Washington DC

Arturo Compo — Nine and a half years before the First Cryptocollapse

“There’s been a spike in the Earth’s magnetic field, Arturo.”

Arturo’s blood surged. He took his hand off the wheel to slap his cheek, loving the shock and the sharp awareness that came with it. He said, “Come again?”

“Those rapid shifts in the magnetosphere? The pole shifts. Let’s just say your pet’s model is a bit underwhelming against the real thing. Ignore the electronics. It’s affecting biochemistry.”

Arturo slammed his palms on the steering wheel and barked out a laugh, “It’s about time!”

He stared at his fixer for a long moment before returning his almost manic gaze to the DC skyline. His premonitions were almost always more reassuring than terrifying. Even so, he was nothing without a steady bead of willpower. The terror—well, the terror was just another word for the opportunity that was finally opening up.

Not losing his humor, he whispered, playfully, “Maia?”

She didn’t look up from her PDD, frown-lines settling between her brows. “What?”

Arturo said, “Tell me, my dearest friend, do you have any idea what I’m feeling right now?”

She barely gave him a second look before going back to her reports. “Hmm. I suppose it’s more than the thrill of an unexpected payout? You always seem to have them just before one of your marks experiences a larger-than-life tragedy.”

Arturo’s grin widened, but his tone was severe when he said, “You wound me. You truly wound me. Perhaps I might be in it for the win/win?”

Maia’s hazel eyes flicked up, and this time they were sharper. “Oh, it’s always about the opportunity. I imagine you’ll convince them to swap their toys with you just before the storm, touting special lightning protection.”

“Something like that,” Arturo said, deflating somewhat. “Actually, Maia, the boys seem to think the storm will find the toys quite tasty.” He tapped is AR, sending a pulse of data to her. After a moment, her breath hitched. “And I think you might love it, too.”

“Self-replicating, EM-modulating nanos?”

Arturo truly enjoyed to see her shiver. Grinning again, he said, “We’re going to have so much fun, Maia.”

Washington DC

Hope Svelter — Post Cryptocollapse

Two bullets ricocheted from the glass, scoring it. The third shattered the window. Tight on the trail of glass, a molotov cocktail came flying through the hole, becoming a narrow contrail of light spinning through the darkness. 

Hope, mesmerized in a bubble of time, watched it bounce from a mannequin’s head before breaking upon the checkout counter. Fiery liquid splashed everywhere, and within a space of a heartbeat, it flashed to life.  

Hope screamed, scrambling back from the fallout. The liquid had splashed onto her hair, face, and chest. The falling alcohol hadn’t been on fire, but on the counter, a bunch of old spiked receipts flared up, igniting more rolls of nearby register paper.

Desperation almost clawed at her, but she held it back even as the fuel covered her skin. Her eyes flickered, catching sight of something gummy and conical, like a kid’s leftover birthday favor, near the counter’s edge. 

It was sparking like a miniature cannonade. 

She barely had time to register what it was before it spat into her hair, igniting it.

Panicked, Hope flailed between clapping her hands against her head and kicking herself away from the counter. She crashed into a rack of clothing, half-smothering herself in fabric.

Blinded by flames, her skin icy with terror—and perhaps something more—she thrashed. Her burning hair spread fire across her neck as the entire clothing rack came down on her. The flames strangled under the weight, but the metal pinned her to the floor.

Paradoxically, her scalp, cheek and neck felt icy. The other things in her flesh were working extra hard.

Her nostrils stung with the stench of burning nylon as she thrashed. She kicked, bringing down another rack in an attempt to strangle the flame.

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The pain came and went. For a heartbeat, everything became still. She knew it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right! And then the store became eerily quiet—except for her. She heard her skin crackling beneath the melted fabric. 

Only then did the pain return.

She clawed this sacrificial cloth from her face, but parts of her scalp were still on fire. When she finally killed the flame, peeling pieces of burnt fabric from her skin, something tore her cheek. A chill ran through her—and it was all so much more than just fear. 

The medicals… the damn nanos were still working, keeping her alive.

She pushed the rack aside as the deeper implications took her breath away. 

She was moving, so it meant she still had momentum. 

Every muscle trembled as she staggered to her feet. Her arm went numb, but when she tried to shake it back to life, the pain flared. Something cracked open on her arm. Burnt flesh—but she felt it as if it were behind glass, disassociated and removed. 

She couldn’t focus on the damage. There wasn’t time. Parts of her body were feeling colder. Medical nanotech was stealing her heat.

A word came to her: suppression.

Smoke crawled along the ceiling as she stumbled toward the rear of the store. A car crashed outside. Shouts echoed. Gunshots followed. She felt heat at her back. Apparel flew before her as she ran.

A woman screamed from the entrance—and a double-tap of gunshot followed it.

Hope didn’t look back. She was not Orpheus leading Eurydice from the cave. She was Eurydice saving herself with her own terrified song. 

She knocked over another rack as she followed the smoke rolling across the ceiling. She sought the dimmed emergency lights and slammed into the storeroom door and stumbled through packed merchandise, knocking boxes to the floor.

A loud whistle pierced the air, followed by a crash. The skin on her neck felt stiff, like burlap rubbing against her bones.

She bellowed a curse, shoving the emergency bar with her hip. The door flew open, and the night hit her like a punch.

The night sky, mostly hidden behind tall inner-city buildings, cast a horrible red glow upon the clouds. The old, omnipresent light pollution had been replaced by enough hell-light to make her believe she’d been transported across the continent to witness the West Coast fires.

A distant bullhorn reverberated through the back alley, clanging against the dumpsters and catwalks. 

A voice, accompanied by a jaunty, ancient music, drifted through the alley: “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us…”

She heard the fire crackling behind her and more gunshots in the distance, but it was another bang, followed by black smoke rising from a third-floor window, that got her legs moving again. A thick miasma pervaded the air, though she couldn’t tell where the worst of it was coming from. Flickering shadows proved she wasn’t the only one out here. She saw others moving along the fire escapes, their catwalks rattling. Scared voices carried a tune of hurries and goes and jesus fucking christs.

There was no shortage of outrage or fear. At least one baby was crying. At least one man was, too.

Hope’s legs almost buckled, but in the next instant, the pain went distant again, the suppression kicking in. In this revolving confusion, she forced herself forward.

To her left, a huge truck blocked the exit to this narrow corridor between buildings. To the right, an obnoxious bullhorn sung disharmoniously with an even greater number of people. Bodies spilled into the alley from that major artery. If she went that way, it would be as bad as jumping into the same flames she had just escaped.

She didn’t know their specific reasons, but she didn’t need to. The city was burning. Voices clamored for the downfall of all those who had brought them to this horrible state.

Hope fell against the end of a dumpster and sagged against the metal. They could all be fighting against the rich. Or the powerful. Maybe it didn’t matter who did what, or how. All secrets were out of the bag and just about anyone could carry a grudge for anything.

Hiding was out of the question, especially from this everlasting ire.

But the nanotech—this thing she had brought out of purgatory—it would make everyone healthy—even as they went mad. 

After years of absence, of dreaming of freedom, she had finally crawled out of the ground—only to find hell. A regenerating hell.

And it was all her fault.

Welcome home, Hope.