding Protektors in response to these subtle cues, moving to protect Maryland and block Sturm from laying a finger on her again.“Unterfeldwebel Sturmgeschütz, Oberfeldwebel Maryland.” Unusually friendly for a Storch unit under normal circumstances, Brandy’s agitation is made abundantly clear by curled lips and furrowed brow; every word comes out as tightly stretched as a violin’s string, on the verge of snapping upon the slightest twinge. “Are you senior Protektors or squabbling teenagers? You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Out, right now; both of you! Now!”With one final, pointed glance at Sturm, Maryland picks up her riot shield and marches for the door, head high, shoulders back. The Protektors standing in her way clear out; Maryland is a modern-day Moses parting a Red Sea of black and white armor. Figuring she had better do the same and beat feet, lest she risk the wrath of the Storches clearing the room, Dagan trails in Maryland’s wake; her exit, like Maryland, is made with no time to waste.Very much unlike Maryland, no one accuses her of murder as she leaves.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
If the halls and walls of S-23 Sierpinski were a corn maze, Rotfront Sektor C is a labyrinth, a spaghetti mass of winding streets and bustling intersections that leads to nowhere at first glance. Vehicle horns, chatter, and the footsteps of pedestrians coalesce into lucid singularity, layers of film on a freshly printed photograph, larger-than-life. Somewhere in this kaleidoscope of sound and color, a destination awaits. One way in, one way out, decipherable only to the Daedalus who first laid out the street plans and perhaps, the builders responsible for laying brick to such an urban monstrosity. Theoretically, navigating the bustling urban landscape shouldn’t be this difficult. After all, this is Rotfront, not the Labyrinth of old, and there is no Minotaur imprisoned in this city. Maps are omnipresent. The majority of the foot traffic, Gestalts and Replikas alike, are clearly seasoned denizens accustomed to navigating the winding streets without a second thought. Each and every one might potentially be a gold mine of information — how difficult would it be to stop one and ask for directions, really? A Starling pauses at a street corner, yanking out a crumpled sheet of paper tucked into her belt. There it is: handwritten directions to her new duty station, scribbled in mostly-legible cursive. Tuning out the surrounding cacophony, her eyes wander over the paper, skipping chunks of paragraphs until she lands on what she’s looking for.
Get off the Metro at 4th and Kuchiba Central Terminal. Exit through the front lobby. Take a right, walk down three city blocks to the intersection at 7th and East Nord, and the Blockwart offices should be right there. Check in at the lobby. There should be someone there, either a Protektor or a secretary, who can point you to the STAR apartments and your squad officer’s quarters for in-processing.
And one last note at the bottom:
Or, you could simply find a Protektor on the streets and ask them for directions to the Sektor C Protektor Public Office. They’ll send you in the right direction. Best of luck in your new assignment, STAR-S2368.
Try as she might to maintain a professional composure befitting a Protektor, Cessna’s lips curl up into a grin. Truth be told, re-education camp security was a tad on the boring side. The most exciting thing that happened at S-23 Sierpinski during her service there was a shakedown of the Gestalt dorms that ended in the discovery of a single bottle of contraband schnapps. Cessna hadn’t even been involved in that; she had only learned of it through the grapevine, after the fact, when everything had wound down. Au contraire, if the dorm gossip was true, much more exciting things happened on Rotfront: drug and gun smuggling, murder, gang violence, and shootouts with Imperials. Finally, an opportunity for Cessna to put her 60/60 range scores to use; her shooting skills were the reason she had been transferred to Rotfront, after all. Or so she’s been told.Shouldering her way past a crowd of Gestalts, Cessna approaches the street map enclosed in the transparent glass walls of a nearby bus stop. Credit where credit is due, the city planners designed Sektor C in a grid format easily discernible from a bird’s-eye view. Cessna scans the map; it takes her nought but a few seconds to lock onto the pin marking her current location and trace the most efficient route through the streets to the Protektor Public Office. There. Sektor C Protektorate, here she comes. With one final puff of air through her nostrils, Cessna straightens up, adjusts the strap of her duffel bag, and goes on her way. Maybe it’s because of the open air, or the masses of Gestalts moving freely around her for comparison, that Cessna is finally able to appreciate the bird’s-eye view that her height affords her. Pedestrians clear out the sidewalks before her; no one wants to screw around with a Protektor unit on the streets, especially one moving in a very specific direction with purpose. Cessna makes it halfway down the next street before noticing a gap in the crowd. She pauses, squints. Two Gestalts with snow shovels and cleaning rags in hand: nothing terribly unusual. Then her eyes flicker upwards. Two towering Replikas, clad in black armor with red straps; one wearing a metal mask, the other with her back turned to Cessna, sunlight bouncing off her riot shield. A Starling, and a shield-bearing STAR officer. Cessna slows her pace, observing. From the looks of it, the pair of STARs are overseeing the work of the two Gestalts. Once again, nothing unusual: this sort of thing happened all the time in S-23. What is unusual, however, is the noticeable lack of jackets or gloves on the Gestalts, and the general demeanor of the two STARs. The Starling with the mask paces back and forth, every so often pausing to glare at passersby who stick around for too long; the officer shifts on her hooves, back still turned to Cessna. There’s something in her right hand; whatever it is, Cessna’s not too interested in finding out. Best to mind her own business. Taking caution not to drift too closely to the scene, Cessna pointedly keeps her gaze forward. Just as her eyes flicker away from the STARs, her targeting module detects a sudden flash of movement. Cessna’s head snaps to the side just in time to witness the officer lash out at the nearest Gestalt with lightning speed. Metal flashes in the sun; a heavy-duty martin chain cracks across the Gestalt’s scapula with enough force to draw blood on the first lash. The man lets out an agonized yelp of pain, dropping his shovel and collapsing on the ground.Now that arrests Cessna’s attention. A woman nearby lets out a hushed gasp. Across the street, heads turn. Reactions range from concerned to dispassionate to horrified. By the time Cessna’s gaze returns to the Gestalt, the Starling wearing the mask has dragged the man up to his feet, chuckling as she presses the shovel back into his hands. “Filthy, germy, disease-ridden Gestalt blood? On our streets? No. Such risks to the health of the general public will not be tolerated. Clean that up.” Cessna steps to the side, allowing the crowd to swarm by as she leisurely strolls up behind the two STARs. She sticks out like a sore thumb, she knows that. What kind of individual wouldn’t desire to push past such a sorry sight at first opportunity? Yet, it’s not the Gestalts that pique Cessna’s attention. It’s the Starlings. The officer’s back is still turned to Cessna, but Cessna is close enough to make out individual details on the second Protektor’s faceplates. Red-rimmed eyes, crinkled in a smile underneath her mask; choppy bangs; jet-black hair, cut in a straight bob, dusted by snowfall. Identical to Cessna in every way, save for that dark glimmer in the other unit’s eyes. With a jolt of recognition, Cessna grinds to a halt. She doesn’t know this Starling, but she knows that look on her face. Is she… getting off to this? The officer’s fingers curl around the Martin chain once again, metal links clinking ominously as they rub against one another. Just as the shield-bearing STAR winds up for another strike, Cessna steps up behind her and clears her throat. “Excuse me, Officer.” The other unit straightens her back right away, head whipping to the side as she pivots to face the newcomer. An ugly scar slashes diagonally across her faceplates, splitting her features at a forty-five degree angle. The officer’s red-rimmed eyes narrow in undisguised chagrin at the interruption; displeasure is written all over her faceplates. The vibes emanating off the Starling in waves are not it. Cessna can smell the sleazy. She can taste it in the air. “What do you need, Aufseher?” A surprisingly exuberant voice; gruff venom, a tenor that hums with ominous subtext. “Could this not have been a radio call?” The unsaid complaint is plain and simple: I’m busy right now. Ignoring the glare of the second Starling — presumably the officer’s underling — Cessna deliberately roams over the officer’s scar with her eyes, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Sorry, ma’am! I just need directions to the…” Cessna’s nervous giggle isn’t entirely out of character. There’s enough poison in the scarred officer’s glare to off a Storch on the spot. “The Sektor C Protektorate, I believe it’s called?”The other Starling’s eyes snap to the stylized triangles emblazoned on Cessna’s shoulder pauldrons, then to Cessna’s belt. Sierpinski triangles, no badge; understanding and a hint of contempt immediately dawn on the officer’s faceplates. “Right there.” The officer points at a mid-rise office complex farther down the street. The chain in her hand jingles and jangles as she indicates the concrete structure; in the background, a wet slap as the other STAR unit delivers a staggering backhand to one of the Gestalts on forced cleanup duty. Maybe it’s the brain damage from spending all those years underground breathing in chemical-infested air, or the uneasy twinge in Cessna’s gut as those cold cerulean orbs rake over her own: the urge to troll this STAR surges through Cessna’s central processor like a douse of warm water from a showerhead. Fine, then. If ever there was a time to indulge, it’s now, she supposes. Nothing like a hot shower to dispel the frigid air and break the ice, after all!“Right where?” Cessna squints at the officer, pointing at the building next to the Protektor offices. “That building?” The scar on the other woman’s face ripples as her frown deepens. “No”: and it’s clear from the twitch of her right eye and the shape of her lips that she’s choking down a barked ‘dumbass’. “The one straight ahead.” How far can Cessna push before she, too, gets a lashing with the chain in the officer’s hand? There’s only one way to find out, she supposes. Tilting her head and assuming the most innocently inquisitive expression she can muster, Cessna points at a high-rise skyscraper to the opposite direction of the Protektor barracks. “So that one, then?” Now that earns an audible growl from the scarred officer. Cessna almost takes a step back. Clearly, playtime is over. “How about you walk your shiny ass down the street and find out,” the Starling snaps, red eyeliner damn near glowing like a warning sign. Her message has been sent loud and clear, and received in turn with equal clarity: Get lost. Well, too bad for her. Cessna has one more item of business to cover, and like a good scam businesswoman, she’s sure as hell not going to depart empty-handed. Extending her hand with an exaggerated smile, Cessna introduces herself cheerfully. “STAR-S2368, callname Cessna. And you are?...” The corners of the officer’s lips turn upwards, if you could even call it that. Instead of that deep, Storch-like scowl, her lips are now pressed into a thin line: stiff, formal, displeasure that taints the air; yet, lacking in the same vitriol with which she previously addressed Cessna with. “Oberfeldwebel STAR-R16-07. Happy now?” Good enough. Satisfied, Cessna drops her hand, which STAR-R16-07 simply left hanging. “I suppose I’ll see you around, since we are coworkers now,” she chirps, tilting her head, then throws in an absolute zinger of a compliment that raises nearby eyebrows immediately. “By the way, you have a wonderfully handsome scar!” 07 stops in her tracks. Stares. Time grinds to a halt; freezes. Cessna chokes down a giggle as the scarred officer’s eyes go comically wide; her mouth opens, then closes. Then, a huff of air, a blast of frigid condensation that immediately dissipates in a cloud of vapor along with the shock on her faceplates.“Uh huh,” 07 grunts before whipping her head back to the Gestalts: “Who the fuck told you that you could stop working?” Cessna studies her ears. Maybe it’s the frigid air, or a byproduct of the exertion required to bellow at the two Gestalts, but are 07’s ears… flushed? Redder than a mere baseline reaction to the cold, perhaps? Cessna ruminates as she makes her way down the street, leaving the sorry sight behind in her wake. A STAR with a scar, rough-mannered, gruff, and more than a little sus: Sektor C might have its Minotaur after all. In the administrative wing of the Protektor Public Office campus, a conflict of quite another sort is brewing. “And is that all you have to say on the matter?” Storch Eins leans forward, forearms resting on the top of her desk. Two cerulean orbs bore into Dagan’s, two red pinpoints fixated on her like will-o’-the-wisps coming in for a kill. “You are telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”Dagan swallows, hard. Her hands are trembling; why? She’s telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, after all. What else is there to say? “Yes, ma’am,” is all she can manage, hoping the regulation-standard acknowledgment is enough to satisfy the other party in her room. Eins is her boss’s boss, someone who holds Dagan’s career and life in her hands — literally. The same flick of a pen could mean the difference between a pay raise or a decommission order, and right now, Dagan has a vested interest in dodging the latter to the best of her ability. Eins picks up a pen, twirling it between her fingers. The gesture is anything but absentminded. Dagan knows Eins well; she’s seen what the Storch is capable of. No, this is a threat, a warning. Eins could kill Dagan with a writing utensil just as easily as she could with her holstered sidearm. “Is there any reason that, should I interview the members of your cadre, they would tell me otherwise? That you were out and about?” “No, ma’am.” Two words, straightforward, respectful in tone. The truth. Dagan resists the urge to roll her eyes. How many times is Eins going to ask that question? Eins might as well be bioresonant, judging from the oppressive atmosphere that hangs over the cramped office like storm clouds about to break. Dagan suppresses a sigh. She’s already been here for an hour or so, if her internal chronometer is correct, with nothing to show. Of all the things to be called into the day shift commander’s office for, being grilled like a common criminal was not on Dagan’s bingo card. Neither is what happens next. “Excellent.” Gone is the angry scowl, replaced by something akin to a prison mugshot: the Protektor Controller equivalent of Scrooge assuming the visage of jolly St. Nicholas. “Unterfeldwebel STAR-R16-38, you are receiving a new assignment, effective immediately.” Dagan sits up ramrod straight in her chair as Eins sets a Manila envelope on the desk in front of her. “As you know, any death of a Protektor on this force must be investigated per regulations. Yes, I am referring to the death of Storch Innocent. This responsibility is now yours, as those same regulations mandate that the investigation be overseen by a Security Technician squad officer at minimum. All the information you need to begin is in that folder in front of you.” Synthetic sweat; clammy hands; myomeric joints and hinges seize up as every train of thought racing through Dagan’s head collides dramatically in a single flashpoint of clarity. Thank the Revolutionary she’s sitting down; otherwise, she might have clean passed out from the cold shock that douses her nerves, a proverbial bucket of freezing water dumped over her head without warning. Dagan fidgets in her chair, balling her hands in her lap. Eins is looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer — something, anything. “Cat got your tongue, officer?” Eins’ deep rumble cleaves through viscuous silence. Dagan clears her throat, gazing up into piercing cobalt irises framed by wispy bangs and synthetic skin pulled taut around the eyelids. The Storch is on the verge of overt agitation, never a good sign. “Have you got something to say? Speak.” “Permission to ask a few questions, ma’am?” Dagan presses the palms of her hands into her knees, hoping the gesture will afford her more control over the tremor in her arms. As luck would have it, it makes things worse. If Eins notices it, she doesn’t comment, and neither does she react. “Ask,” she growls, pointing her pen at Dagan.Shuffling her questions into no particular order at lightning speed, Dagan mentally fixes them in sequence and chooses one at random. “Doesn’t Oberfeldwebel Maryland normally handle these sorts of investigations?” Wincing ever so slightly at her own mention of her scarfaced ex-girlfriend, Dagan presses on. “Why couldn’t she do it this time around?”“She is not available at the moment,” Eins says flatly. “Next.” Not available? As much as Dagan would have appreciated more detail or a clarification, there’s a clear warning written plain as day on Eins’ faceplate, so the Starling dutifully moves on. “Does Controller Ben Gu—”“Yes. Next.” Alright, then. “There’s no shortage of veteran squad officers to run this investigation. Why me?” Eins’ gaze shifts, and for one second, her face overlaps with Maryland’s. Eins must be who Maryland learned to scowl from, Dagan realizes with a start, the first time in 3 and a half years of working with both Replikas. Now that she thinks about it, this nugget of speculation makes an abundance of sense. Maryland is in the good graces of much of the upper crest of the Protektorate, Eins included. It checks out that some of Eins’ mannerisms would rub off on Maryland. Nonetheless, Dagan sets that thought aside for the moment. Eins is speaking, and it’s in Dagan’s best interest to shut up and listen, lest she unnecessarily draw the ire of the Protektor Controller. “You have a unique skill set, and I am confident based on our conversation just now that you will be able to conduct a fair and unbiased investigation into the events leading up to Controller Innocent’s death,” Eins begins, placing one hand on top of the other and setting both on the surface of her desk. “You are our newest officer, and there is no better way than to learn through experience. I will also add that the Controller cadre of Sektor C is well aware that you spend your free time accumulating useful knowledge and skills instead of fooling about like most Security Technicians do.” It takes Dagan exactly 47 seconds to realize what Eins is speaking of. No fucking way. “Wait a second.” She damn near chokes on a laugh, holding up a hand in disbelief. “Don’t tell me someone nominated me to lead this investigation because I like to read in my spa—”“Read in my spare time,” is how Dagan means to finish. Yes, regular visits to the library are not exactly standard in terms of baseline Starling behavior. Frankly, that’s the polite way to put it. Odd, fucking weird, deviant: all words used to describe Dagan’s sensibilities in the past. Now, it seems, her proclivity for nerd activities — gasp! — have attracted the attention of her superiors, whether for good or bad. Unfortunately, Dagan is never afforded the opportunity to finish her statement. BANG! Dagan flinches and jerks away as Eins slams a fist down on her desk — a slapstick from the ninth level of hell, a gunshot heard around the planet. Well, damn. Consider that a lesson learned. “What’s so funny, Unterfeldwebel?” Eins barks. “Is this a laughing matter to you?”Silence. Dagan focuses on the bridge of Eins’ nose, a trick she learned from Barnea: the paradox of eye contact without eye contact, a sleight of eye, deceptive appearances with no real deception. “No, Madam Protektor Controller.” “Excellent.” Eins picks up her pen again, plucking a stapled sheaf of papers off the top of a nearby stack. The Storch’s brow is down, lips pressed into a thin line, gaze severe. Clearly, she loathes paperwork almost as much as she hates Dagan. “Now get out of my sight.” Dagan doesn’t have to be told twice. She knows a dismissal when she sees one: for once in her life, Thank you, Maryland. Eins hasn’t even finished issuing her final command before Dagan is on her hooves, ballistic shield in hand, right arm snapping into a parade ground-perfect salute. “Yes, ma’am. Glory to the Nation.” “Yes, yes, Glory.” Eins points at the door, impatience lacing her tone like venom. “Out.” Another unreturned salute. Dagan clips her mask on as she gently shuts Eins’ office door behind her, leaving the surly Protektor Controller to her much-desired solitude. She idly wonders how often that happens to the other Starlings of Sektor C. She’ll have to compare notes with her cadre later. T-minus 60 seconds. Cessna lingers outside the office door, clutching her folder in one hand and the strap of her duffel bag in the other. Through the hallway window — there are windows here! — snowflakes descend to the ground in curious patterns, some swarming in groups like a flock of birds, others fluttering gently in the breeze. Leng, and anti-Leng: bitter chill without the bitter atmosphere, a breath of fresh air. Exactly what she needs; not at all what she was expecting. T-minus 45 seconds. Seasons upon seasons of working and living underground have not dulled Cessna’s senses, it seems. In fact, quite the opposite: Every honk of a car, every rattle of a freighter or bullet train racing over metal tracks, every hushed whisper and every spoken word: no matter the pitch or the volume, it all rattles around in her brain like coins in a tin can. She’s not complaining, however: the change of scenery is a most welcome one. T-minus 30 seconds. A transfer to Rotfront? Honestly, the possibility of such a move had never crossed her mind — not until Controller Siebzehn mentioned it in her last performance review. All those secret dreams of perfect range scores recognized and rewarded are no longer dreams. She just didn’t expect the reward to come in the form of a transfer — to a supposedly elite unit on another planet entirely, to clarify. Once again, however, not complaining. T-minus 15 seconds. Cessna hasn’t visited her apartment yet. She’d passed by the door just to save the location in her mapping module, but she didn’t step in. Instead, she took a direct route to her new superior’s office. The anticipation was simply too much to bear, so here she is: a fresh face, another warm body, another disposable asset serving the cause and ideals of her glorious Nation. T-minus 5 seconds. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Knuckles rapping on metal: once, twice, thrice. Inhale. Tension; anticipation.And now, a voice, Eule soft with a pitch and timbre that mirrors her own: “Come on in.” Cessna depresses the door access button, and the door slides open. She sucks air in through her diaphragm, wind whistling between her teeth as her eyes sweep the office. The cleanliness and general order of the cramped space is striking, even more so than the officer sitting behind the desk. “Ma’am.” Cessna marches up to the desk until she’s roughly two meters away. Her right hand nearly shoots up in a salute — her old Controller was always nitpicky about that sort of thing, but her hand stops just short of completing the motion. Instead, she allows her arm to snap to her side, hands curled into a fist, spine straightened, head held high at the position of attention. “I saw that.” Unterfeldwebel Dagan, by all appearances, is fairly standard-looking, save for the decidedly non-standard fatigue in her eyes. “Put your arm down. This isn’t the military.”The officer’s riot shield is propped up against her desk, as is a shotgun with a worn leather strap, easily within grabbing distance. Cessna takes note of the shotgun immediately; with a start, she realizes that she’s only ever seen such a weapon in the hands of Storches in S-23. Dagan’s garrison cover lays flat on its side, partially covering an engraved metal placard that bears her alphanumeric callsign and callname. “STAR-S2368, is it?” Despite the officer’s soggy mannerisms and soft tone, her voice hangs about the cramped space in a manner akin to a hovering drone. “Take a seat, and we can get started.” Steel scrapes on steel as Cessna sets her duffel bag down, pulls the spare chair up to the desk and settles in it, shoulders back, spine planted firmly against the backrest. Cessna’s eyes dart over the desk, landing on the placard. Dagan — an odd name for a Starling, but she’s seen far more eccentric callnames at S-23. “Hand me your badge, please.” It takes a hot second for Cessna to realize what Dagan is referring to. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she begins. “I turned it in before I—”“That’s fine,” Dagan interrupts. Cessna wishes she would speak a little louder, although she’d never say that out loud: the low volume at which Dagan articulates herself makes it difficult to tell when she cuts in. The officer slides a thick binder and a notepad across the desk: resting atop both items is an oval plate of metal roughly the size of a palm, slightly curved inwards, inlaid with nickel and burnished bronze. “Do you also need a badge holder, or did you bring one with you?” Cessna can’t help but stare at the badge as the light catches on the surface, sparkling like white wine. She’s no stranger to Protektor badges: after all, she wore one herself when she worked at S-23. Even so, the differences between the two are remarkable: the cheaper and hastily manufactured shield issued to her at Sierpinski, as opposed to the precision engraving and craftsmanship evident in the fine details that pop off the surface of the Sektor C Protektorate badge like a Renaissance painting. Things really are different in Rotfront. Cessna picks up the badge, turns it over in her palm; she’s so engrossed in the details that she nearly forgets to answer the question asked of her. “I would appreciate that a lot, ma’am,” she replies with genuine gratitude. Dagan promptly yanks open a drawer and places a leather badge holder on the surface of the desk. “Here you are. I suggest you pick up that notepad and start writing. We have a lot to get through.” True to her word, the rest of the meeting is a whirlwind of information. Sign here, sign there; scan this information into memory banks here. Numbers, statistics, callsigns, schedules, and addresses commingle in an agitated soup of seemingly unrelated data. Mixed into that pot are occasional dribbles of interesting tidbits: Cessna now works for two agencies, AEON and the Rotfront National Transportation Authority; squads are capped at 10 STARs, not 5 or 6; Starlings run the streets, not so much Storches; use of ballistic shields aren’t limited to officers; as a train marshal expected to prevail against armed opponents in the extreme close quarters of train carriage interiors, Cessna will carry a handgun equipped with a silencer and a collapsible baton in lieu of a stunprod, a loadout optimized for tight spaces and passenger and Protektor safety. Cessna can’t help but grin as Dagan rattles off the details. Starling Jäger from S-23 would be so jealous! “Just to let you know ahead of time,” Dagan states matter-of-factly, “you also have slots for a long rifle and a shotgun reserved in your name at the armory. You won’t get the same one every time, and you should carry those weapons with discretion, but they are available should you need them.”A bitter quirk of the lip, a shadow flitting over cobalt orbs. “The armory quartermaster is one STAR-R16-07, Oberfeldwebel Maryland. If you have any questions regarding armory stock, gunsmithing, or firearms that I can’t answer, she’s pretty responsive to emails and the like.”Cessna lowers her eyelids, as if bored out of her mind. Internally, she’s wide awake. All of her systems boot up at once in response to the sudden flood of adrenaline. Is that… resentment on Dagan’s face? Even more importantly, is this 07 the same scarred officer Dagan ran into on the streets earlier this cycle? Maryland is her name; what an odd name. Schooling her expression into one of repressed and brainless excitement, Cessna refrains from commenting on this handy-dandy revelation and double-clicks on the gun part. Indeed, firearms excite her just as much as the next Starling, even if playing with them means she has to interact with that crotchety old prick of a Starling officer — the crotchety prick who apparently runs the armory. All good things come at a price, she supposes, and this is no exception. “…the most boring job you’ll ever take — that’s the hope, at least.” Dagan is still rambling; Cessna straightens in her chair, for good this time. “Boring is good. Half the time you stand in the train station looking scary; the other half, you stand inside a train looking scary. That’s the ideal day. Unfortunately, things happen in the metro, things that are less than ideal, and it’s our job to prepare for those moments, to respond and contain any and all threats, and to give our all, for the Glory of our great Nation. Any questions?” “No, ma’am!” Cessna chirps, ever the indefatigable ditz. Dagan’s lips curl upwards into a smile, and Revolutionary, if it isn’t the best-looking smile in all of Rotfront. (Never mind that Cessna has only been on Rotfront for a short amount of time and seen only a handful of STARs.) “You’re dismissed,” she says. “I look forward to working with you, STAR-R16-62.”“You as well, ma’am.” Cessna slams her hooves into the floor as she snaps to the position of attention, nearly knocking the chair over. “Glory to the Nation.” Although Dagan doesn’t seem like the type to demand a salute, Cessna offers one anyways. Dagan offers Cessna a sincere, if not fatigued, half-smile in return. “Glory, comrade.” As soon as Cessna’s back recedes from sight and the pocket door slams shut with a clang, Dagan slumps in her chair. Stacks of paperwork and binders loom on either side of her desk, imposing twin skyscrapers primed to topple at any given moment. Groaning inwardly, Dagan reaches for the binder on top and flips it open. Great — an updated emergency communications plan for her to audit, all 35 pages of it. Patrol schedules, training schedules, meetings, press conference briefings, all vying for her attention: the downsides of a workplace where Starlings run the show is that, well, the Starlings have to actually run things. Paperwork included. Oh, and the investigation into Innocent’s death. And the newbie to train up on top of all of that. Thankfully, it seems Dagan won’t have to train Cessna from scratch. Her range scores are impressive; her service record is beyond reproach. All Dagan hopes is that Cessna’s slightly airheaded demeanor is some kind of carefully constructed facade, that she’ll be as competent on the streets as she is on paper. Speaking of which, Dagan forgot to inform her that the Sierpinski logo stenciled on her shoulders needs to go at some point. Oops; oh, well. If the newbie is smart, she’ll figure that out sooner than later. Call it a test of initiative.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The night is yet young when Hans Chin departs for his destination. Drawing the high collar of his overcoat around his face, the young man glances left, glances right, glances around. No movement; no one’s attention; no cameras pointed his way, at least for the next ten or so seconds. Better yet: no Security Technicians within eyeshot, no cerulean orbs scanning the streets with that raking gaze, twin pinpoints of blue-red framed by red eyeliner and dark bangs. Doubtlessly, there will be a Starling passing by on patrol within a few minutes, if not within seconds. Time to move. Satisfied, Hans slides into the shadows with practiced ease. Rubber soles tread effortlessly, noiselessly on snow-swept concrete. Around him, gray concrete structures ascend from gray concrete foundations, fading off into gray clouds and a gray sky: brutalist sculptures reflecting the utilitarian values of a highly industrialized urban society amidst the backdrop of an equally utilitarian canvas. There is nothing particularly sightly in this quarter of the city, save for perfectly symmetrical streets and sidewalks and alleyways swept clean — too clean. Trash and homeless people sleeping on the streets are conspicuously absent, thanks to the group of STAR units that conduct regular sweeps of the area and make absolute certain that no litter or unfortunate persons are out of their place. Hans shoots up a silent prayer of gratitude to the Revolutionary that at least he won’t have to worry about cameras, where he’s going. Never mind that the Revolutionary would turn over in her grave should she catch wind of what Hans is up to.His coworkers have no clue; the Blockwart has said nothing. The Starlings responsible for his apartment block are in the dark. He has covered his tracks with the utmost care, layering precaution over precaution. Perhaps he’s paranoid, maybe these fail-safes are redundant; he doesn’t care. The Security Technicians might term it “paying for another’s body”, slavery; the Nation might label it blasphemy against the State: however one chooses to phrase it, the act of eliciting sex by paying exorbitant fees in rationmarks is an arrestable offense punishable by reassignment to “re-education” — or worse. Hans isn’t interested in worse, neither does he care for re-education, and so he’d rather be labeled a scaredy-cat than slip up and pay dearly for his carelessness. His location tonight: an “abandoned” townhouse settled betwixt the slums and the developed portion of Sektor C. His escort: a EULR Replika, unnamed, unknown to Hans. This was standard procedure in this business, yet another means of ensuring the safety of both the client and the server. And those procedures — no, best not to dwell on them, lest a particularly vigilant Blockwart on the night shift hone in on his thoughts like a heat seeking missile and pry the information by force out of his brain. No, best not to dwell on them. Look for the brick building with a chimney on top, were the instructions from the agency. Four steps leading up to the double doors and an iron hand railing to the side; don’t go in that way. There’s a side entrance, locked: the four-digit code is…There it is. A brick building with a chimney on top, just as his boss had said, just as he knew by heart. One more glance both ways, a careful sweep of his surroundings: some Starling Security Technicians are experts at blending into shadows, taking advantage of the various contrasting patterns of light and dark against black armor and hair to vanish into thin air despite their towering frames. It’s always a Starling, never a Storch. Starlings run and rule the streets of Sektor C like queens upon thrones, and they make absolutely sure everything and everyone in the Sektor with a pulse knows it. Storches are the paper-pushers, they say, and STARs are the fearless enforcers, the first line of decency and good order across the Nation. Well, there is no Starling here, in Hans’ little corner of the world, tucked away in plain sight. Tonight, he and the others in this hallowed house of hedonism reclaim the night for themselves, their lone outlet to express individuality under a regime that demands commonality and enforces conformity with an iron fist. A lock falls open, words exchanged. To his reserved bedroom he’ll go, and won’t emerge until all is said and done with his partner. Rationmarks exchange hands, the fees that remain besides the down payment. Hushed whispers into his ear; his assigned bedroom! A tremor of anticipation; what will it be like? His body, mortal flesh, entwining with machine-man; or more accurately, machine-woman. A gift from the gods, and a gift from the Great Revolutionary: separate yet equal, forbidden to mingle like this; yet here he is; here she is. After all, healthy defiance is what forms the backbone of any great cultural Revolution, is it not? The door looms ahead; he doesn’t hesitate, not even for one second.
Rap-tap-tap!
“You are speaking of the Great Revolutionary,” a soft voice whispers on the other side of the door. “She is a queen, whom empresses have served,” Hans replies automatically. A pause. Hans curls his hand into a fist. Has he said the wrong thing, fucked up the code phrase? A response, seconds later; a sigh of undiluted relief. He’s gotten it right after all. “I am content to serve Her.” The door swings open. Seconds blur into minutes, minutes into hours. The clock ticks; the Red Eye churns out the window, ever present, ever observing — always watching. Pleasantries exchanged; more rationmarks change hands. Pants, undergarments, shirts, now thrown to the side. Hands everywhere; body pressed against body; groping, feeling, searching in hidden places, snaking into dark crevices. Pause! Will his organ fit into this port? What about this one? Will she lick it? Suck on it, maybe? Sure, why not! Why not go all the way. What else can they do? She spreads her legs again; panting, moaning, thrusting. Maybe there are more to these machines than—Did she hear that? What? The door, he thinks someone is at the door. Did the owl lock it? She doesn’t know; did he? The door slides open, light crashes into the dark room, bowling over the lucky-not-lucky lovers. That silhouette in the threshold. It ducks under the doorframe — it has to duck? A Protektor! Damn her! Damn him! Damn it all! Of course it had to be one of those damned police robots! Why is she here? Did he forget to lock the door? He must have! And that entrance — swift, silent, practiced. If a police raid, why the silence? If she has backup, why the hurry? Wait! Wait—No time to think; no time to run. She won’t let him! A gasp of air, a flash of a transparent ballistic shield, a glimpse of a duty belt with handcuffs and stunprod and the grip of a gun — Revolutionary, a gun! — and red armor straps. Hands around the throat, that hateful prickle of cold titanium-reinforced polyethylene against the soft skin of the neck, thumb pressed against the windpipe, hand clamped over his mouth. An angry scowl affixed to the Starling’s faceplates like some sort of indelible engraving, chiseled into synthetic skin like a Michelangelo sculpture straight outta Hades. Of eye contact, there is none — how could one even think of such things while actively being stra— oh, there it is — dark spots — Panic, panic! Wind rushing in the ears — Drowning, drowning, flailing. Darkness — utter darkness — oh; it’s all over! It’s all over. He tried, he really did; he did resist, he just couldn’t resist— what about the Eule—Every revolution requires its martyrs, even a sexual revolution.The fleshbag is dead. A finger to check the pulse — not necessary. A glance at the chest area, to see if his chest still rises and falls — not necessary, either. It’s in the flop of the head, the limp quality of the body that gives it away. Oh, and her touch: fingers around the throat, thumbs pressed against the windpipe. No more life in this man; it’s all seeped out of him, trickle by trickle, centimeter by centimeter, like water dripping from a faucet. The circle of death, the circle of life; death begetting death, the Grim Reaper stuffed into a Replika chassis, Samael clad in black armor. A herald of doom; a harbinger of destruction. It — he — looks so peaceful, eyes closed, sprawled across the bathroom floor, partially draped over his Eule ‘companion’ — also dead. They might be asleep; they are not. They might be dreaming; this is a terrible nightmare, for anyone and everyone save for the one standing over them. She dreams, too: she is living hers, in fact. A sideways glance at herself in the mirror; a sigh. The blush has almost completely receded from her cheeks, the fire in her chest and between her legs quenched upon the realization that they are no longer. She hadn’t meant to end the Eule so quickly; again, she’s forgotten how fragile the non-combat Replikas are. She only intended to knock her out — but what then? Would she really have fucked the Eule, unconscious? Oh yes she would. She’s done it before; she’ll do it again, unless someone stops her. And by the Revolutionary, why would she stop when it turns her on; when the only way to release that passion fulminating inside her is to indulge wholeheartedly? Hesitation is for the weak, compassion for Imperials, ownership of one’s own body — bah! For capitalists! She is a Protektor, and a functioning member of society. Everything that is, is hers, and she will seize it by request or by force, come hell or high water! And what could she do? The possibilities are endless. She could shove her hand up between the legs; how far might her hand go in? How much oxidant can she spill? She could ride her, grind thigh against thigh until she’s the one whimpering with pleasure, and what else? Well, she has to make sure the Eule stays down, and if she wakes up, she’ll have to go through the trouble of choking her all over again until she lies still. Drag her to the bathroom, if she can, and make her watch her own demise, rinse and repeat. But no, it will not happen, because the owl is dead. And the Gestalt? He is he, and she is she; he and she do not mix. Climb on him while he is in this state, dead — alas, that is a boundary that she must never step across. No, she only enjoys fucking them when they’re asleep, yes, alive; the form of a cadaver but not its substance: dolls, toys, playthings with cavities of wide-open real estate, practically begging to be taken, all over. And what is free real estate, if not an invitation to insert herself in, deeply, make them bleed! — to test the limits of servomotors, of artificial joints, of the strength potential of this body — the temple and dwelling place of the spirit of the Great Revolutionary? The Revolutionary granted her all she has, and why include this if the intention was not for it to be utilized? But no! Not dead, Revolutionary forbid! The germs! And the Gestalt — a male, too! The STDs! The cross-contamination! To do so would bring disgrace on her, consequences she’d rather not deal with; and paperwork, always paperwork. No, she could not indulge even if she had succeeded; and as it so happened, she had not succeeded. Now that both are dead, there is nothing more to be done. And yet, there is plenty more to be done. There is no rest for the hardworking Protektors of the Nation: the bodies need to be disposed of, to begin with. What is she even protekting? She doesn’t know; she couldn’t say. All she knows is her desire, and the end of that desire, and that twisted gratification demanding fuel like a furnace that must never cease to burn. Now that they are dead, she can reflect, take stock, debrief herself on the situation. She knows no one will come knocking; such is the way of brothels, of prostitutes, of those who engage in such vices as those doubly frowned on and forbidden by statute. An unlocked door, now two unlocked doors; now she looms over not one, but two bodies, David standing over a slaughtered Goliath, the ultimate victor in this battle on behalf of her most depraved and deeply rooted desires. The thrill of the hunt is so deliciously addicting; even more so, the knowledge that their lives are in her hands, that for once in her life, she has complete control over personhood, destiny; everything, laws and courts and oversight be damned. The rush of dopamine she derives from seeing others squirm under her touch, struggle, plead for mercy, makes her reel with dizziness. Her blood vessels might very well pop from extreme pressure; oh, it’s so good! It might make her come just thinking about it! Her job is to bust wayward Replikas and Gestalts for possession of contraband, but everyone has their drug; why shoot up on cocaine or opioids when she could just, you know, murder for a hobby? It’s been a while since she’s scored such a satisfying double kill, even if her performance wasn’t up to par in her opinion. She’s spent too long cooling down since her last proper one; she’s fallen out of practice, as the fleshbags would say. The events surrounding her last kill were lackluster, to say the least. Well, just because the lead-up this time wasn’t great and the execution was subpar doesn’t mean this circus has to end in a whimper. Adrenaline courses through synthetic veins; the high isn’t over. Her work has only just begun. Prodding one of the Eule’s legs to the side with her hoof to spread them out, she reaches down and pops open the protective lid covering the owl’s waste port — before reaching back up and ripping the curtain rod out of the wall. Shove the curtain rod into her duty belt; drag both bodies to the window in the bedroom; now open the window. Drop the bodies first. Shove the window open; isn’t it so convenient that this one leads right to a dark alleyway! Shove the Eule over; shove the Gestalt over. The latter barely fits through the window. She has to shove, shove, ram him through. And once that is done, she now has to get through the window, too. Oh, a tight squeeze! But she makes it. And now she’s right outside the brothel, an outsider looking in; two bodies at her side. Her business is not yet finished. Find another, dark alleyway. Both bodies come with — yes, both. She will be undisturbed as she goes about her work. She knows this well. She knows the patterns of movement about this quarter of the city. The slums, rundown: no one would dare step outside their place of residence at this hour unless they had a death wish. The Eule. The Eule. Yes, do the Eule. A disgrace of a Replika! Fraternizing with Gestalts! Filthy, filthy bitch! Teach this one a lesson! A prod of the hoof, to spread the owl’s legs apart. Take out the curtain rod, and use it to disengage the latch protecting the doll’s waste port. Yes, the curtain rod. She’s armed with a gun and stunprod, but tonight, the curtain rod will be her instrument of justice, of revenge — of pleasure. And now, ram it in — oh, Revolutionary! All that blood! Is that piss coming out of that port? There’s all kinds of things coming out of that hole. She plunges it in even further, making good use of her towering frame, indeed, the best use. Oh, she just ran into an obstacle. Maybe that’s the spine, or a bone. Yes, it is — she can see a slight bulge up the backside. Oh well; she twists the rod inside the body. Squish, squish! And now, the assault on her olfactory sensors, let’s just turn those off for now. Oxidant, intestines, wires, hanging out, haywire, everywhere on the ground, making a mess straight out of something from a horror movie. Horror movie? Horror without the movie, her favorite genre. She shoves upwards, again; the body slides across the floor, now slick with oxidant and Replika innard fluid. The rod snaps. Now it sticks out the side of the body, protruding from it like a sewing needle in a pincushion. Now the Eule is unrecognizable, a mass of arms and legs and intestines and body parts (the inner and outer kinds), a slurry of things that were never designed to see the light of day. Oh, the price of fun. It looks she, too, will be paying in rationmarks for a service today — the services of a cleaner who will get the job done without poking their noses where noses ought not to be poked. She scoops up her ballistic shield. Oh, joy. It’s got a few spatters of blood on it. Nothing she can’t explain away, but the threat of blood borne illness is of more concern to her than an observation made off-the-cuff by a peer or superior. Yes, she’ll clean it off at some point: but first, a telephone booth, a cleaner, and then a nice, long, hot shower.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Three reports down, two to go.EULR-L1149 glances at the chronometer on the wall as she stuffs a sheaf of documents into a Manila folder. REPORT OF THE DEATH FOR THE CORONER, stamped in block letters; underneath, the case number scribbled in fine print — Minerva’s love language, an owl joined at the hip to her work, and then some. Fifteen minutes before Minerva’s shift is up; fifteen minutes until Lucrezia arrives to relieve her. Fifteen minutes until she’s out of this cramped office, away from the stuffy interior of the medical examiner’s ward, away from the sights and scents of death that hang over the air like a storm cloud ready to burst open. The last two papers remaining are carbon copies of toxicology reports, by the looks of it, destined for the same individual: one STAR-R16-07. Minerva snatches up a blank Manila envelope and stamps the appropriate label on the flat side facing upwards. One glance at the monitor of her PC to ensure the report matches with the database records, and Minerva is reaching out for the Sharpie sitting at her right hand. One flick of her wrist, and her final task will be completed — mostly, anyways. Someone knocks on the door. One long rap, two shorter taps. The chunky timbre of the subsequent echo indicates a Protektor unit — most likely, a Starling collecting autopsy reports. A unit built for riot control and close combat, reduced to a runner or some sort of glorified administrative assistant. A pity, really: the poor thing must be bored out of her mind. “Come in!” Minerva calls, projecting with enough volume to be heard through the door. “The office door is unlocked.” The pocket door hisses open, sliding along well-oiled tracks to reveal Minerva’s visitor, and the owl’s heart drops into her stomach. Being a recent transfer from Sektor D, there is much about the Locard facility that Minerva must still adjust to. The presence of Unteroffizier Delaware, squad corporal from the Sektor Protektorate, is something she will never adjust to. Neither is it something she has any desire to adjust to. What is it about this one specific STAR that sets her on edge as much as it does? Perhaps it’s those beady eyes, gleaming like twin glass marbles: the way the light dances on them like ghosts in the night, ready to swallow up the living and toss them deep into the land of the dead. Maybe it’s the hair? Someone — who, she can’t remember — told Minerva once that older Replikas occasionally develop gray or white hairs, and as the oldest active STAR in the Sektor, Delaware dyes her hair to maintain a pristine appearance. The appearance is too perfect, a plastic wig crowning the head of a 220cm tall doll in black armor; still, no. The hair is not the source of the unease. It’s most certainly the eyes. Yes, definitely the eyes. Delaware ducks under the head jamb, squeezing her lanky STAR bodice between the doorposts along with her ballistic shield. The corporal’s beads-for-eyes dart around the room before settling on Minerva, will o’ the wisps homing in on their chosen prey like a heat-seeking missile. “Guten tag, Frau Minerva. Glory to the Nation.” Delaware’s smile is saccharine, her tenor rumble as smooth as a fountain of melted chocolate. “Might I suggest keeping that door locked for a while?”The corporal leans against the side post of the doorframe as she speaks. “I’m not sure if you’ve read the newspapers as of late, but crime is on the rise. As a government building, this place is a prime target for the lawbreakers and scoundrels that roam the streets, you see.” Delaware’s eyes flicker over the room, reflexively scanning for anything that might be out of place. Cerulean orbs land on the stapler sitting on Minerva’s desk before darting away at a rapid speed — too rapidly. Minerva offers Delaware her bright-eyed and bushy-tailed customer service smile as she rises to her feetpads. “Guten tag, Frau Protektor,” she says by way of greeting. “Ah — I’m afraid I haven’t been keeping up with the news bulletins. I’ll be sure to take your advice into consideration, Unteroffizier.” What could she say to get rid of this STAR? “Is there anything you need? If you’re looking for one of the other Eules, Lucrezia is supposed to be in within—”A pointed, sideways glance at the chronometer. “Eleven minutes. Is it paperwork you’re here to collect?”The tips of Delaware’s ears flush pink at the mention of Lucrezia’s name. Wait — does Delaware have a crush on Lucrezia? Revolutionary forbid. Should Lucrezia catch wind of this, Minerva hopes that her coworker would have the good sense to ask for a restraining order and not a kiss. There’s nothing protective about this Protektor, only the steely gaze of a predator on the prowl for an easy meal. Composing herself with a not-so-polite cough, Delaware stands up ramrod straight. “I, ah, came to see if you needed help with anything, actually. I’m not too bad at paperwork, see.” Two long strides, and Delaware is standing directly across from Minerva, the Protektor’s shadow falling over the Eule ominously. The door slams shut with a loud clang behind Delaware as the sensors trip, setting off the pneumatic actuators. Now, the only thing separating the STAR unit from Minerva is the desk; not the worst situation Minerva’s ever found herself in, but not the ideal, either. Not by a long shot. Minerva pauses; furrows her brows. The last thing she wants at this moment is whatever ‘help’ Delaware is offering. Trapped in an office barely the size of a prison cell, with no company but a Protektor that oozes sleaziness the way a slug secretes its mucus, Minerva is on the defensive, and both she and Delaware know that. “That is… quite thoughtful of you,” she says with a laugh that’s a tad too breathy to be sincere. “I’m sure Lucrezia would appreciate the help instead, if you want to swing back around when she comes in.” Completely ignoring the subtle undertones of ‘Fuck off’ embedded within Minerva’s statement, Delaware plops down in the guest chair, spreading her legs out unceremoniously as she sets her ballistic shield to the side. “Oh, come on.” The Starling’s lip quirks bitterly, brow down, chair creaking as she shifts; she’s pouting. “Turning down help from a Protektor? What, do you got something against STAR units, or something?” Yes, actually she does. Especially against this one, whose intolerable admixture of passive-aggressive griping and absolutely revolting passivity roils her gut like a ship tossed about in a gale. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Minerva peers keenly into Delaware’s eyes with all the acuity of the medical professional that she is. “I appreciate your offer, Unteroffizier. However, I really don’t need the help, nor is there anything you can do for me.” Minerva’s hand twitches, fingers tapping against her palm anxiously. Her eyes dart around the office, then to the door. She doesn’t trust this unit. Who would move faster if this was a ploy? “I’m sure you have your own business to attend to, anyways, right?” Minerva’s tone is poised, balanced; even-keeled. “Patrols, paperwork?” Delaware’s eyebrows arc upwards, cerulean orbs comically enlarged in what can only be described as a riot cop rip-off of kitten eyes. “Please? You have nothing for me, nothing at all? Come onnnnnnnnn…” The STAR unit slouches in her chair, bottom lip jutting out, eyelids half-lowered. Somewhere in the bowels of Minerva’s stomach, a fire has been stoked — not one of desire, nay, rather one of heavy frustration. How long will the corporal sit here in her office, pouting like a Gestalt toddler denied her favorite toy? Somewhere in the far recesses of Minerva’s databank, a single memory slips through the cracks of its container, replaying in her mind’s eye like a tape recording: fusing together with an observation made minutes ago, two video clips seamlessly edited together.
“Is that… is that really necessary? You could, you know, just hand me the papers.”
“It’s just convenient, it’s generally preferred by most officers too — is there an issue, Frau Protektor?”
“...”
“...”
“...N-No issue here, comrade. Um. Just, please hand me the stack of papers directly next time. No stapler is necessary.”
Fast forward. That wary glance at the stapler upon entry into the medical examiner’s office. That aversion, even now, to a certain item on Minerva’s desk; the avoidance of all eye contact with said item. Fragments of the puzzle snap together to form a cohesive whole, one revelation after another, coalescing into a single brilliant flashpoint of clarity. The stapler. It’s got to be the stapler. Sitting back down in her chair, Minerva yanks out several stacks of paperwork reserved for the next worker on duty — Lucrezia — and sorts them into piles based on their intended recipient. Something shifts in Delaware’s gaze as she watches Lucrezia work, wariness overshadowing any previous desire burning in those beady eyes of hers. Clearly, the Unteroffizier wasn’t expecting Minerva to dump everything from the shelf into her lap. Good. Keep her on her talons; distract her long enough for Minerva’s relief to arrive. Survival is key; this is a marathon, not a sprint, and Minerva is in it to win it. And now, for the magnum opus. Dropping every single stack of paperwork in front of Delaware with an exaggerated thump, Minerva picks up the stapler with a big cheesy grin on her faceplates. The stapler is placed on top of the stack of papers, in plain sight of the corporal; gleaming, menacingly. “These need stapling,” Minerva announces. Emotions, thoughts: those can be concealed with training and a hearty dose of self-control. Instinctual reactions? Not so much. Delaware’s eyes widen in alarm as she clutches at the armrest of her chair, eyeing the stapler warily, as if the simple office item would come to life and bite her, unbidden. “I — Surely that isn’t something you need help with, really,” Delaware stammers as she releases the armrest quickly. “That’s something you can do easily, right? I mean, you seemed to have no issues s-stapling things together earlier…” There it is. Minerva tilts her head innocently, meeting Delaware’s gaze head-on. So this is what it must have felt like, to be David staring down Goliath. For Delaware, it must be the opposite; a triumphant leer from above, the certainty of victory, all to come crashing down under the weight of a stone no larger than the size of one’s palm. All giants fall down eventually, and this one is no exception. “It’s just tedious,” Minerva states with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “I have to do all this paperwork myself. It’s rather unprofessional if I don’t.” Delaware blinks. “Do you not want to help anymore?” Minerva gestures at the door. “If you don’t, it’s fine.” Minerva could have named herself Jäger with that fine trap she just lured Delaware into. The Starling is damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t; talk about a crossroads. There’s no getting out of this one, save for physically standing up and leaving, and to do so would qualify as an automatic admission of guilt: an unacceptable outcome for a Starling. Silence. At long last, Delaware folds, massaging her temple as she lets out a hefty sigh. “Alright, alright.” And still, she makes no move towards either the papers or the stapler. “Thank you, Unteroffizier.” This time, Minerva’s smile is genuine. She reaches out and slides the stapler closer to the Starling, who is now staring at the stapler with open suspicion in her eyes. “This will be a huge help.” Delaware’s beads-for-eyes shift around the room. Slowly, cautiously, she reaches out for the stapler — and pokes it with the tip of her finger, like a frightened Gestalt child. “Oh, it’s — it’s my pleasure to do so.” Her voice wavers, flickers between bravado and unfiltered hesitation. She picks up the first stack of papers, gazing wordlessly at the stapler. A stifled giggle; Minerva turns and coughs into her elbow to disguise her mirth. “Is something wrong, ma’am? You seem nervous.” Oh, she knows for sure. Unfortunately for Delaware, the STAR unit’s hesitation only confirmed the thought Minerva had been thinking. “N-No, no, no.” A repeated mantra, muttered under the corporal’s breath; Delaware clutches one elbow in a gesture of self-consolation. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine, yes. It’s fine.” The manner in which her eyes continue to flicker back towards a certain object sitting on top of the paperwork would indicate otherwise. “Are you scared, Frau Protektor?” Minerva’s gaze drifts over Delaware, then to the desk, then to the stapler. “You seem off.”Helpfully, she suggests: “Did you see a spider? They’re quite frequent in this office.” The corporal reaches up, sweeps her side cap off; runs a hand through her hair. Is that… sweat on her forehead? “No, no, noooooo. I’m fine.” She’s not fine. “Is it the stapler? Do you want…” A suppressed hiccup of laughter from Minerva, quickly diverted as another cough into her elbow. “Do you want a different one?” Delaware trembles. She folds her arms across the front of her plate carrier: a show of false confidence, or more likely, a subconscious gesture of self-protection. “No, no, I already said, it’s fine. As long as it…” A pregnant pause. “Works, I guess.” She sounds like a prisoner on death row about to be marched to the execution chamber, not a Protektor facing off with an inanimate office object. A glance sideways at the chronometer. Five minutes. Minerva waits. With all the speed and efficiency of molasses, Delaware’s hand reaches out. Joints creak, propelled by synthetic myomer and that damned Starling pride of hers. Come on, Delaware, Minerva thinks silently, big, wet eyes broadcasting insincere signals of encouragement in the corporal’s direction. The STAR grasps the stapler, fingers curling around it, lifting it——And she drops it on the ground, eyes filled with fear and loathing. The acoustic blast of reinforced plastic against concrete tiling ripples through the cramped office like a gunshot. This time, Minerva doesn’t bother concealing a sudden chortle of laughter, stifling her sudden burst of mirth in a choke. “A-Ahem, Unteroffizier, is there something wrong with the stapler?” “No, no, no.” Delaware doesn’t move a muscle. “There is not.” The corporal glances down, as if to ascertain the current location of the stapler. Her eyes land on the object in question, well within her reach, and still, she makes no move to scoop it up. Minerva circles the desk, not once breaking eye contact with Delaware. Bending on one knee to retrieve the stapler (best not to bow from the waist, giving Delaware ample time and space to shove her off balance), Minerva holds the stapler out to Delaware, eyes gleaming, triumph bubbling in her chest. “Here you go, Frau Protektor.” A rictus grin, artificial, insincere; Delaware clutches her papers with enough force to crease them permanently. “Leave that thing on the desk, would you?”“Oh?” Minerva parries. “Why? Don’t you need it to, you know — staple those papers?” Delaware swipes a hand through her hair, again; quavering fingers release the papers into her lap, folding open her side cap, setting it on the crown of her head. “Leave it on the desk, if you please,” she repeats, stiff as a board. A heartbeat of silence, the width and depth of an eon folded into a fraction of a second. Enough fucking around. Time to go for the kill. “You’re scared of it.” Silence, again. “Aren’t you? There’s no shame in admitting a fear.” Minerva waves the stapler in Delaware’s direction. “Besid—”A porcine squeal cuts Minerva short: raw, atavistic terror. There it is, at long last, the screen fading to the end credits; the drop of a curtain at the conclusion of a stage play. And now, the credits: Unteroffizier Delaware, and Unteroffizier Delaware’s mighty antagonist, the stone that slayed the Nephilim. The Nimrodian stapler. “Ah.” Minerva knows she’s playing a dangerous game, but the thrill of the hunt is too addicting for her to turn back now. Taking a sudden step forward, directly intruding into the corporal’s personal space, Minerva thrusts the stapler forward with the fluid reflexes of an Olympic fencer. “You aren’t? Are you sure?” Bingo. The corporal swats the stapler away before it can brush her arm, pushing her chair back with a screech of metal on metal. Talons scramble on tile; her ballistic shield, apparently forgotten, clatters to the ground as Delaware leaps sideways, and with her the chair. “Okay, okay!” Delaware wrings her hands together, wincing, hollering. “I… stop! Stop, please!” The corporal glances down at the ground, realization dawning on her: oh, she has a ballistic shield. Yes, perhaps that will afford her some protection from the highest priority threat to life and limb — the lowly stapler. Just as she stoops down to pick her shield up, the piezoelectric buzzer sounds off with that obnoxiously loud buzz, and the door slides open to reveal a familiar face. “I’m here!” Lucrezia chirps as she unravels the scarf from around her neck. “Right on time — oh, is everything alright?” Luci’s eyes bounce around the room, ping-ponging from an ashen-faced Delaware to a smirking Minerva to the stapler in Minerva’s hand. To her credit, it takes nought but a few seconds for her to read the room and grasp the situation at hand. Understanding dawns in her eyes as she turns to Minerva with a beleaguered sigh. “I can take over from here,” Luci says, gently prying the stapler out of Minerva’s hand and setting it on the desk, far away from Delaware. “How much is left?” Delaware licks her lips nervously, shifting on her hooves, clutching her ballistic shield like it’s a comfort toy. Minerva simply watches the Starling’s tongue dart in and out, her own eyes crinkling mischievously, before turning back to Lucrezia with a perfectly neutral expression. “I left the rest on the desk for you, comrade. A few stacks, but nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.” Lucrezia nods at Minerva, once, removing her jacket and draping it over the back of the chair before walking over to Delaware. Delaware clears her throat awkwardly, earning an exasperated stare from Lucrezia. “Minerva,” Lucrezia begins, “would you mind? Dee and I need to chat.”Dee? Minerva blinks. These two aren’t… close, are they? Oh, but they are! Lucrezia bumps into Delaware affectionately; the STAR unit reciprocates by giggling and leaning down to peck Luci on the cheek. Minerva can only watch on in morbid fascination as Delaware wraps her free arm around Lucrezia, protective — possessive. That’s a warning in the corporal’s eye, no doubt about it. Not that Minerva has any interest in interacting with Luci outside of professional bounds; especially now that she knows of Luci’s affiliation with this Protektor that exudes the vibes of a greasy French fry. As much as Minerva would rather not leave Lucrezia in a room alone with the 7’ 2” French fry, it’s time for her to take her leave. She highly doubts Delaware would try anything funny, either; the hallways, examination rooms, and incinerators are all equipped with cameras. (Whether said cameras actually work or not is an entirely different question.) Eh, whatever. “Sure, Luci.” Minerva wastes no time gathering her things, throwing her own coat on and heading for the door. “See you tomorrow. Glory to the Nation.” Minerva marches right past Delaware as if the Starling is nonexistent. She knows Delaware would be fully within her rights, as a Protektor and a squad corporal, to order a halt and demand a salute from her. Thankfully, the Starling has the good sense to let her go, unhindered. She must still be thinking about the terrors of the stapler, and the fearless Eule responsible for the wielding of the weapon. Minerva heaves a sigh of relief as the door slides closed behind her. No running in the hallways is a core tenet of the Nation’s worker safety canons, but for once in her lifetime, Minerva is sorely tempted to ignore that directive. She could almost swear that Unteroffizier Delaware’s cerulean-red-black marbles are still pounding at the back of her head, piercing through rebar and concrete, a shield-bearing All-Seeing Eye clad in black and red armor. Back in the office, Lucrezia raises her eyebrows. “Dee, what was that?” Delaware’s eyes flicker to the side, then down. “N-Nothing.” Her shoulders sag in relief, her lip quirks, her brow creases unpleasantly. She’s lying, and she knows it; Luci knows it, too. Time to play the role of therapist — or would ‘concerned mother’ be the more prudent choice, this time around? Luci drags over a nearby stool and hops up on it. Now eye-to-eye with her beloved passerine, the owl studies her pouting girlfriend with a keen eye. As the oldest active STAR unit in Sektor C, Delaware’s shell bears countless nicks, scratches, and scars, each one carrying with it some wonderful tale of its own. Lucrezia could spend all cycle admiring Delaware’s grizzled form, her battle-hardened physiognomy, that oh-so-handsome contour of her jawline set against prominent features and jet-black hair. Who would have thought that Lucrezia, a lowly owl, would one day count this decorated veteran as her girlfriend? What was it in her, she idly wonders, that Delaware saw in her, that drew the Starling to her and not another? Brushing those thoughts away for the moment, Lucrezia rests two fingers underneath Delaware’s chin, applying just enough pressure to lift the Starling’s eyes to her own. “Was it the stapler?” Delaware bites her lip. “Yes, it was.” Lucrezia sighs. “I take it she figured it out on her own, then?” “Yup.” Delaware pops her lips at the P, her normally tomato soup-smooth tenor laced with bitter herbs. “In all fairness to her, though, I don’t hide it very well.” “Well, that’s still no excuse for her to treat you like that.” Disapproval seeps into Lucrezia’s tone as Minerva’s face flashes again in her mind’s eye. “I’ll have a chat with her about that sometime.” “I’d really appreciate that.” Ah, she’s relaxing. Progress, progress. Lucrezia bops Delaware on the tip of her nose playfully before dismounting her stool. “Tell you what, there’s a couple bodies in the morgue slated for cremation. How about you go take care of those for me?” Delaware’s forlorn expression immediately brightens. Lucrezia can’t help but let out a small giggle at the sight. “Yes, I can do those for you,” Delaware says; her gratitude for the distraction is nearly palpable. “Do you have the paperwork ready for that?” Right, right. Paperwork, death certificates, special instructions, process records to be filled out, et cetera, et cetera. Motioning the shield-bearing corporal closer to her desk, Lucrezia quickly locates the appropriate forms and sets them all in a pile. Taking extra care not to reach anywhere close to the stapler, Lucrezia snatches up a clipboard and slides the loose-leaf papers underneath the heavy-duty clip before handing the clipboard off to Delaware with a satisfied grin. “Thanks, Luci.” Delaware slides her wrist through the handle of her shield, using one hand to grasp the clipboard while the other hand flips through the papers. “I’ll get to this right away.” “No, thank you.” Luci scooches her chair in closer to the desk, propping her chin up on her palm as she gazes up at Delaware with undisguised admiration in her eyes. “I know you have other things you could be doing at this hour. And, it’s certainly a plus having a big strong Protektor like you around to haul all the bodies; it takes two of us Eules to do what you’re capable of accomplishing all by yourself.” Stapler incident swept under the rug for now, Delaware crouches down to plant one final kiss on Luci’s head before straightening up, clipboard in hand. “I’ll be back to turn my papers in, yeah?” “Yeah.” Luci giggles and waves at Delaware. “See you later, Dee. Don’t stick your head in the furnace.” “Yeah, yeah.” Delaware clips her mask on, eyes crinkling in amusement as she and Luci run through their typical pre-body burning banter. “Don’t stick a finger under the hole punch.” Delaware’s lumbering form reaches the door in three long strides, shield glinting in the harsh electric lights of the office. Lucrezia blinks, and suddenly she’s not in the office anymore. She’s back in the concourse of the metro station, watching helplessly as a Storch disappears over the edge of the boarding platform, the Starling — oh, what was the STAR unit doing? Both Protektors were arguing, that much was clear, before things took a rather bloody turn. Did the Storch trip? Did the Security Technician shove her overboard? Lucrezia can’t remember. No, no — oh, no, she can’t remember! She’d compartmentalized the trauma a little too well, it seems. No matter. She can always talk about it with Delaware later——Who’s standing in her doorway? Her girlfriend? Or the Starling from the metro station? The door slams shut, and now it’s only Lucrezia in the room; her and her thoughts, a frenzied duet against a karaoke track of silence. The subsequent gust of wind from the displaced mass of air sweeps through the office interior, blasting black bangs into shell-shocked eyes.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
JOURNAL LOG 39S 54P B
In contrast to my expectations, I’m settling into Rotfront quite nicely. The squad seems okay. Halevy seems nice enough. Officer Dagan is a bit distant, but she’s very polite. She talks really softly! I have to ask her to speak up a lot. The workplace culture here is quite different from S-23. There are more rules, but somehow it’s more relaxed. More oversight, but more responsibility, and more freedom to act.
Today, a man set fire to a woman in the metro station. I’ve never seen anything like it. The smell of burnt Gestalt flesh is absolutely horrendous.
JOURNAL LOG 39S 54P C
There’s a couple weird ones around here. Unteroffizier Delaware (Vice) is a geriatric hag who frankly shouldn’t be alive. If she’s really the old lady of that squad, why isn’t she the officer? Unteroffizier Parabellum (Mandelbrot campus security) is really quiet. She also has a reputation for sticking her nose in places it should not be. Someone told me she knows a lot about phones, and can get information on anything, from anywhere. Hmm. Should she really be working with high school children?
Today, we arrested a man who was grabbing the butts of women on the subway. I had to follow him onto the train and make the arrest there. That was one really awkward train carriage vibe.
JOURNAL LOG 39S 55P A
Unterfeldwebel Nero (Patrol day shift) has a fire problem. I’m a little concerned for her.
I was on train marshal duty today. Nothing happened on the train, but I heard during the shift debrief that Pardo and Cohen nabbed one guy for pickpocketing and another for hanging out suspiciously next to the women’s bathrooms. Ew.
JOURNAL LOG 39S 55P D
Dagan’s not a bad cook. Oh, that’s another thing about Sektor C. We’re not served meals like we were in S-23. We either have to cook, using the stove and the equipment in the STAR apartment, or find someplace to get our food.
I am so fucked if someone finds this journal.
This week, it was a guy trying to murder another guy by shoving him off the train platform onto the tracks. (Apparently, a Storch died here not that long ago a similar way.) What will it be next week, I wonder?
“You take one more step, and I’ll kill her!” Cessna winces. At least she’d been warned: the Gestalts here really do fight, and even worse: they fight back. “You fucking soulless robot trash!” The pallid, scrawny Gestalt man bares his teeth in defiance as he jams the tip of the knife into the side of the girl’s neck. The other passengers in the train carriage remain in their seats, their expressions ranging from terrified into shock to ‘Great, this again?’In even worse condition is the man’s hostage, a teenage girl no older than 16 by Cessna’s estimate, whisked out of her seat as the older man dashed through the train cars with Cessna hot on his heels. Even as oxidant pounds in Cessna’s ears, flashing hot through veins and synapses and lending itself to the natural flow of adrenaline, her central processor is still screaming at her: Why me? Why me? The rookie with less than a period on the job? Oh, Revolutionary, why me? A choked sob tears its way out of the Gestalt teenager’s throat. A warning pops up in the corner of Cessna’s HUD, which she quickly dismisses; something about overheating. What will overheat is this Revolutionary damned situation, if Cessna doesn’t figure out something, and quickly. “I’m not moving anywhere,” Cessna begins, keeping her tone as flat and detached as she can manage. “Look, I don’t know what you want — just let the young lady go, and we can talk this out.”“There is nothing to be talked out!” the man snarls, tightening his grip around the girl’s throat. “Why would I trust a word you say, anyways? You brainwashed, filthy, an—”“Keep him talking, Six-Two. I’ll be there shortly.” Cessna’s radio crackles to life, and she almost sags in relief as the electronic device relays a familiar voice over the airwaves, launching comforting reassurance directly into her ear. She tunes out the Gestalt hostage-taker for the duration of Dagan’s transmission; a muffled cry of pain in the background and the telltale RIIIIP! of bandages being torn off a roll tells Cessna everything she needs to know. Dagan must be on the tail end of patching up the casualties in the carriage over. This is welcome news. It means that Dagan will soon make her appearance before the Gestalt, taking some of the heat off Cessna’s back. Unable to reply to the transmission, Cessna turns her attention back to the Gestalt and his unfortunate hostage. He doesn’t know there’s another train marshal onboard, and under orders, neither does Cessna intend to reveal her presence until the time is right. All that’s left to do until then is ensure the man keeps talking, or remains occupied with anything other than slitting the girl’s throat — or further endangering the other passengers. The man is still rambling on, this time about twisted ideals of justice or something along those lines. Keeping her hands where the man can see them, Cessna nods along at all the right places, even as she primes her systems for combat. Right now, it’s looking like he’ll keep himself occupied all by his loneself, but Cessna knows that could change at any point in time. “…it won’t really matter in the end, will it?” The man sneers again and lets out a harsh, strangled bark of laughter. “They shout ‘Equality, equality!’ and speak of benevolence and world peace, but to them, we’re all just pieces on their little chess boards. We all have our part to play—”Whoosh! Speak of appropriately timed entrances. The interior doors linking Cessna’s carriage to the next slide open in unison on oiled tracks, and in steps another STAR unit. Cessna’s boss has arrived on scene, physical appearance as pristine as ever. “Guten tag, sir!” Shield in her left hand, nothing in her right hand, Dagan waves Cessna away before stepping to the side, at a slight angle relative to the man. The Gestalt jolts, raised eyebrows and slightly agape mouth betraying abundant surprise as he’s addressed formally. “Can I help you?”With the full weight of someone else’s life and fate directly in her hands, Dagan appears remarkably calm. The officer’s mild and non-confrontational demeanor pacifies the hostage taker enough for him to relax visibly. “No, you can’t,” he says, his tone betraying what’s left of his agitation. “You can’t do a damn thing!”“Well, sir,” Dagan parries in a level tone of voice, “I don’t believe I know you. Would I be correct in assuming you don’t know me, either? Give me a try. What’s on your mind?”The man shifts; the girl in his grip winces and squeezes her eyes shut tightly. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters after a brief pause, barely audible. “No one will listen.”Dagan’s brow furrows in concern. Whether sincere or not, it’s difficult to tell; right now, the distinction doesn’t matter. “I’m right here listening to you, sir. Can I ask who you’ve tried talking to already? Have you brought your grievances up to the Blockwart?” Spittle flies as the man snarls again. “Like I said, they won’t listen! They won’t do a damned thing.” Cessna shoots a glance at Dagan, alarmed. Dagan’s eyes flicker over in her direction for all of a second before promptly returning to the situation at hand. “Sir,” she repeats herself, “have you tried bringing your grievances up to the Blockwart, or any of the other Protektors, for that matter? We are all in a position to help you. That’s our job, after all, is it not?”The man relaxes further; Dagan keeps talking. “I don’t know where you’re from, but I can certainly put in a word to help you. The reason why I say this, sir, is because if you’ve already put in a complaint, it will be easier to expedite the process for you.” A shimmering cluster of artificial light pops into view out the side window, myriad pinpoints of white that swarm against a matte black canvas. The train draws ever nearer to the city limits, and with it a thronging mass of bodies that will flush out the train carriages and quite possibly herald mass unrest. If either party is planning to act, they need to act swiftly. The clock is ticking; if ever there was a time to make a move, now is that time. The entire train carriage heaves a quiet sigh of relief as the man lets go of the girl, tossing her to the floor at Dagan’s hooves. “Fine, fine. Whatever ya say.” Cessna steps forward to take custody of the girl; Dagan’s eyes never once leave the man, who folds his arms tightly across his chest, one hand snaking underneath his jacket. “Guess that means I come with ya, huh?”Alarm bells. Alarm bells in Cessna’s head, deafeningly loud: Sunday Mass church bells; the high-pitched screech of a fire alarm; the deafening wail of sirens. Dagan notices it, too: the subtle shift of the man’s eyes, the conspicuous bulge underneath the jacket, right underneath his armpit. She must notice it. If not, everyone in this carriage is fu—And that’s when the man decides to go for his weapon. Sound, movement, electricity — unraveling in slow motion, a knitter unraveling a spool of thread through time and space. Dagan drops into a half-crouch, angling her ballistic shield so it covers most of her body. She half-tosses, half-shoves Cessna and the girl behind her, using that same motion to reach for her own gun. Lithe fingers snap open the holster’s retention hood, curl around the grip; here comes the gun. The man on the other side of the shield mirrors Dagan’s move, jacket tossed open to reveal a firearm: it’s a race to the finish, a desperate sprint against the clock, a high-stakes competition where only one contestant will emerge victorious — and alive. Cessna’s cheek, pressed against Kevlar and reinforced plastic; arms around the torso, as if to tackle Dagan out of the way. Her ears! Why are they on fire? A glimmer, a glint of metallic sheen; oh, so that’s what it is! Her first time looking down reflex sights, technology she’s only heard rumblings and rumors of in S-23; her first time looking down reflex sights, and she’s not even the one using them. Dagan’s reflex sight, mounted on the rail of her Protektor-75, now pointed downrange: downrange, down the barrel of her sidearm, down the polygonal silencer, down the train carriage — down the man’s head. The gun roars: when did Dagan squeeze the trigger? There it is again, and again. Once in S-23, a Storch had dropped a thousand-page tome in the cool quiet of the library: that’s what this sounds like. A slap, a thump, a rapid compression of air and sound-energy waves that make the ears ring. There was no question in anyone’s mind then that something had gone down; there’s no question in anyone’s mind now that a gun had been fired. The man’s chest explodes. His body jerks a few times, each bullet entering him with enough force to yank it as if on puppeteer’s strings, twisting and turning inside of him, opening up secondary cavities, ripping through bone and flesh and organ as it goes. The firearm in his hand skids across the floor, blood-soaked, unused. Brains and hair and blood and bits of skin paint the far wall, right behind him. The glass window shatters into a thousand pieces, and with it some little part inside Cessna. So this is the reality of frontline policing, of working population control in a space where much of the population is anything but controlled. Cessna winces as the equalizer built into her audio module auto-adjusts the balances of the different frequencies inundating her artificial ear canal. There’s a muffled sob below her, a heave of a chest underneath her arms. She’s still clinging to her boss like a child, and there are passengers in the train who require attention. Time to get to work. Cessna unhitches her arms from around Dagan’s midsection, ears burning. She could easily write this off as an attempt to tackle Dagan out of the way, but there’s no denying the optics of the situation. For all intents and purposes, the scene being painted before the train car passengers is one of a Protektor hugging her boss, and that won’t do. Professionalism must prevail; appearances must be maintained. Dagan gets off her radio. Now the hostage is clinging to Cessna, wailing into Cessna’s abdomen, clinging to her duty belt. The train pulls into the station, and behind the spider-web cracks of the shattered window, there’s an imposing line of black and red blocking passenger access to the train platform — Cessna’s fellow STARs. Word travels on wings, here; or rather, on the rails of the high-speed train. (Realistically, it travels over the airwaves of digital mobile radio, but where’s the poetic analogy in that?) Already Cessna can hear Halevy screaming at the crowd, telling them to “Stay back!” The lung capacity of STAR units in S-23 was, of course, the same. To make full use of such back then would have been in excess, what with the exaggerated acoustics of the cramped hallways and bare interior. Now, Cessna understands. For once, the ability of STARs to bellow at an ear splitting volume serves a very real and very important purpose, and not just to berate a Gestalt breathing in the hallways too fast. Dagan re-holsters her handgun and scans the interior of the car, once, twice. Walking over to Cessna, she whispers into the rookie’s ear: “Protektor-involved shooting; we’ll be taken in for questioning immediately and separated. Don’t lie, don’t fib, don’t exaggerate, just be honest and you’ll be out in no time. Got it?” Cessna nods wordlessly as she pats the head of the teenage Gestalt, now calmed down quite a bit. In the course of bargaining with Fate to escape the confines of S-23, had she bitten off more than she could chew? Apparently, Unterfeldwebel Dagan doesn’t think so. The officer unit turns and faces the door, shield in hand, and motions at the blood and guts coating the floor. “Watch out for that goopy stuff,” she cautions Cessna, just as the train slides to a complete halt. “That’s brain matter. A slipping hazard. Nasty texture, too.” Alrighty, then. Trying to ignore the dawning realization that Dagan — soft-spoken Dagan, shy Dagan — just blew a Gestalt’s head open, Cessna shakes her head and concentrates all of her remaining energy on what’s to come next. She’ll have lots of time to process what just happened. Right now, she simply needs to get through the post-incident grilling session in one piece, and then she can think about this all she wants — or not.
6 hours later
The temperature outside is freezing, not to mention the wind chill. Gestalts who step outside without weather-appropriate PPE risk illness and even death. Not so for Replikas, particularly STARs, whose bodies are insulated for frigid Rotfront winters; a Protektor’s job does not simply cease upon stepping hoof outside a door.Neither does their misery. The door slides open to admit a single STAR unit to the outdoors. Unterfeldwebel Dagan ducks under the door jamb, not sized for Starlings as most doors on Rotfront are not, cigarette and lighter clutched in one hand. Tucked into the far corner of the compound, out of the wind, this second-story balcony serves as an ideal location to catch a smoke — and wind down after a particularly tough day on the job. Flicking the lighter until a flame bursts forth, Dagan fiddles with the cigarette awkwardly, passing it around in her hands until she finds a good resting place. Should she hold it this close to the flame? No, maybe a little farther? Truthfully, she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing; she’s never smoked a single cycle before in her short life. Turns out, simply observing other STARs indulge in cigarettes does not suffice effectively as a means for Dagan to learn the ins and outs of cigarette smoking. She should have borrowed something on the topic from the library. It isn’t so much the shooting itself that eats away at Dagan. No, it’s the shooting on top of everything else: this investigation, the 3-hour grilling in the wake of the shooting, the investigation, the shooting, the investigation, the investigation paperwork awaiting her on her desk in her office. She should be thankful, at least, that regulations allowed her two hours of rest before being called into the day shift commander’s office to collect her statement: two precious hours to gather her thoughts, shower and clean up, and eat a meal if she wishes, albeit confined in all these activities to a few designated locations within the Protektorate headquarters, separated from any other units involved in the incident. Truly, things could be much worse. Command could just interrogate her like they would a common criminal if they chose. Dagan hasn’t seen Cessna since the squad separated the two at the train station. She hopes Cessna is holding up well — as well as one can hold up after seeing one’s boss blow out a man’s brains, at least. Dagan shuts off the lighter once the end of the cigarette appears to be sufficiently toasted. She wrinkles her nose at the pungent scent of tobacco; is she really, after all these years, about to inhale this nasty shit into her lungs? If only Maryland could see her right now. Maryland would have plenty to say about this. She can almost hear Maryland right now. She knows exactly what the older Starling would say, and it would go something like—“That isn’t good for your lungs, Dagan.” Dagan whips around, cigarette forgotten, sliding out from between her lips as they part in shock. Speak of the devil. The STAR unit in question is standing in the doorframe, hands behind her back, brow furrowed in concern. The scar that slashes across the other Replika’s face like a bolt of lightning from above ripples as her entire physiognomy contorts in poetic disquietude. “And you’re letting in cold air.” That was supposed to be a sharp reply, but it ends in a sigh. Dagan’s heart isn’t in it. She knows she won’t be able to scare Maryland away; if the older unit desires to remain, there’s no convincing her otherwise. Not that her presence would be entirely unwelcome at this moment. Maryland frowns and joins Dagan at the railing. As always, the vice detective’s armor is polished and parade-ready, side cap tucked into her belt, gun and badge and extra magazines and handcuffs hanging exactly where they should be. “You should know that cigarette smoking—”Dagan glances down. Already the cigarette is out; being dropped on a snow-swept balcony in frigid temperatures will do that. “Can cause cancer, heart disease, and lung disease,” she finishes for her ex-girlfriend with a quiet chuff of exasperation. “I know that already.” “So then, why do it?” Maryland props one hoof up on the lowest bar of the railing and folds her arms across her chest with a sigh. “The Great Revolutionary has given you a wonderful body to live and breathe and serve Her in. You are a temple of Her presence, and you would disgrace that presence by filling it with germs and tobacco and the potential for disease?” Oh no, here she goes again. The last thing Dagan needs, or wants, is another round of bullshit moralizing from someone who’s perfectly capable of offering Dagan the encouragement and the quiet presence she needs at this moment. Not that she would ever say that out loud: it’s just as disgraceful for her to openly disrespect her elder, not to mention that Maryland outranks her by a long shot. Dagan drops her face into her palms, hoping Maryland will catch her drift, unable and unwilling to say anything to that effect. One quiet step forward, and Maryland is standing right at Dagan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dagan.” There’s a genuine undercurrent of apology in her tone. “I take it you’ve had a rough cycle, as well. I didn’t mean to come off as antagonizing.” Dagan rubs her temples before straightening up to her full height. The door behind her is shut, but she might as well have received a direct blast from the air heater running inside the compound at full power: such is the validation, that pool of warmth bubbling up from deep within her, that derives from a genuine apology from someone she still looks up to very much. “It’s okay,” Dagan says softly. “It’s better that you’re here to steer me away from such vices.”Maryland pats Dagan on the shoulder, and Dagan reflexively leans into the touch. The older officer lets out a deep chuckle and wraps her arm around Dagan’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, how about we go back to my office for a change? I’ve had a few things I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, anyways, and now is as good a time as any, I suppose.” Before Dagan can open her mouth to speak, Maryland adds: “And I have some packs of hot cocoa that I can mix for you. It’ll warm you up nicely after spending time in this cold, hmm?” The mere thought of paperwork, or being anywhere close to it, gives Dagan pause; but hot cocoa? Now that’s an offer she can’t turn down. Sighing, she nods, and allows Maryland to gently grasp her shoulders and turn her around, guiding her through the balcony door and into the labyrinth of hallways beyond. Maryland’s office is always as it has been, always as Dagan has remembered it. Cramped, industrial, bare-bones; a creaky metal chair sitting behind a well-worn metal desk. To the left, a metal filing cabinet, stuffed to the brim with documents; to the right, a printer, a small bookshelf overflowing with binders and reference manuals, and a shredder. “Please, please, come in and take a seat.” Maryland ushers Dagan in and immediately makes a beeline for a small table in the back, just out of reach of the desk. “I’ll heat up some water for us, and we can share some hot cocoa.” Dagan pulls up the guest chair to the desk, eyes wandering over the documents sitting atop Maryland’s desk. Every corner staple is set at a perfect angle, folders organized by label and color; stamps, pens, and other office supplies set at a perfect distance for easy access. Dagan can’t help but grin at the sight. Maryland’s penchant for cleanliness and her characteristic efficiency and organizational talent clearly have not abandoned her, even as she continues to age past her golden years (or whatever the Replika equivalent is). Dagan jerks her chin up. Maryland is gazing at her, observing her with those keen eyes of hers, studying her as a scientist would examine a specimen under a microscope in a laboratory. “Dagan,” she begins gently as she pours hot water into a thermos, “have you been alright lately?” Dagan’s chest tightens underneath her plate carrier. How is she supposed to explain to Maryland that no, their breakup from months ago has opened a gaping wound in Dagan’s heart, a wound that tears open a little more every time Dagan lays eyes upon Maryland? Dagan was the one to initiate separation, after all, and she’s terrified to admit her guilt to the offended party; especially since her Starling pride is on the line. “I’ve been okay, I guess.” Dagan clears her throat and sits up in her chair. “Just, you know, I’ve been busy and all that.” Dagan fidgets with her hands, unsure of what to do or how to act under Maryland’s all-knowing gaze. Finally, she settles on balling her hands in her lap, wishing she had brought along her ballistic shield to lean on so as not to appear so awkward or unsure of herself. Maryland’s back is turned; she’s stirring in the cocoa powder, metal spoon colliding gently with the walls of the thermos: clink-clink-clink. Dagan inhales and exhales, matching her breathing patterns to an even multiple of that metronomic drone. In and out, in and out; her heartbeat, thumping wildly, has now tapered off in speed at a considerable rate. She’s about to drink hot cocoa, Maryland is acting normally; everything’s okay. Maryland turns around, and everything is not okay. “Dagan.” Dagan chokes back a sob. She hates this, despises it with every fiber of her being: that saturation of passion in every syllable, the way the vowels whistle through Maryland’s teeth with a reverence reserved for deities, every syllable packed with the fragility of a bomb poised to blow at any moment. Does Maryland still care for her, even after all these months?That certainly appears to be the case. Perhaps Dagan was in the wrong; no, she is certainly in the wrong to leave Maryland. At least, that’s what the logical half of her brain is saying, plastering that message up in her mind’s eye on a highway-side bulletin board for all in passing to see. No, no, no. She made the right choice to leave Maryland. The devil is in the details, as the Gestalts say; it’s in that predatory gleam in Maryland’s eyes. Or is that just the sunlight reflecting off the older unit’s eidetic modules, creating the illusion of malice that only exists in Dagan’s psyche? So caught up in this argument between her two halves is she, that she nearly misses the soft rumble of Maryland’s voice. “You know you can talk to me about anything, Dagan. At any time. And I mean that.” Dagan bites her lip. She has to maintain control. She must, for the good of her cadre, for her own well-being. Failure is not an option.She is an officer. Weakness is anathema, punishable by excommunication from the ranks of the Chosen Ones — the ranking STARs whose duty it is to hold the line against all that undermines the well-being of the Nation’s citizens. How then, does she keep finding herself in situations where weakness is encouraged, nay, demanded of her, if she is to move on in the path of least resistance? Silence hangs over the cramped office, a storm ready to break; thick tar that clings to the walls, a parasite that burrows its way deep between one’s temples, leeching off its host, sucking away life and sound and color. Dagan swallows; licks her lips. Suddenly remembering that a thermos of hot cocoa awaits her, she scoops up the metal container, feverishly pouring it down her throat. This is her pathetic attempt to alleviate the toxic fumes of despair and utter repression fulminating in her chest and throat. The Great Revolutionary would turn over in her grave were She to lay eyes on Security Technician Dagan, who might as well swap out the S in STAR for “Soggy”. Soggy Technician Guard Replika; that’s Dagan. Maryland patiently waits for Dagan to finish, taking small sips of her own thermos. The chair creaks as she leans back, settling into her seat like a queen upon her throne. “There is no pressure to say anything, just so you know,” she says. “But I’m here if you need me.” With one final offensive push, Dagan wrests full control of her faculties from her ever-wandering mind. “I’m just tired, I guess,” she mumbles, pinning her eyes to the ground. “And — just lost.” There it is, the truth, emerging from its cave like the twisted cave-man Sméagol at long last. Maryland leans forward. Now she’s getting somewhere. “Let’s start from the very beginning, shall we? From what I understand, you were involved in a Protektor-involved shooting this afternoon. Is that what’s eating at you?” Just like that, Dagan folds. “Sort of,” she begins, shoulders drooping. “I’m just — numb, you know? I can’t feel anything right now, and it — it scares me.” Maryland hums, setting her thermos down on her desk as she shifts in her chair. “I understand. If I may be frank, this is the first time you’ve actually had to pull the trigger yourself, is it not? I know that can weigh heavily on you, especially the first time around.” Dagan slouches in her chair. Now that she’s finally talking, she can’t seem to stop. Deep down inside, she doesn’t want to stop. “I guess that’s it. Being ‘investigated’ by your peers isn’t such a fun experience, either.” Maryland’s eyes soften. “I see, I see. Yes, I suppose that’s one of the drawbacks of not having a dedicated IA squad or point of contact; when things like that happen, your colleagues are the ones handed the responsibility of investigating you, their friend. You look quite well for someone who just ran that gauntlet, though. Might I ask who was saddled with the responsibility of investigating your… ah, ‘incident’?” “Sure, why not.” Dagan shrugs. “It was Unterfeldwebel Nero.” The corners of Maryland’s lips twitch upwards in a faint smile. “She’s a little too fond of her flashbang grenades, but she’s a fair investigator when it comes to these things.” Dagan also lets out a wry chuckle. “Yeah. She’s tough, but I know for a fact it could have been much worse. It was a three-hour catch and release, essentially.” “Cleared of all charges?” “Cleared of all charges, yes. I’ll be back on the streets tomorrow.” Maryland nods and leans back in her chair. “Good, good. I rather knew it would turn out that way, you know, when I was informed that a Protektor involved in a shooting would not be required to turn in her service weapon for the duration of the investigation.” Right, right. As the quartermaster of the armory, Maryland would know these things, of course. “Is the hot cocoa alright? Is it suitable to your tastes?” Dagan blinks. “Oh — uh, yes. It’s wonderful.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “Thank you.”Maryland waves a hand dismissively and flashes her trademark handsome smile, the same smile that entranced Dagan long before the two began dating. “No need to thank me. I see something else is on your mind, as well. What’s bothering you?” Great Revolutionary and the Revolutionary’s titties, Dagan thinks: is she really that easy to get a read on? Apparently so. Maryland is waiting for an answer, eyebrows raised, arm outstretched, palm held upwards expectantly. It would be rude to keep her waiting, especially after the hospitality the scarred officer had shown of her own initiative. Sighing internally, Dagan answers truthfully. “It’s — it’s the investigation. About Storch Innocent.” A pause; she clears her throat, searching for words. “I — I’ve never done an investigation in my life before, as you know. I’m the newest squad officer in the Protektorate, and I get why the assignment was handed to me, but still.” Dagan looks right up into Maryland’s eyes with a sigh. “Maryland, I have no idea what I’m doing.”The silence that follows is immediately broken by a scrape of metal on metal. Maryland pushes her chair back, walks around her desk, and sits back down on the edge of it, arms folded, now inches away from Dagan. “I assume Kommandant Eins hasn’t been very helpful to you on that front, no?” Dagan closes her eyes. All she can see is Eins’ scowl, the pinch of her eyebrows as she sized Dagan up, the impatience seeping into her tone as she answered Dagan’s questions with as little information as she could get away with providing. “Yes,” Dagan answers, slowly. “She handed this to me and told me to get to work, basically.” “I see.” Maryland hums thoughtfully, assuming the ubiquitous thinking pose: one arm crossed, chin propped up on the knuckles of her opposite hand. “You know, it would be nice to have an NCO school for the new officers, wouldn’t it? Something akin to what they have in the Military Police for officers promotable. I keep bringing that up to Command, and they shoot it down every time — but that’s besides the point, isn’t it.” Indeed, it is quite off-topic, but it’s an interesting tidbit of information nonetheless. Maryland perks up, gazing at the streets below, vehicles and pedestrians melding into a single mass of man-machine behind the shimmering pearly-glass pane of bulletproof Plexiglass. “Well, I don’t get to say this often, but you’ve come to the right place for advice. I’ve been doing this for ten seasons, more or less, and maybe I can give you a few pointers in the right direction.” “Please,” Dagan pleads, her voice barely above a whisper. “Well, let’s see.” Maryland returns to the throne behind her desk and plops down in her chair. “I would say don’t be afraid to ask others for help, which as I can see, you have already done by coming to me.” The vice detective claps her hands together, once, pressing her fingers together before touching her fingertips to her chin. “Do you have writing material on you? Perhaps we should take notes, and lay out a roadmap for you — a guide, if you will.” Dagan does not, in fact, have any writing materials on her person. Maryland quickly furnishes a spare notepad and pen for her, and the two set to work, with Dagan taking extensive notes as she and Maryland brainstorm.
Victimology: Gather data on the victim. Who was she? Who did she associate with? Did she make any enemies?
Death: What were the circumstances of her death?
Purpose of the investigation: Routine death investigation. Special care b/c victim is a Protektor.
Persons of interest.
Gather evidence. Keep a paper trail.
Task force. Look up procedures on how to bring others onto a task force if needed.
And Dagan jots down some notes of her own as well.
How common are railway deaths?
Have any other deaths occurred like this before, particularly in the same location?
Probably an accident based on the facts we have available.
Halfway through jotting down her next note, an invisible weighted blanket manifests itself, draping over Dagan’s shoulders. Dagan looks up from her notepad, and there’s Maryland, lounging in her chair, staring intently at Dagan. The gesture is greatly unsettling, all senses narrowing down to a single point passing clean through Dagan’s forehead into the great beyond, as if Maryland is secretly bioresonant. “What is it?” Dagan asks, suddenly unnerved. There it is, again. That soft sigh, that dulcet smile, gestures of affection that form a jarring contrast to the fearsome scar and wrinkles carved deep into synthetic skin, a byproduct of fixing lips into a frown for seasons on end. “Listen,” Maryland says, leaning on one armrest, gesticulating with passion as she speaks. “You’re a smart woman, Dagan. I know I used to make fun of you for your partiality to books. Perhaps I was wrong — in fact, I was wrong to mock you. Your ability to research and find answers to anything, anywhere, will serve you well.” Dagan drops her borrowed pen back in its spot in the pen holder; Maryland promptly bumps the pen with one finger, aligning it with the other pens in perfect parallel. “I’m — I’m sorry, Maryland,” Dagan huffs softly. “I’m too tired — just, what do you mean by that?” “Oh.” Maryland titters, letting out a short, harsh rasp of laughter before her signature frown returns to her faceplates. Unbidden, she extends a hand, resting it on top of Dagan’s; servos stacked on top of servos, joints atop joints, fingers intertwined. “Now, you understand that what I’ve given you, those are just guidelines, you see. You don’t have to follow them. What you do have to follow are the regulations and rules in the lawbooks, and you are no stranger to books.” Electricity crackles, supercharging the space between the two. Who turned on their stunprod? “Have some faith in yourself.” Maryland pats Dagan’s hand one more time before leaning back. “I always knew you had it in you to make it to an officer rank one day. Do your Nation proud, Unterfeldwebel Dagan, and I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines every step of the way.” Dagan’s breath hitches. Her optical feeds flash with wet heat; where did this sudden cascade of salt water come from? Wiping at her eyes furtively with the back of her hand, Dagan rises to her feetpads. “I — I’m sorry, Maryland.” It takes her two tries to pick up the notepad Maryland lent her, three to pick up her ballistic shield from where it sat tucked in the corner of the office. “I — I have to go.” Not this again. “Do you want the thermos?” Maryland suggests helpfully. “Go on, you can take it. You left it half full.” “I —” She has a point, and who’s to say Dagan won’t want the warm drink to console her later? Dagan is making no secret of the cause of her distress. Even now, said cause is still extending goodwill to her, inviting her into her office, counseling her professionally — inviting vulnerability. Without another word, Dagan snatches up the thermos, eyes watering. One final wave to Maryland, and she turns on her heel and makes a beeline for the doorway, as fast as she can walk without coming off as rude. It’s a vain effort, she knows, a fruitless gesture in the face of thinly veiled emotional distress, but it’s something. “Come again! Don’t be a stranger.” Biting her lip, Dagan slips out into the hallway. Depending on how badly she flubs this assignment, she might not be a stranger to Maryland’s office by any means. How unfortunate. Dagan isn’t in her office. She’s nowhere to be found, and everywhere at once. One STAR told Cessna that the officer was in the armory; a passing Eule informed her that Dagan was in Storch Eins’ office. A trip upstairs here, a knock on an empty office door there: where is she? Come to think of it, why is she chasing Dagan, after all? Cessna glances down at the paperwork clutched in her left paw. Sure, the optimal thing for her to do is to turn in her patrol reports right away (and whatever legal documents Cessna had to sign in the wake of the shooting investigation). But it could wait until tomorrow, couldn’t it? Eh, whatever, she decides; best to get it over with anyways. One more trip to the office, and that’ll be it for today. Dagan’s office is located on the second floor of the administration wing, as are all the other offices for the STAR officers. It’s amazing, really, that a detail as simple as office assignments can broadcast an unambiguous message to anyone who strolls through: the power in Sektor C flows upwards from the bottom, with STARs taking an active role in everything from shift scheduling to the development of patrol protocol. Cessna doesn’t need to read the plaques bolted to the doorframes to find her way to her officer’s office. She knows the way already by heart. Two sharp knocks on the door, knuckles rapping on steel. “Ma’am?” No answer. “Unterfeldwebel Dagan?” Silence. One more try, then. Just as Cessna raises her hand to knock again, a door behind her slides open. An RFID ping reveals the newcomer: STAR-R16-42, officer Sturmgeschütz. Which squad did Sturm command, again? Cessna consults her databank, racking her brain until the program returns a hit: Echo Squad, the night shift transit police squad. So Sturm is Dagan’s nocturnal counterpart. “STAR-R16-62.” Sturm’s tone is beleaguered, her overall appearance slightly rumpled: she’s working in her office off-shift, and of course it would stand to reason that she wouldn’t be too happy about that. “Do you need something?” Cessna offers Sturm a wry grin, albeit tinged with vacuity. “Good evening, ma’am! I’m trying to find Unterfeldwebel Dagan. Have you seen her?” Sturm’s gaze flickers over Cessna, weariness pinching her features, one hand grasping her coffee cup as if her life depended on it. “I have not, no.” Before Cessna can say anything else, Sturm turns and retreats back into her office. The door slides shut in Cessna’s face with a resounding slam and an air of finality. A puckering of the lips; a shrug, and Cessna’s marching back down the hallway towards the squad apartment. She can worry about the papers tomorrow. Alternatively, she could wait until Dagan returns to the apartment and bug her then, although whether the latter will happen depends largely on Dagan’s mood upon arrival. With Dagan being at the top of the squad social ladder, and Cessna at the bottom, who knows what will become of Cessna should she upset her officer. Cessna is so lost in thought, genuinely this time, that she almost runs into another Starling just past the elevator lobby. She manages to twist in midair just in the nick of time, preventing a full-on collision. Just as she emits a yelp, wall rushing towards her nose, a strong hand reaches out from the side and closes around her bicep, yanking her back onto her feetpads.“I’m sorry,” Cessna’s rescuer apologizes in a soft tone. “Are you alright?” That voice. Cessna would know that sopping wet, soggy, wet kitten-type tenor anywhere. “Unterfeldwebel Dagan!” she chirps, quickly releasing her arm from Dagan’s grip. “I was looking for you. I have—”“Paperwork for me, yes, I know.” Dagan’s tone is rife with fatigue, although not unkind. “We can take care of that tomorrow. I’m more worried about you; are you alright?” Now it’s Cessna’s turn to look worried. Dagan is clearly worn to the bone: she moves and sounds like a zombie. All that’s missing is the dark circles underneath her eyes, and she’d fit right into the cast of a horror film. “Yes, I’m fine. Officer Nero had me in and out in under an hour. You, on the other hand…” “...You don’t look so great,” is what Cessna intends to say. Once again, Dagan beats her to the punch. “Don’t look so hot, is what you were going to say, no?” Dagan pauses, sighing. Her shoulders slump; she carries herself as if she were a Gestalt mourning the loss of a loved one. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” Who is she trying to convince? Cessna, or herself? Something is deeply off. “Ma’am,” Cessna begins, “are you okay?” Dagan’s head shoots up; her eyes flash in shock, then apprehension, then resignation. Still, she ducks her head, tensing, as if she can throw her ballistic shield up to protect herself from the big bad emotions that plague her mind at the moment. “I — I’ll be fine,” she declares after a pregnant pause. “Just officer things, that’s all. Comes with the job.” Cessna doesn’t believe Dagan. Dagan doesn’t appear to believe herself, either; that’s both of them. Nonetheless, Cessna knows better than to push things past where they currently are. If Dagan wants to talk about it, she figures, Dagan will talk. Until then, best to mind her own business. “Are you headed back to the apartment?” Dagan asks. “Yes, ma’am,” Cessna replies. “And you?” “I am.” Dagan motions towards the direction of the apartments, and for the first time, Cessna notices the thermos of steaming liquid clutched in her left hand, ballistic shield looped around her forearm. “Why don’t we walk together?” Cessna motions at the item in Dagan’s hand. “What’s in that thermos? It smells practically heavenly!” “O-Oh.” Dagan takes her sweet time responding; not that Cessna particularly minds, of course. “Why, it’s hot chocolate! Do you want some of it?” Cessna shakes her head, but Dagan is already holding the thermos out. Well, if Dagan is offering of her own free will — turning down hot chocolate? Perish the thought! Trusting that Dagan’s offer was sincere, Cessna gently plucks the thermos out of Dagan’s hand and takes a sip. There’s nothing particularly special about this mix of hot chocolate, but Cessna might as well have taken the first bite of a five-course banquet for all she cares. “Oh, this is so good!” Resisting the urge to guzzle down the contents of a thermos like a starved Gestalt, Cessna takes a measured swig of the russet liquid and smacks her lips together in satisfaction. “Did you make this yourself?” The tips of Dagan’s ears fade to a light pink. Is she… blushing? “No.” She hesitates; stumbles over a few syllables before righting herself. “Oberfeldwebel M-Maryland — Maryland made it for me.” Cessna’s hand pauses mid-trajectory on its way to connect her lips to the rim of Dagan’s thermos. At this point, Maryland is a semi-permanent fixture in Cessna’s day-to-day life: the scarface and her Storch-like scowl, a not-so-friendly face at Protektor meetings and official functions. “Oberfeldwebel Maryland made you hot chocolate? The weird asshole with the resting bitch face?”“Oh, don’t say that!” Dagan scolds, but there’s no mistaking the upward twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, she made me hot chocolate. Does it taste alright to you?” Cessna takes another sip. “Oh, it’s wonderful. I wonder — if she’s making it for you, will she make some for me, too?” Dagan lets out a chuckle, but it’s hollow, flat; forced. “I’m sure she will, if you ask nicely. Are you settling in alright?” The measured intentionality by which Dagan switches topics is not lost on Cessna, but once again, it’s not her place to probe. Yes, go with the flow, go with the flow. “I am. Unteroffizier Halevy is very helpful, and the girls in the squad know how to work hard, and play even harder.” Cessna winks playfully at Dagan, who dips her head, a knowing smile spreading across her faceplates. Already Dagan seems to be in better spirits than when they’d first run into each other, not a few minutes prior to the present time. “That they do,” Dagan agrees. “Are you getting along with them well? Any of them giving you a hard time?” Cessna shakes her head no. “No, ma’am. They’re a lot more tame than most of the squads in Sierpinski. You’ve got a great group here.” By this point, the two STARs have reached the door to their squad’s shared apartment. Cessna swipes her key through the keycard reader in one fluid motion. The LED on the reader flashes green. “Thank you for offering me your hot chocolate,” Cessna says, turning towards Dagan with a grin on her face. Dagan is preoccupied with unclipping her own keycard, fiddling with the clip on her belt, working to dislodge the thin plastic card. It takes her a few seconds to realize she’s being spoken to, a few more to look up and process Cessna’s words. “Oh, you don’t need to thank me for that.” Dagan shrugs and produces her own keycard, holding it out for the reader to scan. Cessna almost opens her mouth to speak before she remembers: ah, the rules against tailgating. Everyone is supposed to swipe their cards everywhere; it makes it easier for Dispatch to track where everyone is at any given time. Plus, there’s the accountability factor as well. Should something go wrong, investigators will be able to quickly figure out who was where at what time. Sierpinski did not have this rule. Another one of those contrasting facets of life at Rotfront Sektor C, Cessna thinks. “Sleep well tonight.” Cessna’s ears perk up. That’s Dagan, now gazing back at her. It would not be inaccurate to say that Dagan’s words take Cessna off guard. She’s simply not used to being wished a good night.“You too, ma’am.” Dagan’s brow furrows, her mouth opens slightly; apparently, she’s not used to being wished a good night, either. “Good work today, Aufseher. Keep the hot chocolate — and the thermos. You deserve it.” And with that, she presses the door access button and disappears inside the apartment, beckoning for Cessna to follow her in.