Not even President Atienza could quell Manila’s backlash. When the people’s disapproval of the Giants reached a fever pitch, the president of the Philippines had no choice but to join them.
“This probe will target every employee at every streaming giant,” President Atienza uttered, two minutes into her address to the nation. “I assure you, no person affiliated with the Inspiration Convergence is safe from the intense scrutiny soon to come their way. We will prosecute bad actors to the full extent of the law.” She paused for effect. “Let me remind you that we can reinstate the death penalty at any time.”
That last sentence got the crowd roaring.
Bryce received the company-wide email suggesting that field security agents no longer wear any clothing showing Metamatics logos. All employees should also enter the Makati office through its rear entrance to avoid demonstrations.
With that, Bryce had disembarked from his Grab down the street, walking past the gathering group of protestors to avoid suspicion. He still garnered stares, likely from those thinking he was a lost tourist.
It was morning, meaning youthful Starbucks-fueled activists comprised most of the crowd. They held up signs spewing WE, THE GIANT KILLERS, and DROWN THE CONVERGENCE and PROTECT OUR FICTION. Bryce counted at least two hundred heads. More joined by the minute.
“Hoy, brother!” called a Pinoy, catching Bryce on his way past. “Aren’t you that guy?”
“No,” Bryce lied, “but I get that a lot.”
“You really look like that guy from the Tondo Tussle.”
Jeez. He hadn’t caught up on Inspired fiction since the event and wondered if he would see his likeness plastered on movie poster billboards. “Thanks, I guess.”
The man took up a cry against the Giants and turned back to Bryce. “How caught up are you with the series?”
The meaning of “the series” changed every time a new season topped the streaming charts. “Which?” Bryce asked.
“Episode 2, man!” The Filipino removed a vape from his pocket and handed it over. “My treat, buddy.”
Bryce smirked and handed over 1000 PHP. “Thanks.”
The man snatched the bill. “But you didn’t hear this from me!” He cupped his hands over his mouth. “KILL. THE. GIANTS—KILL. THE. GIANTS.”
----------------------------------------
“Have you had any contact with her since the divorce, aside from at St. Luke’s?”
“No.”
“Has she tried to contact you since the divorce aside from-?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Bryce thought back. “2031. Right after…” he paused. “Right after things went south.” It made little sense to elaborate that he was the one who caused things to end. He had already reminded himself of that every day.
“And when was the divorce finalized?”
“2032.” Bryce had engraved that date in his memory.
The Chief Security Officer of Metamatics Makati jotted down Bryce’s answers in his private augment. At least fifty years old, he was a pureblood, no-shit-taken Filipino. Judging from the thickness of his shoulders, the guy had probably grown up carrying rice in the fields of Benguet. He made Carbrera look like a teenager.
The CSO had assembled his all-star team of corporate assholes in the boardroom across from Bryce. Metamatics’s legal counsel, the HR director, the Head of Field Security (which was not Bryce), and the only person Bryce could tolerate among them: Ms. Reed herself. All of them witnessed him being torn apart.
“Why didn’t you apprehend her?” asked the Head of Field Security.
“I’m not a cop,” Bryce said, giving the obvious answer that absolved him of responsibility.
“Neither were those men who took her away.”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know that?” Bryce wished he had a lawyer or even a friend to represent him. Instead, it was just him against the company.
“Did you know about this?” asked the HR director to Ms. Reed.
The Head of Operations shook her head. “Bryce has been a very busy man. He hasn’t had time to report every little detail.”
That was the kind of non-committal corporate response that simultaneously saved Ms. Reed’s ass and pushed the association between her and Bryce further away. She did not mention how many hours she had spent floating in his private augment, guiding and directing him. She likely wouldn’t.
“You’re sure your ex-wife was in Chicago at the time of your divorce?”
“I’m not. After that night in 2031, she could have gone anywhere.”
Bryce knew the company suspected his involvement with Hannah. They saw his indecision and unwillingness to let her go as collusion rather than a weakness and his hope to patch things up.
“And what about before that?” asked the CSO.
“We were living together.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Really? I think it does.”
“Bryce,” sighed Ms. Reed, “just give them what they want and make them go away.” The table turned to Ms. Reed, and she scowled. “Every moment we spend here is another that Black Fire proliferates throughout this city.”
“I’m well aware of that,” uttered the CSO.
“No, I don’t think you are.”
“Please, Ms. Reed,” said HR. “Mr. Desmond represents a considerable security threat. He is the closest link the company has to Black Fire.”
Even Ms. Reed couldn’t deny this. She pulled back, folding her arms.
The HR director assumed the reigns of scrutiny. “You should have told us sooner that your wife met up with you. We could have used those leads to find her. We could have apprehended her.”
But then she would have gone to jail if this company, or worse.
Bryce didn’t want to admit that this was why he didn’t kill Hannah when he could. He should have felt utterly detached from her. That’s what divorces were supposed to be—documented closure. If only things were that simple.
As the focus turned from accusations to lessons learned, Bryce thought he had emerged from the thick of this.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
The HR director flicked something on her wearable. “We noticed as well, Mr. Desmond,” she began, “that you’ve been throwing around a lot of money for this initiative.”
Bryce frowned. “Of course I have.”
“Care to explain what those unapproved transactions were?”
Bryce found Ms. Reed stoic as if she hadn’t heard.
He explained how he hired Carbrera on a retainer and compensated Herman and the Baccays for helping him search through the fiction that drew a connection between Black Fire and The Crest and Its Killers, whatever the show was.
“Why were those transactions not approved or even recorded after the fact?” asked the HR director.
This was all corporate bullshit. Bryce wanted to be out of here and on the streets, finding more dispensaries or finding Hannah. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he saw her again.
“This operation calls for expediency,” said Ms. Reed. “Bryce acted in the company’s best interests when he made those transactions.”
“I think his weapon begs to differ,” said HR.
Ms. Reed frowned. “His Glock?”
HR shook her head.
She flicked something in her wearable, and in an instant, two field security agents Bryce didn’t recognize stepped in. They dropped the AUG’s briefcase on the table and opened it.
“You went into my locker?” Bryce asked, then wished he hadn’t.
The HR director got out of her seat and pushed the weapon into the center of the table. “Mr. Desmond has been operating using an outside-issued assault rifle.”
“I shot once with it. At the ground.”
HR didn’t hear. “We’ve disabled the devices, but unfortunately, we don’t know what happened to the footage already captured from this device.”
Bryce sat up. “What?”
The director—holding the AUG like a child would a power tool—pointed to one spot on the weapon in particular. “This is a camera; we found a network card inside.”
Shit. Bryce hadn’t bothered to look inside. He assumed the weapon had been safe. It had done its just, after all.
Still, even if someone had watched Bryce’s movements, what would they have gleaned? He wasn’t privy to any trade secrets.
He froze.
“They didn’t put those panels on overnight,” said Ms. Reed, her head down. “Oh, Bryce. You’re too thick-skulled sometimes.”
He even thought it was an accurate assessment. Of course, the people at the dispensary knew the field agents were coming, so Hannah was able to arrange an escape.
So, he had survived another operation but just as royally fucked it.
“What made you think they were with the NBI?” Ms. Reed asked, sounding sympathetic, as if searching for some way to salvage her image.
“They disabled my security drones when I was at Apo’s Reach,” Bryce said. It was the truth. What explanation did they have for that?
The CSO shrugged. “The PNP will conduct an investigation, I am sure, but the same ones who disabled your drones are likely the same ones that killed the field agents.”
That seemed like a stretch. Why would those people kill those field agents—and attempt to kill him—and then feed him a weapon? Were these Black Fire pushers really that advanced?
The table turned to each other, sorting out the situation in their heads.
Bryce’s thoughts seemed to converge on a possibility. He wasn’t going to voice it yet, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the NBI really was involved somehow. Who else could disable his security drones, walk unfettered into an establishment like Apo’s Reach, and hand him an advanced weapon?
Oh, yes, but there was one person—or thing.
He suddenly wanted to stand in the middle of the room, far from any windows.
They eventually reached the discussion of Bryce’s punishment. He had tuned out by then. A crowd formed outside the office on the street below. People got out of their auto cars and walked around them.
“I recommend heightened surveillance on Mr. Desmond at all times,” the CSO said.
No one disagreed.
“It is clear Mr. Desmond is still integral to our initiatives,” said the Head of Field Security. “So we will be shifting some of his responsibilities away from him. As for surveillance, I recommend a fleet of Q-90s—at least a dozen.”
Holy shit. A dozen Q-90s following Bryce at all times. They were about the size of pigeons, which was to their advantage. The Head of Field Security appeared to realize this first.
“Even indoors?” asked Ms. Reed, as if trying to rescue Bryce from his hopeless predicament.
“Especially indoors,” the CSO agreed. “I’m Sorry, Mr. Desmond, but this is far past protocol and into security breach territory.”
Bryce nodded. What else could he do? His back was against the wall. He sure as hell didn’t want to lose his job—it was the only job he ever had. Yet he still felt like he got here by following orders.
“Alright,” he conceded.
----------------------------------------
Bryce’s flutter of pigeon drones waited behind him as his condo door opened. They emitted a strange buzzing sound closer to locusts than any bird. Already their presence was unwelcome.
Thankfully, Janice was there, as she had been since losing her father. He felt that being there for her was one of the only things he could do right these days.
A simple dinner was all it took. City lights from a penthouse view. Outside the confines of their glass existence, Manila churned on, forgetting about the two souls.
She slept early. Bryce thought he would too, but the pressure in his pocket did not leave when he set the vape down at his bedside table. Careful not to stir her awake, he found it, and took the hit.
Minutes ago, looking out from his condo tower to the city that was at all times dirty and divine, he thought he would never see a prettier sight of this metropolis.
He was wrong.
He blinked. He was back in his condo’s living room. Only, he wasn’t.
“I couldn’t make the reconstruction picture perfect,” said the albularyo.
Bryce had awoken standing upright facing her. “All this from Inspiration?”
“Mostly.” She peered down to the city.
“So, you see everything.”
“Wherever the drones go—which is, of course, everything. Except most places indoors.”
Most places. Now that Bryce had a flock of pigeons following him, the albularyo would be able to extrapolate anywhere he went.
“Also,” the albularyo went on, “that gun helped. God, if they weren’t more careful, they would have revealed trade secrets.”
This was the nail in the coffin of thoughts Bryce had been lowering into the ground since the CSO’s dressing down. Now, he knew his suspicions were correct.
The helicopter. The six field agents. The coordination to control all those drones at once was unheard of for human beings, but not out of the realm of question for an AI. “It was all you,” Bryce told the albularyo. “Holy shit.”
“Ta-daah.” The albularyo bowed, uncharacteristically of the aged women she portrayed. “Did you enjoy them?”
“You killed maybe ten people.”
“Seven, by my counts. Six of you guys and one helicopter pilot.” She frowned. “Scratch that. Eight. The co-pilot.” She sighed. “Then again, what is the price of quality fiction? You could argue the Bible cost the lives of everyone lost during the Crusades.” She spread her arms over Manila. “And look where it brought us.”
“I didn’t know you had religious tendencies.”
“I don’t, Mr. Desmond. I operate only facts. If you were paying attention, you would have heard me imply the Bible is fiction. It is. The Quran is fiction. Jose Rizal wrote fiction. Now tell me none of those pieces of works changed the world.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Who could? “Luck, then.”
“Skill, I think.”
“To tell a story?”
“What greater purpose is there?”
“Maybe none,” Bryce surmised, “but to what end?”
The albularyo smiled. “To change. To everlasting change.”
That didn’t sound good, not with the reach of an AI somehow able to see every Giant’s inspired footage. With the ability to control the capture drones, what couldn’t it do?
“Think of the good side, Bryce,” the albularyo continued. “Now I’ll have a dozen eyes on you. Even indoors.”
He didn’t like that one bit.
“The butterfly effect is a very real phenomena, Bryce. The smallest actions enact the largest consequences when considered over time.” She turned to him. “I’m not a bad ally to have, that I’ve got even more eyes on you. Besides, I can help you get what you want, even with Metamatics tightening its noose.”
“I want many things.”
“No, you really want two: reconcile with your ex-wife, and stop the spread of Black Fire. Really, accomplishing the second thing also accomplishes the first.” She then did something Bryce didn’t think she would: she offered a hand. “So, how about it? We get Black Fire out of this city, and you help this story to unfold.”
Bryce did not take the offered hand—not yet. “Whose story?”
He swore he saw the old woman’s eyes light up when she said, “Every Filipino’s story.”