My breath came in gasps.

I’d really pushed it, both physically and psychologically. Walking—running when I was out of sight—with the constant danger of suddenly being spotted really did a number on me. By the end, even so much of a scrap of red on someone’s person made me twitchy.

Luck was on my side though. Yes, there’d been one or two close calls. One time, I’d passed by a street vendor just as a small cluster of gang members turned away with fried treats in their hands. I’d been within an arm’s reach of them. Only their attention on the newly acquired food had saved me—presumably.

I couldn’t eliminate the possibility that I’d been spotted ages ago, and my uneventful yet stressful path to the safehouse was an orchestrated ploy to lull me into feelings of safety before they sprung an ambush on me.

After all, I thought, Nesbit herself could be standing right behind this door.

The door in question wasn’t anything special, but it was the door to the safehouse that I’d marked down as my “primary residence” when I applied to virtual university, and it’s where I’d received the few physical shipments they’d sent me over the years. Amusingly, the door’s AR-address tag still proudly proclaimed “Issa Pyxis”.

I, carefully staying out of the door camera’s view cone, approached and tentatively reached out to digitally handshake the door’s security system. It was a simple system; designed to be robust and rather stupid. It, dutifully performing its duty, pinged me back for codes which I provided, and then with a soft click the door unlocked.

That didn’t do anything to ease my concern, but in a way, it was understandable. This specific safehouse hadn’t been known by many in the Emerald Ones, and due to its nature as a safehouse, couldn’t be monitored externally and codes couldn’t be changed from afar. To change them, someone would’ve needed to go there, physically pop open the security controller inside, and make adjustments.

I stepped into the airlock-security vestibule and pulled the exterior door shut behind me, keeping my gun up and pointed at the other door. This was the moment of truth. The moment where…

With an almost inaudible click, the interior door unlatched, and with my foot I carefully pressed it open a crack.

That’s when I heard a voice, and froze.

It was… talking?

Still frozen in the entrance and peering through the thin crack in the door I’d opened, I tried to spot who was in the safehouse and holding one half of a conversation.

“…don’t know what you want me to—” he cut off.

Then, a couple seconds later, “—yes, yes, sure, but still, it’s just that—”

I recognized the voice: It was Aleksander, ex(?)-lieutenant, an honestly not someone who I’d expected to survive Nesbit’s takeover. Thinking about it though, he was always a slippery survivor. He was, as I’d guessed, talking to someone remotely using the old-fashioned secure terminal that this safehouse was equipped with.

He was also sitting in such a way that… fuck.

In a move that he’d disguised as a casual posture readjustment—that I’d fallen for!—he’d moved his hand across the desk where it now rested on a gun. Not quite pointing at me, but a definite signal of intent. His eyes flicked to the now-cracked door I was behind. I’d been made.

Unwilling to give up the hard cover that the security door provided me, yet no longer caring about concealing my presence, I pushed the door open a tiny bit more and bathed him in the virtual light of my gun’s firing cone.

Then, he spoke up again.

“Alright, alright, I’ll take care of it. Talk to you later.”

Then, he reached out and pressed the button to cut off the communications, which baffled me. After all, being in a conversation with someone is a good way to prevent being killed stealthily, but now that nobody was listening…?

It came to me in a flash: Aleksander’s specific brand of don’t-fuck-with-me ‘ware. He never made it a secret that he had a non-insignificant amount of post-mortem activated subdermal countermeasures, explosives, dye packs, and other general nastiness which would cause trouble (put lightly) for anyone in the same room as him were he suddenly killed. It wasn’t something practical or popular among the more field-oriented gang members but for him? A schemer-type who mainly needs to deal with countering backstabbings and betrayals? Well, it’s one hell of a deterrent.

It also meant we were in a stalemate. I, with my Nex-10a leveled on him, could theoretically start dispensing guided explosive flechettes whenever I wanted. After killing him though, this would set off an explosion potentially large enough to hurt me from even behind cover. Not to mention, it would also be difficult to explain to the IEI official who was coming why my home was the epicenter of a large explosion along with having blood and people bits scattered all over the place.

He couldn’t shoot me either though. While one of his hands was resting on a gun, it wasn’t pointed in the right direction and Aleksander wasn’t stupid. He knew that even if whoever was behind the door wasn’t hooped on reaction-speed boosting stims or equipped with the requisite ‘ware, he’d never be able to pick up the gun, line up a shot, and shoot before I got my shot off.

These conclusions were clearly all reached by him too, because after a tense moment of silence, he withdrew his hand from the gun and spoke up.

“Well, seeing as you aren’t directly going to shoot me, why don’t you come out?”

I didn’t see a reason not do so. Maybe there’s still a diplomatic solution here somewhere…

I stepped out from behind the door, and into the gentle warm light of the safehouse.

When he saw me, Aleksander’s eyes bugged out in surprise.

“Issa? By the divine, what are you doing here!?” he all but shouted, having seen past my facial disguise.

“I…” I trailed off, not quite sure what to say.

We fell into an uneasy silence, examining each other, only broken when I blurted out what’d come directly to mind, “…You look like shit.”

He blinked slowly and then rubbed his obviously sleep-deprived eyes with one hand.

“I honestly…” he mumbled, before speaking up louder, “Well, what’d you expect?” he said in an almost accusatory tone, “Do you know how much work it is to make sure that organized crime stays organized?”

“Well… yes?” I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

At this, he paused for a moment before falling into a gentle chuckle and shaking his head slowly.

“What am I thinking, of course you would…” he trailed off.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

This confrontation wasn’t going at all how I’d thought it would.

“Um, Aleksander, aren’t you… Angry?” I asked tentatively.

“Angry? Well no. Yes? Maybe a bit?” he gesticulated with his hands, “I mean, I don’t blame you. I just barely dodged Nesbit’s bullet thanks to my ‘ware and by the time her attention swung back around on me again, I’d already established enough obsequious usefulness to dodge the bullet again.”

He paused for a moment, thinking.

“You though… yeah, she would’ve definitely popped you.”

“Good thing I left then.”

“Good for you?” He raised an eyebrow. “Unquestionably. Good for me? The judge is still undecided on that verdict. I’ve been doing nothing but picking up the pieces you turned to dust when you left and I’ve been trying to put them back into a cohesive whole…” he drifted off.

Panning my gaze over his desk, there were a truly concerning amount of spent awareness-booster stims neatly lined up.

“Regardless though, what could possibly compel you to come back here?”

“I—”

“No… Don’t tell me…” he drifted off with an expression of dawning realization on his face as he started wildly scanning the contents of the safehouse. Halfway up to his feet, he froze, noticing my gun still pointed at him. Then he cleared his throat and licked his lips.

“All this time… they’ve been here?” he asked, desperate sparkle in his eyes.

“What?” I had no idea what he was on about now.

His hands clenched, and if I didn’t have him pinned with the gun, I imagined he’d be shaking my shoulders rather vigorously at that moment.

“The credits, Issa, all the credits!” he said with desperation in his voice.

“Oh those? No, I took all of them.”

Bonelessly, he collapsed back into the worn chair.

“Oh. I thought…”

“No I’m here because…” I mentally debated telling him, before deciding, “…I’ve been accepted to an institute and they’re picking me up at this address.”

“What.” His voice was flat.

I stood, uncomfortable.

“Well, it’s IEI and—”

“WHAT.”

“It’s just that they had this address in the system and they’re coming to pick me up in—” I checked my internal chronometer, “—about twenty seven minutes.”

“what”

“Look, I—” he cut me off, seemingly having gathered his wits again.

“You’re telling me that you, Issa Pyxis, managed to buy a spot at the most well-renowned higher-education institution in the entire Imperium?!” he said, almost shouting in disbelief when he reached the end.

I, slightly indignant, responded, “I didn’t ‘buy’ a spot, they’ve offered me a merit scholarship.”

“Oh.”

Aleksander blinked and a slight smile split his face.

“Well, now I don’t feel as bad about not being able to handle all of your old work. This means you’re what? Literally a prodigal genius?”

I, despite myself, blushed slightly, and started to reply but he just waved it away.

“Nevermind. This presents some fantastic opportunities. Let me think for a moment.”

I, hoping that indulging him would get him out of the safehouse faster, did so, and several moments later he spoke up again.

“I think we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, first of all, for old time’s sake, I’m willing to pretend I never saw you. If anyone asks, I’ll say you’re probably halfway around the planet and living in luxury by my guess.”

“Secondly though—and this is where we might be able to help each other out—I could really use some of those funds you wandered off with. I have… plans, and a bit of capital—even unlaundered capital—would be extremely useful. In return, I’d owe you some favor.”

Noticing the question he wanted me to ask, I played along, “Some favor?”

“You’re heading to IEI, and assuming everything goes right, you’re going to end up way up high somewhere. Once you’re there—or even while you’re at the Institute—having someone like me who owes you could be advantageous. Also… given a bit of time and my plans turning up aces, my position in the future might become significantly better than it is now.”

“Hm…” I pondered the proposal.

“Consider it an investment.”

I thought about it and, well, it wasn’t a bad deal. He, just like I, presumably knew that laundering the cryptocurrency was one of those things that’s rather difficult to do without ‘boots-on-the-ground’ and something that would be especially difficult for me: someone who’d be attending IEI in person and probably wouldn’t have time to manage any complex financial schemes. All this meant that the unlaundered crypto I was toting around wasn’t worth that much in my hands, but as an investment…

Fuck it, sure. I can lose half of it anyways and still live modesty in perpetuity if it came down to it.

Lowering my gun, I fished an unprogrammed credit chit out of my pocket, and with a brief exertion of digital will, transferred the appropriate wallet-codes and cryptographic keys that would grant the bearer access to a significant chunk of the digital currency I’d hoarded.

Then I tossed him the programed chit.

Deftly, he caught it, grinned, and I saw his eyes briefly widen as he accessed it and read the amount I’d given him.

“That’s… one hell of an investment.”

“Sure it is, now—“ I gestured, “I have guests coming.”

“Right, right.” He said, already distracted and presumably thinking about his newfound wealth.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t, I won’t.”

“Get.”

He turned to me, gave me an old-fashioned Emerald Ones salute, and rushed out of the safehouse.

I closed the door behind him. Then, I stepped over to the secure terminal and manually authorized my connection. Milliseconds later, the messages began flooding in, and I felt guilty. All network access save for that through the secure terminal was physically blocked in the safehouse, so to the Issas that had been watching my progress, I’d stepped into an unknowable black void when I entered the apartment. They hadn’t heard from me for minutes, and it had begun to worry them.

Still, I quickly caught them up to what’d happened, and then resumed working on the provided checklist with alacrity—there were only minutes before my pickup arrived. I rushed to carefully peel off the facial prosthetic and remove the more questionable and incriminating elements of my inventory. Then, just as I was pulling shut the seal on my bag, the door chime was activated.

Showtime.

I shouldered my bag, squared my shoulders, and quadruple checked that I’d deactivated all the stealth-software I’d been using earlier. Then I entered the vestibule, and sealing the interior door behind me, I checked the local security feed.

Pictured was about what I expected. This time, a woman, but otherwise similar to the interloper in my VR exam room down to the little golden pin. She was dressed impeccably yet not in an ostentatious or eye-catching manner, but unlike the man in the VR avatar, I could see her face this time and the golden irises that were near-ubiquitous among officials of all sorts.

She stared directly into the hidden camera, which was only slightly unnerving. I opened the door.

“Issa Pyxis?” she said with perfect cadence and pronunciation.

“Yes?”

“Please hold still for one moment.”

I, of course, complied, and the woman began emitting low-powered x-rays as she scanned me head to toes.

Then—and this was only because I was paying close attention to her expression—her mouth briefly flickered into a smirk before returning to normal.

“Pyxis, you should be aware that unregistered weaponry is not authorized on IEI campus grounds.”

I grimaced, but I’d expected something like this, so I simply unholstered my trusty Nex-10a and let it slide into the safehouse’s delivery chute.

“Very good. Please follow me.”

She turned, and almost in a daze, I followed. Two elevators, one stairwell, and one roof-access door later, we stood at the ramp of a shiny and completely out-of-place transport shuttle. Perched where it was and resplendent with gold and white accents, I came to the sudden realization that this shuttle was probably worth more than the entire city block it had landed in combined.

Still, the woman didn’t seem to note the dissonance of the situation, and confidently strode up the ramp and into the shuttle, with me following along.

Once inside, we came to a halt. Ahead of me was a passageway which I presumed lead to the seating compartment, and next to me were smaller doors that were tagged as “sanitation” and “storage”.

My guide motioned to the door that said “sanitation”.

“Once you’ve freshened yourself up, please proceed to the passenger area. You were our last stop, and the flight to campus will then last approximately two hours.”

Then, she gave me a nod and disappeared into the passenger area, while I, somewhat sheepishly, proceeded through the “sanitation” door. Once there, I cleaned myself up a bit, fixing my hair into something more presentable and using the provided fabric-cleaning wand to remove some scuffs from my pants and shoes.

Once I was satisfied, I took one final look in the mirror, adjusted my hair and froze at a small detail that caught my eye. On the right cuff of my long sleeved shirt there was a small stain. A small spot I’d initially missed among the dark fabric, but I had a sinking feeling as to what it was.

Looking closer, I inhaled to get a clearer scent picture, and the conclusion I reached was what I’d feared: the slightly metallic tang of recently-dried blood. My mind flashed back to the man I’d killed by the vending machines and the nosebleed he’d developed shortly after I’d reached down to close his eyes. A man, who, assuming an autopsy was performed, would show signs of having clearly been killed by an unregistered flechette gun.

Had the woman who picked me up noticed? She did scan me rather intensely, and if the right people or law-enforcement algorithms put their heads together and linked the girl with blood on her cuff along with the unregistered Nex-10a on her person to the dead gang member in the transit station… I shuddered.

Still, I reassured myself, owning an unregistered weapon within one’s place of residence isn’t a crime, and the woman didn’t make a big deal out of it.

I was just going to have to hope nothing bad would come of this, and not make the same mistake twice.