I can’t remember the last time I felt anxious like this.
Had to be when I was younger. But it was a different pressure back then, on the battlefield. I knew what I came to do, who I came to fight, and how the next seconds would devolve: a subtended hum of repulsorfields kicking on, a hammering bell rising to crescendo. Then the drop. Explosive, roaring, kinetic action. A knife’s edge of flashing weapons and frame perfect reactions. Chaos and whirlwind. Instinct and adrenaline. A pressure building from the moment I ascended to the lights, finally released.
I knew that pressure. But this?
This feels like my first time all over again.
It’s a totally different audience. From the moment I take Cal’s hand and emerge from our hypermodern autocab into the shadow of the cutting-edge corpse of Shimano Heavy Industries’ corporate headquarters, the attention directed my way is no friendly expectation. It’s an appraisal, a dissection, and a ravenous avarice.
It’s nighttime in the Glass district. The huge concrete plaza where we arrive is bordered by a hexagon of skycrapers built by long-fallen corporations. Largest among them is a spear of steel and glass that towers fifty stories high, sprinkled with infrequent light and hemmed by crowds of entertainment stream crews and enthusiastic fans that surge against a firewall of enforcers in Metro Blockhouse blue. Fighters with faces I recognize from the minor league patrol up and down the picket line. Sasha, a younger markswoman dressed in piecemeal golden tech-armor and a fitted crimson bodysuit, paces casually beside an all-white Biohancer wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Nearer to the base of the tower, the chitinous black creature that was accompanying Valance at the Metro Blockhouse lounges like a barely-domesticated lion between massive concrete pillars, lazily licking its serrated claws with a barbed tongue.
Air transports carrying the night’s most important figures circle and land at the penthouse level fifty stories up. Other, larger limousines disgorge their parties around us. The plaza swells with new arrivals. Broad men in fitted dark suits and lithe women in dresses that shift like liquid. Apex predators that drip elitism and lethal good looks. They carry themselves like oceans of potential energy; violent capabilities sheathed in holsters and quivers. Openly displayed, but their hostility tapered. For now.
These are the elite, and they need no bodyguards. Their retinues are young and hungry beasts of war brought solely to populate the party and send a message to their peers. Tanned, haughty natives of the capital’s outskirts villages. Pale, hard-eyed gang lords of the undercity. Both of whom are heavily outnumbered by major league pros and parties with clothing and accents from the foreign Sections that surround our lands.
While Cal finishes talking with our driver, I check out the nearest group to us; a party of frigid warriors with pelt cloaks from the northern Sections led by a tall woman draped in crystal-clear ice shaped like jewelry. One of the bodyguards my age senses me looking across the plaza, combat instincts razor sharp. He glares back and touches the long hammer holstered on his back in warning. Like I’ve insulted his honor with a single curious glance.
Different rules here. I have to remember. This isn’t my father’s world. It’s Gami’s.
Sensing the bad blood brewing, Cal nudges me along. “Try not to start a fight with the icepicks,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “Just follow my lead and play it cool.”
I roll my eyes. “That code for look pretty and don’t make eye contact?”
“You’re finally starting to get the hang of it.”
“I hate all this sneaking around.” I pluck at the collar of the revealing shirt Cal bought me. Draping and cowled, it flows down my front and leaves every other side of me uncovered, save an ornate pauldron and sleeve that disguise my prosthetic arm beneath black metal and gold trim. I feel naked. Exposed in a way that I never enjoyed, like a slab of meat in a streetside display. Cal picked the most drool-worthy clothes for me, yet she’s dressed to the nines in tightly fitted formal wear that strays far closer to masculine than feminine. Waistcoat, tie, leather jacket and kneeboots; everything in black or shades of it.
“I’d take a hundred straight fights over a party like this,” I mutter, eyeing the wealth and power around us.
“Quit being dramatic, sheesh. It’s not that bad.”
“Maybe if you’ve been going to galas your whole life. I didn’t grow up doing this stuff.” My nose wrinkles as we break away from the limos, tailing a party draped in black and orange colors. “Parties and press conferences were always Thane’s thing.”
“They’re going to have to be yours tonight, princess.” Cal rolls her eyes and rests her hand against my lower back, so smoothly I don’t even notice at first. “You make a simple gala sound like a public lynching. Did your dad really never take you to stuff like this?”
“He kept me as far from the media as he could.”
Cal shakes her head, dumbfounded. “Not that you’re exactly an open book, but everything you’ve told me about the guy makes it sound like you were his science experiment, not his kid. What kind of father keeps his daughter alone in some rice field at the edge of the Section and only visits her for a couple days every few months?” She snorts. “It’s no wonder he sent Thane out to spend so much time with you. He turned you into a shut-in and must’ve felt bad about it.”
I stiffen.
“Get your hand, off my back.”
Hearing the ice in my tone, Cal slips her hand away like it’s committing a crime.
“Talk bad about my father again, and it’ll be the last thing you say with working teeth,” I growl.
“Aren’t you just roses and lilies tonight,” she mutters, straightening her cuffs. “I don’t get why you’re so defensive of the guy, is all.”
“You wouldn’t,” I snap. “You don’t have parents.”
She flinches, lips parted, genuinely hurt. “How did…” then she puts it together, and her face pinches up. Her steps grow more rigid, playfulness evaporated. “Want to go that far? Fine by me. I was a system kid, sure- and so was Thane. But at least I didn’t have a dad who treated me like a shelter dog.”
We pause between walls of flashing stream cams, outstretched microphones, and yelled questions. The lights start focusing on us. Cal acknowledges none of them- not even the ones that call for her by name- as she stares into my eyes. She slowly shakes her head.
“Just because someone else screwed you up doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and keep taking shit when I’ve been putting my head on the chopping block to keep you alive,” she says, dangerous and low. “Explanations aren’t excuses, Tay. It’s time to decide if you’re going to be better than the people who hurt you.” She turns on a heel and heads up the skyscraper’s front steps, slinging her jacket over one shoulder. “When you’re ready for my help, then you can come find me. It shouldn’t be too hard- I’ll be the only one looking for your aunt.”
Then her ponytail is bouncing up the steps and she’s slipping away, donning yet another mask of personality as she starts working her way in with a different group. I stand alone on the concrete staring at her shrinking back, realizing how easily I took for granted that the space beside me was filled even for a day.
In another butterfly timeline, it was supposed to be her brother’s hand helping me from the car, not hers. This was the future I was supposed to have. Thane and Dad and Jolie and I were going to live together, no longer apart, no more of those months-long stretches where I would wander an empty house alone as a ghost, waiting for someone, anyone, to come back. I’d make Dad proud. Be his daughter in more than secret. I’d follow him on his journeys and his wars, always by his side. And Thane would be with me every step of the way.
But… that’s not how it ended up.
That was the storybook. This is the reality I was given. And I’m lashing out at the catalyst that might change it all every goddamn time I look at her, because of all the minute ways she reminds me of him. Because she’s right.
Explanations aren’t excuses.
She’s got a point. My heart told me to put my life in her hands, and it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
I hurry up the steps and under the shade of the tower, catching back up to Cal where she’s stalled just outside the front lobby. The group in front of her is being inspected by security; some sort of quiet disagreement going on. Cal jolts in surprise when my hand slips around hers. Haloed by renewed flashes of a dozen stream cams, I lift her hand to my lips, kissing her on the fingers.
She watches me pull back with an arched eyebrow. “Huh. I expected that to come a lot later.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I snort.
The group ahead of us starts funneling into the skyscraper. I fall in beside Cal as she hands our JOYs over to security. We’re through in a heartbeat. My eyes pan over the interior of the building’s vast ground level. “Where do we start?” I ask.
The reception of the gala yawns in front of us: a massive ballroom, three stories melded into one massive chamber with several glass-floored tiers between. Pitch dark save for a dim electric-blue ambiance that curls in swirling lines across the floor. Huge pillars make deeper shadows further from the action. Occluded lights from hidden bulbs splay weirdly through the glass floors, reflecting in dozens of liquid patterns that shift and pulse to the brassy beat of a five-man band playing in the center of the dance floor around a Mytho-classed harpist who covers herself with six angel wings in lieu of clothing.
Over a hundred warriors of all classes mingle in loose packs around the rest of the open space. Hands brushing, tumblers clinking, dresses shifting, golden liquid bubbling, lips pursing, voices muttering. The sheer overload of stimuli makes me stall at first. Cal’s hand reminds me into motion, leading me into the ballroom at a casual stroll while she too takes a moment to scope out what we’re working with. Her head tips towards the closest source of light; an amber U-hook of a bar set aside the first dance floor.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“The bar. Pretty girls always do well there.”
“You say that like you don’t.”
“Oh I do, believe me. But it takes a certain panache to work the floor.” Her hand slides around and off as she heads towards the heart of the gala. “You start with the bar. Let’s meet back up in a sec.”
Oh yeah, sure. Send the farmgirl to go flirt with the rich and famous. Just like that.
I snap my fingers quietly in frustration, shaking my head as I watch Cal slide right into someone else’s conversation with a coy look and a proffered cup of golden wine. My attention slides back towards the bar when I hear a chuckle nearby.
I find the source in an instant; some cavalier cocksure guy who’s near my age. Way too young for this crowd, must be the apprentice of some foreign bigshot. Duelist by class, he’s wearing an ornamental hilt on each hip, no blade or sheathe attached. Thin and tall like a young pine tree. A dancer’s graceful proportions, not a brawler’s. Golden hair, long and straight, drapes down the center of his back. An orange-gemstone pendant hides just beneath his collar, swinging briefly into view as he politely clears his throat.
“You may want to move,” he smoothly says, nodding at the next party approaching from behind me.
I look back, catch a glimpse of fiery colors incoming, and take the hint. Sidle up beside him as he makes some space. I glance past him at the further reaches of the ballroom, searching for my aunt’s hereditary shade of crimson. No dic. Can’t see more than a few feet in any direction. The heads and firearms of the incoming party sweep in ten bodies wide, bringing the heat of their home Section with them. I catch the eye of the guy beside me, hooking my head at the foreigners.
“Thanks for the save. Who’re they?”
“Trouble,” he answers, taking a delicate sip of something stiff. “Section K. Their Champion and Gami aren’t on the grandest terms. Word has it he nearly succeeded in having her assassinated just a few years ago, and she replied by sending him a gun with an empty magazine. Said the rest of it would be coming later.” Rich, cultured tones color the pedigree of his voice. “I didn’t think she’d take the invitation tonight, to be honest. She’s a daredevil.”
“At least she’s got some spine,” I mutter, glancing around the bar. A faint golden glow seeps from underlaid striplights in the counter, illuminating sharp jaws and haughty lips from beneath. I look higher, up through the glass floor, and suddenly feel even better about shutting down all of the dresses Cal tried to get me to wear. “Better than the rest of this place.”
“Not a fan of the socialites?” His elbows settle back against the bar while he watches the band. “Wouldn’t blame you, myself. Hands tend to get a little dirtier where I come from.”
“Same, actually.”
“To dirty work, then?” He raises an empty tumbler in salute, silently inviting me to take it. Eyes wandering my naked flank as I lean forward. The rise of my chest, the curve of my neck.
I laugh and shake my head. “I drink to forget about guys like you.”
“Worth a shot.” He chuckles and passes the tumbler to the barkeep. “Sixer on the rocks, please.” Then back to me, side-eye glance. “Ordinarily I’d take that rejection as an indictment of my character, but if I’m being honest, I’d drink to forget about my type too.” His cup returns filled with off-color amber. A touch of his fingertip frosts the outside, forming tiny snowflakes inside the liquid. Ice Elemental too, then. He pauses for a testing sip. “Serve enough people who lie for a living, and it starts to rub off on you.”
I just fire back with a raised eyebrow. He has to force himself to finish swallowing. Wipes the back of his wrist over his mouth, carelessly staining the white silk with muted orange-gold, barely repressing genuine humor. Shedding the cultured veneer for just a moment.
“Please don’t look at me like that, love. I’m not that pitiable.”
“I’m not pitying you,” I say, letting a little authentic village slang creep back into my voice. “It was a good pickup line.”
“Usually it tends to work a little better. Parties like this, most everyone is looking for any excuse to find a pretty body and an empty closet.” He waves a hand dramatically, letting the point slide. “Not much you can do about the taken ones.”
“Not taken. Just not interested.” My nails drum against the bar as the music shifts from brass to something deeper, more electric. I’m about to risk asking him if he’s seen Jolie around when he straightens up beside me.
“Seems we’ve more in common than just our lines of work, if men aren’t your vice.” He lifts the tumbler to his lips, looking out into a gap in the crowd. “There goes the specimen of the city.”
The whole ballroom stops to watch as the most powerful woman in the Section drifts into the edge of the gala. She moves like a bloodied ghost, ethereal and silent. Capturing every gaze as she sweeps wordlessly along, returning none. Hawkish in her beauty. Commanding in the silence of her presence. Dressed for a shoutcaster’s booth, her funeral mood makes the flawless physiques and tailored clothes that surround her look as pointlessly gaudy as they are, like a true scale weighing fake jade. It’s the creases and wear of life that define true power. And my aunt bears hers proudly.
Her faded crimson hair is tied in a high tail. Hololenses perched above her forehead, the crows’ feet ringing her eyes on full display. Dark trenchcoat thrown over her shoulders, the empty sleeves trailing like war banners in a motion that calls to me through the packs that separate us. She doesn’t pause for so much as a single word as she makes her way towards the back of the ballroom, where another dimly lit hall slinks off into the depths of the skyscraper. And she’s not alone. A taller, younger, haughtier woman strides at her side. Peach hair, long legs, catlike pink eyes that flash as they glance out over the crowd. Valance.
“Ditched me for a free drink, huh?” Cal suddenly asks, jerking my focus back. She draws up beside me like she never left, close enough to make all the implications in the world to anyone watching. Her yellow eyes stray to the Duelist on my other side; the pendant hiding behind his shirt. Then she smirks. Places her hand down over mine, eyelids heavy, tilting her head to the side. “Sorry, pal. This one’s off the menu.”
“Believe me, I was already aware,” the Duelist replies, all charm.
They smile daggers at each other; the briefest exchange with a reason I’m not privy to. Something about the pendant, I think. Cal squeezes my hand.
“Should’ve known you’d have a thing for bad boys,” she chuckles. “Come on. I’m bored; let’s find one of those empty closets.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” I drawl, playing along.
Cal leads me away from the bar, casually tracing the same path Jolie and Valance took around the edge of the ballroom. Drifting between the shadows of the pillars. Taking her time, letting the hushed conversations slowly swell back to their old level as Jolie’s cold wake fades. Everyone’s wondering what could have had the Director in such a mood on today of all days. They have no idea. But I know Jolie does. Her coat was no random choice. The draping unfilled sleeves; they’re exactly how my shirts used to hang back when I didn’t always wear my arm. She’s calling out to me. She hopes I’m here. My whole body is screaming at me to give chase without a second thought.
“Don’t,” Cal chides, pulling me well to the side as two minor league fighters pass us on a patrol towards the depths of the skyscraper. Her back rests against a window looking out over midnight streets. “Let her go. There’s other ways to follow.”
“When we have no idea where she’s even going?” I murmur. “Valance was escorting her.”
“Which is exactly why we can’t jump the gun. Valance is a tech wizard, super smart, and she’s probably micromanaging the entire security operation here while being a flirt on the dance floor.” Cal taps a fingertip against the JOY inside her jacket pocket. “Besides. I have a feeling Jolie wants us to know where they’re going, considering she just started live-sharing her location with me.”
I rest my real fist against the ice-cold glass, foot tapping, watching the streets while we wait for the leaguers to pass. Cal alternates between eyeing my collarbone and checking out the gala. When she suddenly starts to tense, I know something’s gone wrong. My eyes flick up. In the reflection, one of the patrolling fighters- that armored markswoman who I saw outside- is starting to turn back towards us, confusion and vague recognition scrawled on her face.
Brass music swells in the ballroom, drowning out her words. Before she can draw too close, Cal hooks two fingers inside my choker and pulls me down into intimate range. Breath brushing warm against my cheek. Faint perfume, clean masculine scent. Dark hair and a claustrophobic memory. Her lips drift like an electric current against my ear.
“Don’t kill me for this.”
An adrenalized, electric sensation shoots down my spine. Her teeth find my earlobe and tug possessively. Nimble fingers find my hip and slide beneath the silk shirt to my waist, nails gently marking the skin, pulling my hips to hers as she mutters into my ear.
“Work with me, Tay.”
I turn into her, breathing into her neck. Letting her hand guide me closer despite the prideful ire it rankles inside, sending all the message the leaguer needs to see to turn right back around. “A warning would have been nice.”
“You’re doing just fine without one.”
“And you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“It’s just playful banter. Don’t take it so seriously.”
“Playful banter is all you do, Cal.”
“Guilty as charged.” Her lips form half of a knowing smirk. Heavy eyelids drift halfway open, irises sliding to watch the leaguer lose interest and return to patrolling. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Only once the patrol is fully out of sight do we split again. As the band shifts to their next set and a zithering trumpet slashes across the gala, Cal makes a little flicking hand motion at one of the dim corridors branching away from the ballroom. No flirt or playfulness to it. All business now.
The ambiance of the party fades as we leave the main event behind, diving into a slate grey antechamber lined with old artifacts of the extinct Shimano family. Deconstructed pre-era autobikes, pristine circuitboards kept safe in glass cases, the defunct nuclear core of a Titan-class Mecha. From there, it’s a straight shot to the unoccupied corridors slicing the length of the skyscraper. No more enforcers this deep in the tower, away from the dignitaries. Just us and the empty boardrooms slipping past on either side. Our muted footsteps the only sound in the vast emptiness.
Guided by her JOY, Cal brings us to a stop outside an unmarked utility closet that’s barely distinguishable from the walls of the corridor. A knife darts into her hand from a hidden holster as she starts rigging the lock open. Her JOY continues to float beside her, projecting a wafer-thin map of the highrise. While she works, she taps a finger on an orange-colored dot that’s moving swiftly through the hologram.
“They’re heading down. Subbasements.”
I squint closer at the map. “You said she’s supposed to stay at the party.”
“Yeah. ‘Till midnight at the earliest. She’s never gone down to the basements before. Something’s up.” Cal twists her wrist a quarter-rotation right and winces. “Fuck Shimano tech. They future-proofed their gear for the next thousand years.”
In a past life, I would have blown the door to slag without a thought and been through the very next instant. In this one, I backtrack to one of the antique autobikes, pry some priceless metal tube off the undercarriage, and whistle for Cal to stand the hell back. She sees the pipe swinging and steps aside right as I smash the lock to pieces. The room beyond is a dust-choked concrete closet the size of a small bedroom. A seamless hexagonal slab is set in the center of the floor; small carved carry handles to lift it out. I toss the pipe into a corner of the room, shed my pauldron, and crook two fingers for Cal to follow.
“You have zero reverence for cool stuff,” she mutters, passing the shattered lock.
I roll my eyes and kneel beside the slab. After losing her jacket and tie, Cal crouches on her haunches on the other side, fitting her fingers into one of the carved handles. Our eyes meet across the concrete. A wordless beat passes where we gauge each other yet again. Wondering just how far we’re going to push this alliance of necessity.
Then my nails dig into the stone. The hatch swings ponderously open.
And in silence, we descend into the dark below.