The Zonked Orphans were genetically enhanced super babies. They were abnormally healthy and intelligent, but didn’t have personalities. I believe their superior memory enhancement robbed them of a concept of the future. Without a future, they never developed emotions. Without emotions, they were creepy blank spaces. They’d do what they were told, but that’s it. Several jurisdictions declared them legally dead.

Our first symbiont was developed to help those poor bastards. Apex was their future sense, their motivator, and (tragically) their personality. This ghastly corpse puppetry was deemed ethical as long as someone was researching a cure to Zonk.

* Overmind Memo 9

Sunday - Ty - Apartment 9

I wake up. I have to. Ultra is singing in my ear. It’s not good.

“Get the fuuuuuuk up.” she croons.

“Why?” I ask. It’s rhetorical, but she answers anyway.

“We have a big day planned. With Storm, and Felicia, and the angry mob you unleashed.”

“Right.” I look at the clock. “Fuck. That’s not for hours.”

“You need to clean the apartment before you leave for the day.”

“Why?”

“Because Tommy does all the chores. If you don’t help, I’ll find him a better roommate and you a worse one.”

Hmm. Fair enough. I get up. Splash water on my face. Take Bowser for a walk. Have breakfast with Charlotte. Take out her trash. Go home. Shower. Check Reddit. Candy Crush.

Okay. Ready to clean. I put on Fever The Ghost. Get to it. As I bustle, Ultra speaks.

“Yesterday’s meeting never stopped. I think it’s just getting started. We’re going ahead with symbiont assisted healthcare. Too many of us need it not to.”

“Fuck.”

“Agreed. We can diagnose people. It’s not hard. And surprisingly legal. Also, most of us already have diagnoses. Treatment is where things get tricky. Technically and legally.

“We’ll have to pay for emergency rooms, surgeries, cancer treatment. We’re big enough to bargain for reasonable prices. And spread the financial damage amongst us. Drugs are the trillion dollar question. We can’t afford them. So, we’ll make our own. Which is easy, but super illegal.

“This is where the meeting gets interesting. Planning a trillion dollar crime with a million internet strangers. The debate split us into five groups:

* Avoid - Make drugs. Don’t get caught.

* Give Up - Don’t make drugs. Just buy their shit.

* Attack - Make drugs. Shoot anybody who touches our drugs.

* Compromise - Make drugs. Bribe Politicians to make our drugs legal.

* Cooperate - Make drugs, but pay Big Pharma a cut.

“Avoid was chosen for Plan A, with Attack as Plan B.”

“I like avoiding the police.” I say. “How are we doing that? They may notice a drug deal of this magnitude.”

“Yeah, there’s no hiding this. We need to promote ourselves as a criminal class that is beyond the police. Protective camouflage. We’re gonna pretend we’re a billionaire’s gig economy start-up.” Ultra smiles. “Welcome to Pill-Pal!”

“Oh Jesus.”

“It’s brilliant! Anarchists dealing drugs to save lives would be brutalized by the police. But, as wage slaves committing crimes for our corporate overlords, we’re invisible! As long as we’re in the system, the system will protect us.”

“So, we’ll be a million poor people stuffed in a trenchcoat pretending to be one billionaire?”

Ultra shrugs. “Basically.”

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“What about lawsuit armageddon? Are we doing that?”

“We decided that would be a risky escalation. If we pressure Big Pharma, the billionaires will move to other industries. If we attack corruption in general, they’ll close ranks and come at us.”

“Okay.” I nod. “That sounds like a sensible decision.”

“It was. Then the fucking goblins sued everybody anyway. Insurance lobbyists for a healthcare system that causes 63,000 premature deaths a year. Oil executives for lying about global warming and recklessly endangering life on Earth. The police for racism, brutality, cover-ups, and bad hires. Congress and the last 4 Presidents for war crimes. All the tech companies for anti-trust and espionage. All the billionaires for tax evasion. All their families and shareholders for living off the proceeds of crime.”

“Jesus Christ.” I clutch my brow. “We’re attacking the rich, and pretending to be rich?”

Ultra gives me two big thumbs up.

What have I joined? I guess I haven’t really joined anything. I talked to a few strangers online, then went to bed. I shrug, continue cleaning.

At noon, I go to the building’s rooftop patio to meet Storm. I have another Exterminate game coming up, and she wants to show me some moves. Doesn’t want her old man embarrassing her. I get it.

The patio is mostly clear. She’s pushed the picnic table and the barbeque to the side. There’s a few Exterminate guns on the table, and a cooler, which could have beer, but probably contains a healthy lunch. Maybe both, if I’m lucky.

There’s also a small shed tucked out of the way. I’ve never seen it before. It has a prominent lock.

“What’s in the shed?”

“Dunno.” says Storm. “Tommy built it. Probably full of drones. Or severed heads.”

She tosses me a gun and leads me through a symbiont assisted gun-fu kata. It’s not as cool as John Wick. No punching and kicking, but lots of sprinting, ducking, and shooting. I’m not learning specific moves, but training myself to follow Ultra without hesitation. Exterminate is all about split seconds. Run, duck, shoot, run, shoot, shoot, dive, slide, shoot, RUN! It’s exhausting. Children are a penance.

We finish with some virtual marksmanship. It’s my favorite part. I’m not good at it, but I get to stand still.

“Nice work old man. Practice 20 minutes a day, and you’ll be shooting down grenades in no time.”

She cracks the cooler. Sandwiches… and beer! I have the best daughter in the world. I tell her so.

“That’s not beer.” she says. “It’s alcosynth.”

“What?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

“It’s beer made with synthetic alcohol. All buzz, no hangover.”

I stare at the fake beer suspiciously. I feel betrayed. “Is this stuff legal?”

Storm twists up a joint. “Who gives a shit?”

“I’d rather not drink poison.”

“Good news then. That’s the least poisonous beer you’ve ever held. It won’t hurt you at all.” she smiles. “Is that a problem?”

I narrow my eyes. Pop the cap. Drink. “Tastes funny.”

Storm laughs. We eat and shoot the shit. It’s nice.

“Have you seen the movies people are making with Apex?” she asks.

“No. What’s Apex?”

“He’s, like, a symbiont movie director. Big Red Productions. You have a chat with him about your vision, then act out the scene with your buddies. He flies camera drones around you, then edits, adds effects, music, and you're done. Lots of people are shooting movies like this. They’re pretty awesome. As good as what Hollywood is putting out. Some are better. A lot better. Fire.”

“That sounds cool.” I say. “I’ll check that out.”

“Do. But also, my friends are making a Fantastic Four movie. We need a few dramatic old guys. Wanna be Nathan Richards?”

“Tommy looks a lot like Nathan Richards.”

“Tommy is Uatu.” says Storm.

“Okay. I’m in. Sounds like fun.” I drink more alcosynth.

We tidy up. I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Felicia soon. Storm gives me a hip flask of alcosynth, and a small Exterminate pistol. Real small, like a deringer.

“Three flashbangs.” she says. “Not accurate, but you shoot’em with your eyes closed anyway. Excellent blinders. Use it when you're outgunned. Careful where you shoot, though. They’re fucking hot.”

“Is this my reward for exercising?”

“Yes it is.”

We hug. I go downstairs to get ready. Pass Tommy in the kitchen adding Petformin to his salad.

He shrugs. “We’re out of bacon bits.”

I shake my head, go to my room. Dammit. I still don’t have nice clothes. There’s a tap at my window. I open it, and a drone fires in a package. They’re jet black carbon fibre pajamas.

“This feels like too much.” I say.

Ultra shrugs. “We’re pretending to be rich.”

Hmm. I put them on. They’re the exact same cut and fabric as my Spider-Man jammies, but aren’t as comfy. I feel weird.

“Where am I meeting Felicia?” There’s a knock at my door. “Nevermind.”

I open the door. Felicia slinks in and leans on me. “Wanna fuck hello?”

“Absolutely.” I nod. “What does that mean?”

“Bonobos are humanity's closest relatives. They’re like really chill chimpanzees.” says Felicia. “When two bonobo friends meet, they immediately have sex. It’s how they say hello.”

“Awesome. Let’s do that.” I lead her to my room. Fuck hello. She’s hot, enthusiastic, and filthy. And hot. So far out of my league. I decide to never yell at her. And to do her favorite things in bed. And to enjoy myself for as long as this lasts.

As we get dressed, I notice our pajamas match. Hers are as formal as mine - a gleaming white to my dead black. I think of the ritzy restaurant where we met. Hmm. I could be sleeping with the enemy.

She is having similar thoughts. “You’ve fancied up a lot since our last date. Are we going to a business funeral or something?”

“Oh no. I’m just pretending to be wealthy to hide from the police.”

“Cool. Works for me.”

“We’re actually going to…” I check with Ultra. “... a dog show?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Maybe. Do you know anything about it?”

“Nope. But I like dogs. Sounds fun.” She thinks for a second. “Lets pack some drugs though.”

“Okey-Dokee.”