I write this from the endorphin ship Caelziax, named after my dear friend’s dead demon. Hinote sits across from me, attached to the receptor cable, providing endorphins to the ship through the port in his artificial ear. I hope that, in the recording of this account, I can begin to understand the fractured pieces of my mind and my time spent as a puppet.

My name is Ningyo. In spite of everything, I believe that I am a woman inside this shell. Or at least, I choose to believe it still, as I did then.

I’ll write when anyone on the Caelziax sits across from me, allowing the ship to feed on their endorphins; it reminds me of the puppet I was and soothes me to see someone else on a string.

I’ll start after the first bombing. That’s where it begins, really.

The explosion behind us still roared as the drill tower’s many levels collapsed, and the living, tusked giant within shrieked as its flesh was burned by the tower walls. The creature was a slave to Andalaf Incorporated, and it was the only death I truly regretted that day. It smelled of melting plastic and pork.

Like a low counter-melody to the beast’s lament, I heard human screaming and the hoarse demands of a pursuit too late in its response to catch us.

Black and silver skyscrapers blinked their restless insomnia at us on our way back to the Under-City—towering monoliths, but none so high as the eleven remaining drill towers or Andalaf Tower itself, the highest of them all. I saw the black, shining achievement in the middle of Man’naka—where Nejirita bathed me in Sachi, where he gave me my blade, and where I met Morfran.

“How soon before the sky falls?!” Suzume screamed from her bike.

“Split it up!” Hinote called, his yellow eye attachment swiveling this way and that to account for all of us.

“We hit at just the right time, shift change,” Daiki called over his shoulder to me, straining to be heard through his helmet and the buzzing of the endorphinbike as he turned away from the others down a side street. “I used to work in one. The guards were all tired as shit from a twelve-hour shift or the dread of the twelve hours ahead of them. Guarantee it. Used to wanna blow my fucking brains out doing that shit.”

“Yeah,” I replied, unsure what the man wanted from me.

“No one expects an attack on the drills. The heat won’t hit until the next tower,” Daiki said. “You coming on the next one?”

“No. Once I’m paid tonight, you probably won’t see me again for a while,” I said, shrugging. “Bad for business to work with the same crew consistently.”

He was right—about the drills, that is. Even now, I wear equipment made by Andalaf. To make my living, I needed Sachi, and I couldn’t just drill for my own. It was all controlled by Andalaf Incorporated. And nearly everyone was hooked on the stuff.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Daiki took us through a tunnel exit to the Under-Cities. He was strangely coordinated for his immense size, and I never felt we would tip or crash as we descended the spiraling ramp.

“Hold on!” he said as we leaned left. Another yellow-glowing endorphinbike passed from the other direction, nearly hitting ours. Daiki took a hit of Sachi from a small vile to keep his endorphins up, and I could see on the bike’s display that the tank was low.

“That line secure?” I shouted.

He reached up and gave the brain port on his helmet a pat, tugging the receptor cable as well to reassure me. I ran my hand along its length to ensure it wasn’t leaking, then nodded to myself.

I looked around and saw arrows on the walls pointing toward the surface, indicating we were on a one-way exit from the Under-Cities. I held tight to the fat man.

“Someone’s behind us,” I said, pulling my Sachiblade from its magnetic hold on my back. Another endorphinbike was following us, and it wasn’t Kaito or Suzume. “It’s a Chudo soldier.”

Another Chudo like me, molded by Sachi and given a custom-made blade and armor. There were many of us, but I was second only to Morfran. This one didn’t worry me.

“What do you mean? What are you doing?” Daiki said, his voice on the verge of panic.

“I’ll meet you there,” I said. “Oh, and ditch the bike. Get on a train or something. I’m sure more than just this lone Chudo saw us come into the tunnel.”

“Nin, are you—”

I jumped from the back of our bike, my suit responding to my need by opening the right compartment. I pulled a pinch of Sachi powder out of the bag, snorted it, and then used the fire-invested gem in my blade to shoot tendrils of flame at the soldier. I saw through the Chudo’s visor he was a man. He wore a black suit of armor like me, the veins throughout it glowing a faint yellow as he put his bike on its side and bailed, the helmet and receptor cable ripping free from his head. He sniffed some of his own powder, but not before the fire got him, an angry burn bubbling up on the left side of his face. He screamed but tapped his Sachi gem, a black one slotted into the slim Sachiblade he carried.

It hit me quickly, and the tunnel disappeared as I glimpsed Morfran with my son, grabbing him, then—

But the illusion Sachi wore off. The use of it would weaken him, no matter the strength of the powder he’d snorted. Stupid move. Illusion Sachi is too powerful and requires too much powder to keep it going. I ran the Chudo through with my blade, the width of it expanding in his stomach, his pink intestines spilling out a stark contrast against the black metal of the spiral road.

I ran. My armor responded to the tension in my muscles, relaxing and making it easier to move. I still felt the peaceful energy that comes with Sachi use, tasting the drip in the back of my throat. I swallowed and tried to clear my nostrils of any remnants of the drug with harsh intakes of breath. I was fast, though not fast enough to outrun a bike, so if any more Chudo came in, I’d have to fight. I took comfort in the hollow whistle of wind in the tunnel—no one else there for now.

My footsteps were a mantra that sat somewhere just behind the comforting high of the Sachi. I didn’t run into any more Chudo on my way into Meek Alfrendil, and no one was hiding in the seas of trash that bordered each road. Hinote pulled that plane we strapped the bomb to from the trash, or so he told me. Many treasures are hidden among the scrap if you have the patience and time.

I thought of the bomb and wondered how many guards our team had killed. How many were like me five years before, a woman working for a big company, letting that company give her a moral code so she didn’t have to come up with one herself and so she could give her son the good life? The good life that killed him. At that moment, that’s how I justified it. My patience with even the innocent could only go so far. Sympathy for the other is a fun idea until your kid dies.

I don’t want to give the wrong idea, I wasn’t an activist—but while I was saving credits and sussing out any word of Morfran, I’d decided that I only wanted jobs that directly hurt Andalaf Incorporated.