3.4
Rhyce smirked, clearing his throat. All the glass had been removed from his eye; the blood, however, remained, slipping down his cheek and dripping off his chin in tiny, unsettling droplets. “Look at you,” he said, sweeping a hard gaze across the crowd. “Dancing, singing, spending whatever little eddies you have on these stupid little games. Meanwhile the government is taking more and more of your money, your jobs, your homes. And you all want to stare blankly at some fireworks.” He got up and started walking across the stage, eyes to the floor. “You know, it’s exactly events like this that got the south into deep shit to begin with. They throw us a bone and we roll over once a year, hoping we don’t stand up and do anything about it, but how many of you are willing to lose people? Friends? Family? Sisters, brothers, daughters.... Well, I have a massive revelation for you all.”
A revelation? Who does he think he is? The Holy Messiah?
The crowd buzzed with a blend of emotions—some dismissed him as crazy, others held their breaths, wanting to hear more, and then there were those like Silas and Isolde, who wanted that bastard dead.
Rhyce snuck a hand into his inside jacket pocket, as if drawing a pistol, but to Isolde’s relief, and perhaps everyone else’s, he pulled out a piece of paper—no, a blueprint or schematics of some sort. He opened it up. “Our little friends from The Scrubs got their hands on some very peculiar documents leaked by an insider at the corporate giant Techstrum,” he said. “Thought I’d read it out to y’all. Might be worth considering the next time you wanna celebrate poverty.” He cleared his throat again and began to read: “‘Prototype name: Seraph. Primary Function: Optimise neural pathways to enhance compliance and reduce erratic cognitive behaviours. Secondary function: Adjust memory storage and regulate emotional responses to improve system efficiency. The device utilises a network of microfilament conductors that interface seamlessly with core cognitive frameworks, enabling precise, real-time adjustments to both short-term and long-term memory matrices. Upon activation, the Seraph Device generates a calibrated electromagnetic field, fine-tuned to stabilise neural oscillations, effectively neutralising resistance or impulsive decision-making.
“‘For remote operations, the system is equipped with a secure activation protocol, allowing commands to be executed wirelessly, ensuring responsiveness without requiring direct physical interaction. Designed to streamline functionality and maintain performance integrity in high-demand environments.
“‘The device can be remotely activated through a secure signal, permitting the controller to impose commands without physical contact. Prototype testing shows a 67% success rate in controlling basic motor processes, with a 72% compliance rate in complex cognitive tasks. Specimens remain active during the process, but their resistance is minimised through a gradual recalibration of their neural impulses.’” He looked up from the paper. “Or, in simple, plain English, this is a mind-control device, and we are the specimens.”
The people roared with outrage—understandably so. Still, Isolde couldn’t shake the thought that this was all just a web of lies, crafted to incite panic and drive the people into a riot.
“Oh,” Rhyce said, and the crowd quietened. “In case you think this is fake or made up by some conspiracy theorist living in his mom’s basement, I think you should take a look at this.” He walked over to the cyclorama, found a port, and jacked his neural wire into the central computer. The cyclorama flashed on, turned black, then switched to show a digital version of the leaked corporate documents.
Highlighted and underlined at the bottom was a single paragraph next to a signature: Authorized by the Neo Arcadia Defense Council. Classified Project: Seraph. All rights reserved under Council Order 3021-A.
The chief’s name, Kent Silverwood, was stamped in black underneath.
The blueprint alone couldn’t prove Rhyce’s claims—it might just as easily have been an elaborate hoax—but it didn’t matter. Chaos erupted around her. Voices clashed: accusations of madness, fragments of “I’ve heard this before”, and angry demands for his immediate arrest.
The truth was that this conspiracy was not new. It’d been making the rounds for decades after an ex-agent for the government claimed to have been part of a programme dedicated to infusing nanobots in food so that they could monitor people, tracking everyone’s location to lead to a more efficient save-and-arrest process, but those claims had long been debunked and the agent had been deemed a ‘psychotic whistleblower with a track record of corporate fibs’.
Someone like Rhyce, someone as reckless and cunning.... It made sense that he’d latch onto such a belief and try to weaponise it, the monster.
“They’re planning to control us,” Rhyce yelled through the clamour. People listened. He got down on one knee and slapped the top of the Ghostfire keg, then ran his hand along the glass. It was difficult to make out, but there was a shadow swimming around in there, following his fingers. After a moment, he stood up and paced the stage again, this time facing the crowd in their entirety. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is a chemical devised by some of the greatest minds in the state. Once the insider revealed these classified documents, they set out on creating a repellent, something to ward off the effects, and not only that: something to make us stronger, less susceptible to cyberpsychosis. It’s the answer to man over machine, to the south over the north.... Our greatest weapon against the elites—”
“That’s a lie,” a voice said, stopping him in his tracks. Isolde never would have imagined it in a million years, especially with so many people watching and listening, but the voice was hers, and it was stronger than ever. She let go of Elysia’s hand, approached the steps of the stage but stopped short of climbing them. “You told me this was just a cyberpsychosis treatment, which is also a lie. Cyberpsychosis can’t be simply cured by some magic medicine from a meth lab near the borderlands.” She turned to face the crowd. “To everyone listening: it sounds convincing, but as a scientist, I assure you it is all one big, fat lie from an even bigger liar.”
Before Rhyce could respond, someone else jutted in. “So, you’re the man.”
It was Silas.
She watched as he stood out from under the kiosk tarp, arms crossed, a smirk tugging on his lips.
“I have to admit, I thought you’d look a bit tougher than this, seein’ that you have no problem sexually assaultin’ the mother of an autistic child.”
A wave of shock rippled through the crowd.
Rhyce wiped the blood from his eye, leaving a dark smear across his skin. He burped, then gathered his words, slouching slightly. “I didn’t sexually assault no one. That lady’s nothing but a thief. Stole my money, everything I had. Can’t blame me for trying to get it back.”
“There’s ‘getting it back’ and forcing sex as collateral,” Silas said, his voice cold and menacing. He paused. “Stand up straight when I’m talking to you, punk. Let the whole of the south see what a spineless weasel you are.”
“You can call me whatever you want, pal,” Rhyce said. “But the point stands: the government are plannin’ to control us all. To all of you listenin’: don’t let this man distract you. You can waste away and ignore this, or you can protect yourselves, your family.”
A voice called out from the crowd: “Now, say here, you sound like all those other whistleblowers. By God’s name high and mighty, I ain’t puttin’ that stuff in my body, ’specially with a sex-offendin’ advocate tellin’ us about some old conspiracies.”
“Yeah,” another man yelled, his voice carrying a thick Texan accent. “You and that dunky walk are gonna need a lot more proof than a slip of paper to convince us.”
The crowd cheered.
“You ain’t nobody but a rat from the streets!”
Another cheer.
“And we ought to call the exterminator and get you out of here before you infest the rest of us decent folk. ’Specially after what you did to this lady. We won’t stand for that, will we folks?”
A unanimous “No!”
“And I think it’s about time we do somethin’, ain’t that right folks?”
The crowd's eruption roared like a miniature earthquake. Isolde felt their voices thrumming through the boards, threatening to shatter the pier as if it were a thread stretched too tight. Together, the southsiders pressed forward, surrounding the stage, leaving no angle for them to escape.
As people crept up onto The Whale and Rhyce’s goons eased off, unsure of what to do or how they could overcome such enormous group power, Isolde felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. This was it, revenge. She never knew it could taste so sweet. She turned back to grab Elysia’s hand and wait for the police—with everyone keeping him captive, there was no need to occupy his time or entertain his silly little beliefs—but she was surprised to find that her daughter was no longer behind her. Isolde gave a look around, thinking she might have sat by the life-sized bunny plushie behind Silas’ kiosk, but that hadn’t moved, and Elysia was still nowhere to be seen. Soon, the surprise turned to fear, and the fear turned to ruthless, air-sucking panic. She called Elysia’s name over and over, navigating through the crowd, but the clamour was too loud. She asked some of the people if they’d seen her, a little girl with white hair, but they hadn’t; everyone had been too focused on Rhyce and his stupid conspiracy. Where was she?
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It dawned on Isolde: something Silas mentioned earlier, about the jackrabbit on the opposite side, under the pets-for-sale stand. She searched for it, nearly swallowed whole by the patrons, spotting it in the distance. Once she broke free from the crowd and could see clearly, she saw that there had indeed been animals: puppies, kittens, and a lizard, each contained in their own cage. One of the cages, however, was empty with the sliding latch pulled loose. The label beneath it read in black marker: JACK RABIT.
Isolde panted, struggling to form thoughts. Elysia could be anywhere in the damn festival looking for that thing; she could have gotten lost, or worse, taken. Tears welled and her hands began to shake. She called her name again, and again, and again.
Only one voice responded.
“Ms. Crane?”
She turned, faced with a pair of NACP officers, one short and one tall, both dressed up in their formal wear, helmets shimmering in the light of the carnival game stand.
“My daughter,” Isolde cried hoarsely. “Wuh-white hair. Short. Wearing a blue coat. Chasing a rabbit. Please tell me you’ve seen her!”
But the officers’ attentions veered off elsewhere, towards the cyclorama.
The tall female officer said, “Oh, dear Lord,” brushed her aside with her heavy, thickly gloved hand, and approached the stage, the male officer following her lead. They each pulled a pair of sleek, black pistols from their hip holsters, their barrels glowing with a soft, cobalt-blue light.
“Listen to me!” Isolde screamed, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face, choking her words into frantic, breathless sobs. She followed the male officer and grabbed his shoulder, but he elbowed her back, and it hurt—bad. She buckled over and fell to her knees. One of the people from the crowd consoled her pain, but it did nothing. Her child was still missing and this bastard didn’t even want to help.
BOOM!
A gunshot ripped through the night air, firing a tail of electricity into the sky. Everyone backed away, encircling the officers. The female officer had her gun pointed towards the clouds, smoke billowing from the breach.
And, just like before when Rhyce waltzed up on stage, it was silent.
“Everyone listen close,” the female officer shouted. “I need you all to retreat from the area. We will handle this situation accordingly. I repeat: please retreat from the area.”
Rhyce chuckled. “Tell them, officer. Tell everyone what’s on the screen. Tell them what’s really got you in a panic.”
The woman murmured something to the male officer.
“Arrest this lunatic,” the Texan man yelled. “Get ’im outta here!”
The male officer grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his belt ring and began walking towards the stage.
Meanwhile, people moved away, as per the officer’s orders.
Rhyce let out a long, tiring sigh. “Typical. You fuckers never listen.” His voice was lower than Isolde had ever heard it before. He raised his arm and pressed the side of his left temple. The glowing, crimson implant in his left eye twisted before turning spring green. With a mechanical whine, the canister on his back hissed as a thin stream of Ghostfire began to pulse through the tubes connected to his body. He tensed, gritting his rotten teeth. The green glow in his eye deepened, flickering like an unstable fire. Isolde felt sick to her stomach. Seeing this in any other context might have even chilled her, but her mind was consumed by her daughter, overwhelmed with fear and pain. She was frozen with panic, unable to do anything but watch.
“Adios,” a voice said—perhaps Silas, perhaps someone from the crowd. It was impossible to tell.
The male officer stepped onto the stage, heading around Rhyce. His goons backed away. “Rhyce Melbourne, you are being detained while we investigate a report—”
Rhyce flashed back with inhumane speed, so fast he was nothing more than a green blur, and snatched the officer by the neck, holding him up with a single arm.
The female officer jerked her gun up, as though ready to fire, but Rhyce shoved the male officer in front. With a cold, calculated motion, he wrenched the pistol from the officer’s trembling hand, levelling it at the man’s skull.
The crowd dispersed in a panic, scattering hurriedly. Gradually, their numbers dwindled—not entirely, but enough for Isolde to stand out, kneeling on the ground and gasping for air.
Silas, who hadn’t moved from his spot, approached her, helping her up. “Where’s Elysia?” he said breathlessly.
“I—” Isolde choked. “I don’t know. She was here just a minute ago. Sh-she’s opened the rabbit cage.”
Silas looked over at the pets-for-sale stand, then began guiding her away from the stage. “It’s okay. She’s not far.”
“Don’t you two fucking move,” Rhyce shouted.
At first, Isolde barely recognized it was him—he sounded so delirious and scratchy. His claims about Ghostfire minimising cyberpsychosis were without a doubt short-lived, because he didn’t look sane in the slightest either.
He was aiming the gun right at Silas and Isolde. “None of you can fucking leave until these officers admit to what they’re planning to do.” Rhyce pointed the gun at the male officer’s head. “Fucking tell everyone, you cunts. Tell them this is a real fucking document from your real fucking corporate tech shithouse.”
“Rhyce.” The female officer extended her hand, palm down, and gently lowered it in a soothing gesture. “This isn’t the path you want to go down. Let go of the officer and we can make this simple. No one has to get hurt.”
“Answer the fuckin’ question or I blow this officer’s brains all over the fuckin’ stage,” Rhyce said. “Tell the people. We’re sick of your lies.”
The female officer looked up at the cyclorama. The picture had stayed there even though Rhyce had disconnected his wire. “I have no idea what that is....”
“Bullshit!” His grip tightened. The face of the male officer was slowly turning red while his lips were tinted blue. He couldn’t breathe, and soon he would pass out or perhaps die in this cyberpsycho’s grasp.
Through a strangled voice, the male officer choked out words, but they were too unintelligible to make sense of. Rhyce loosened his grip, and the officer caught his breath.
After a moment, the officer said, slowly, “The document is real.”
Shock rumbled through the crowd.
The mind control plan was real.
The female officer approached the stage, keeping her gun aimed at Rhyce. “Now, put him—”
A flash of blue light, and then the male officer’s brains were blown across the deck. Rhyce gripped the limp, lifeless body, the head twisted and torn apart like a bloom of raw flesh.
It was so sudden, so horrifying, that even his goons stood in silence, in fear. After a moment, however, they each pressed their neural ports, causing streams of Ghostfire to climb up their torsos and ignite their cyberware with that same shade of spring green, their veins pulsing, thickening, monstrifying beneath the skin.
The people ran, as fast as they damn well could.
The female officer fired, but Rhyce flashed out of the way, once again appearing as a green blur. He pressed the barrel of his gun to her temple and pulled the trigger. The blood splashed across the pier floorboards. Dead in an instant, before she could even process it. Then his eyes landed on Isolde.
It was impossible to tell where his blood started and the officers’ blood ended, but he was mad. She could see it. And it was too late for them to run. He would be too fast—his goons would be too fast.
Silas and Isolde stood there, she leaning on him for support, and he steadying her with a firm arm, but she felt a slight tremor that betrayed his fear. He could have chosen to run, but he didn’t. He stayed, slipping a hand into his back pocket, pulling out something small and stout: a tool of sorts. It was difficult to tell what it was from the angle, but she thought it was a screwdriver.
Rhyce marched towards them, just as he had marched when she threatened to take Isolde by the outhouse, just as he had marched when he pushed that speaker on the floor, and she noticed something—something tiny and quick, scurrying out from behind The Whale, almost tripping Rhyce as it bolted between his legs.
A jackrabbit.
“Elysia,” Isolde said, her words tired and strained, but loud enough for Rhyce to hear.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Once I’m done with you, I’ll send her to hell, too. I’ll end that waste-of-space vege just like how I’m gonna fuckin’ end you. Shouldn’t have stolen from me, and shoulda just let me reclaim your debt, you bitch!”
Isolde felt her strength give out as she buckled again, though the physical pain had vanished; this was something far deeper, an ache that cut to her very core. When Rhyce finally closed the distance, Silas drew his elbow back and swung the screwdriver up and around, but this time, oh this time, Rhyce caught it, and he whacked Silas in head with the side of his fist, causing him to skid across the pier.
“No!” Isolde squeaked, and Rhyce snatched her chin.
This time he wouldn’t pull her into a kiss. This time he would kill her. He holstered his pistol in his pants and picked up the screwdriver. “Let’s see how you like it,” he said. “Nice. And. Slow.” His grip tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The tip of the tool was just inches from her eye. With a cruel, slow smile, he leaned in, his awful breath hot against her skin. “Adios, bitch.” And then, with a violent, sudden motion, he plunged the screwdriver forward, aiming for the space between her eyes.
She yelped, bracing for the ungodly amount of pain that would follow, keeping her eyes shut....
A loud bang—a gunshot, she was sure—and then the sound of a body skidding on hard planks. Her eyes blinked open. A pair of odd-looking limbs hovered over her shoulders, faced forward with the palms wide open, as if they’d just pushed something. When she looked ahead, she could see that Rhyce had been shoved onto the ground several yards away, blood dripping from his shoulder. A gunshot wound.
Farther ahead again, behind the The Whale, she saw her: Elysia, down on all fours, wanting to creep out but frightened. Rhyce’s goons had her incidentally blocked off, and she was shivering.
“Elysia—!” Isolde cried, but the hands cut her short, grabbing her by the shoulders. The limbs were thin and the fingers were long, constructed entirely of steel, with the flexibility and fluidity of what she could only describe as a serpent. The steel hands yanked her away safely, dragging her towards someone’s shoes. She lay on her back, looking up at the source of the steel arms. It was an enormous NACP officer, taller than life, and he wasn’t wearing a helmet like the others. No, he was maskless, showing a long, thin face, buzzed brown hair, and a demonic, wide grin.
There were other officers behind him, most of them unmasked. One of them had mantisblades extending from his forearms, gleaming with a deadly edge. Another officer’s visor glowed with a faint, otherworldly light as he gripped a long, metallic rifle. And another was dressed head to toe in sleek, matte-black armour. She was the only one with her face covered. Slowly, the suit encasing her slim frame digitised before turning invisible, leaving only the outline and distortion of light around her.
“Cormac, sir,” the woman said. “What’s the move?”
The long-limbed man let go of Isolde, his fingers brushing against her skin with unnerving coldness. He stood motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on Rhyce and his goons, as if weighing something heavy. Then, slowly, he licked his lips, his smile becoming predatory. “The move,” he said softly, his voice a low rasp, “is to make sure they don’t leave here alive.”