The outer doors cycled open with only 30 seconds to spare, flooding a blast of bitterly cold air into the small enclosure which took my breath away.

Having never gone through, or witnessed a a Writ of Seizure before, I didn’t really know what to expect; Five minutes to vacate when it took four minutes to cycle a door seemed a bit...not lenient, and I couldn’t help but feel morose as, harsh and bleating, the inner lock screen cycled a lock-down as it finalized whatever steps were necessary to change the Pod’s status from Occupied, to Tossed Out Into The Frigid Wind.

I let out a huge sigh of defeat as I turned, then froze in place.

A contingent of uniformed Corp-Security members, escorting a short rat-faced man, dressed in their riot best stood at the ready. My poorly augmented vision flashed between the burly figures. Concussion sticks were gripped tightly in impact resistant gloves as several sets of gleefully expectant eyes were uniformly directed my way like a gaze of biochem-altered raccoons.

Standing separately from the group and the rat-faced man, looking cool and collected like he’d just stepped off a fashion runway in his fancy long coat and perfect haircut was my supervisor, McCreed.

The same man who had told me to go home.

The same man who had signed off on the reports implicating me as the cause of the events which caused my co-worker to die.

His face was neutral like it was carved out of granite. Steely eyes taking in the world around him with an impersonal air as if he did this sort of thing every day—superciliously aloof.

“He’s still in possession of Corporate issued equipment,” Mr. Ratface said from the right, pointing an almost too long finger; An indication of a limb enhanced short-ranged chip scanner.

“OuterAll, Jacket, Boots,” He stated, continuing to wave his finger around as if scrying for water. His face formed another scowl as he found something else and pointed to my back, “The bag. The bag too. Take them all.”

Without further instruction one of the Security Goons grasped the strap of the bag and pulled. The unexpected shift in weight caused me to take an involuntary step back as I was jerked and slung around. The cold, lightly frost covered surface of the lower rail hit my left shoulder a millisecond before the rear of my skull rebounded with a muted clang off the top railing.

My heart began to race, as I caught myself, amping up from the combined sensations of sudden contact and a growing fear of the Security Goons as they began to huddle menacingly on both sides.

I pulled myself to my feet as cold sweat begin to pool at the small of my back. The Goon Squad pressed closer, moving where I didn’t look, and leering with barely held malicious glee where I did. My mind tumbled chaotically as I tried to strategize, weighting the very short list of obvious options as I tried to keep enemies in view.

The most lethal option: Jumping over the railing and plummeting down fifteen levels to ground below, was quickly ruled out. As my eyes darted to and fro, looking for any kind of opening, and I desperately attempted to keep track of the quickly compacting line; I knew I was in trouble.

With the low temps and rain as they were now, there was no way I was going to survive more than a few hours without the extra layers the Port Uniform provided me.

If I can at least keep the Outer Jacket and Boots I might still be able to--

My train of thought was interrupted as the closest Goon, a snaggle-toothed looking fellow with a squashed nose showing all signs of having been broken and badly set a few times, managed to reach grappling distance. His thick, mitt-like hands clenched his concussion stick as he licked his cracked lips in anticipation. I felt penned in as I dug my feet into the gangway, boot soles squeaking as they nestled into a groove meant to let rain and condensation pass through.

Knees slightly bent, coiled like a spring and ready to dart, I crouched. Thought uncertain on what to do next, I was entirely unwilling to just let them tear into me if I could help it.

I waited for the rush, except--The rush never came.

Instead, McCreed had raised one, perfectly manicured hand: A signal.

The goons jerkly stopped as one, as if pulled back by a tethered leash. The seemingly soft, non-calloused palm remained in view as he continued waiting. His dogs were restrained, the extended hand keeping them from tearing me into frozen pieces mere footsteps from the entryway of my former home, making it absolutely clear who was in control.

“Now now, Golrich,” McCreed said.

His voice, imperialistic and imposing with a hint of playfulness in an almost posh accent, was a brassy rumble originating from deep within his chest.

He lowered his arm slowly.

“It’s to my understanding the Writ of Seizure stated the accused may have leave. Along with any items on his person provided he successfully exits within the five minutes notice, is that not correct?” He turned, one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows rising into an arch of challenge.

Ratface began to sweat visibly, his mouth forming an ‘O’ shape in a perfect example of Rattish shock, sans whiskers. “Uh, but, Sir! What about the Company Property on his person?!”

He had squeaked it out before managing to slam his mouth shut.

McCreed did not answer immediately as I glanced nervously between them, still crouched and bewildered, but happy for the brief halt as the goons stood in disciplined silence.

Striking quite the impressive figure, McCreed turned slightly to face away from me, expression placid as he approached the rail. His movements were smooth and calculated: Statuesque artwork in motion. Every gesture, position and pose like a still-framed series of photographs perfectly transitioned.

Sliding his palm along the rail to collect moisture on his fingertips, he rose them toward his steely eyes like an inspector, grimacing as if unhappy to discover a filthy, debased mote of dust on an otherwise pristine and white-gloved hand.

“Be that as it may, Golrich,” He said, rubbing his fingers together distastefully, “There is a proviso for leeway. Removal of clothing and safety equipment in times of need is at the discretion of supervisory staff, Is it not?”

Rat-Face began to visibly tremble. He was entirely uncertain what was being asked of him.

“The harsh environment,” McCreed continued, the look of revulsion now pointedly directed at the melted frost and water on the rail as his eyes flashed dangerously, ”...should perhaps let us exercise such discretion now. After all, we wouldn’t want Mr. Price to be unable to meet his defense date should he choose to fund such an option?”

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This last part he directed to me as if it was a question. His eyes shone with an ethereal light as his implants did something. My optics served up a dim warning of an attempted active scan which I could do nothing about, whatever he was doing was way beyond the limited options my optics provided.

I looked around, and judging by the collective grouping of expressions, I wasn’t the only one confused by the current turn of events. Rat-Faced looked like he was about to puke, and different Goons were glancing around at each other as if looking for guidance, but were unable to find it within their own ranks.

No one dared move.

McCreed broke the moment. “I would like to speak with him in private about this if you would,” he said suddenly, turning his back to us before folding his arms behind his back. He looked every part the commanding dictator, standing before his holding with little fear for retaliation, remorse, or fear.

Rat Face quickly snapped into a low bow—one low enough to almost bang his forehead into the iced rail despite McCreed not even looking at him. He began taking micro-shuffling steps backward in a show of supplication.

“Oh....of...of course, Sir.” Golrich said, hastily, “Many apologies! I will...that is we...uhhhhh...”

He stopped groveling, having finally come to the realization action was likely a better option. Snapping out of the bow, he flashed a jerking hand signal and vermin-like hiss before shuffling off. The security personnel tromped along, leaving me alone with my former Supervisor as their clanking steps grew fainter.

Still unmoving, McCreed stood, his back toward me as he continued to stare outward. From my vantage, his shadowed form took on the appearance of a lonely monolith, nearly equal in height to the greatness of the Spire and its three towers.

I took a tentative step forward, enough to get away from the railing and the frost forming on its face, but not enough to appear like I was creeping. As a gust of frigid wind blew, everything resumed its normal late-night levels of near silence. The occasional mechanical whir of loader servos from the Port and timely rumbles of thunder acted as ambient noise which hadn’t been noticeable before.

McCreed continued to tower, still silently challenging.

We just stood there waiting for a spell. Long enough for me to begin shivering and my knees to begin aching. Even with the layers, it was bitterly cold.

I warily eyed the storm clouds marching steadily toward us from the horizon. Different sections were alight like asynchronous strobes as thunder rumbled. As if challenging the heavens, my stomach seemed to answer.

“Unfortunate business we have here Mr. Price” McCreed said, as if he had been waiting for me to break first and my stomach had betrayed me. Stupid Stomach.

The flashbulb effect became more frequent as the clouds approached.

A blast of cold moisture flowed over us, covering everything in a slight mist as I shivered. It was a stark reminder of the need for not only food, but also a warm place to take shelter and ride out the storm.

“It’s a pity you were caught in the middle of all of this,” McCreed finally said, almost wearily. “It was never my true intention.”

Pity? A pity?! Part of me wanted to rage. The other part, the part which was shivering, cold and wet, was simply tired of everything. Everything which had happened so rapidly and in so short of a time.

“Do you need to say anything?” He inquired, as if I’d needed permission to do so. A strange, vague sensation of nervousness and uncertainty began to grow inside me as I felt...unbalanced. The dim warnings from my optics had silenced themselves.

It was a feeling of being unsteady, like I had suddenly developed trouble keeping my mental train of thought on track. Trying to say words, but being unable to I struggled to try to identify why I suddenly couldn’t say what I wanted to...

I opened my mouth to say something, but couldn’t seem to talk.

I tried again, except this time words I hadn’t meant to speak came out, sounding odd to my own ears.

“I... don't know what you want me to say."

Man, that didn’t feel right.

Taking a step forward, I joined him near the rail, a sudden urge to at least see part of his face coming over me. The feeling...the need to get closer for some purpose I didn’t fully understand was a weird one.

He had turned his body to point rightward, giving me another strong urge to stand to his right. The kind of thing my Father would have done to lead someone to where he wanted them to go rather than where they wanted to go. It was all a game of throwing someone off balance. To subconsciously lead them to where he wanted them rather than where they wanted to go.

Thinking of my father made a streak of rebellion rear up as my mind and feet decided to take a defiant step left--opposite the invited direction.

The maneuver forced McCreed to turn, and I felt a tiny surge of satisfaction as a flash of annoyance traversed like a ripple across his perfectly poised face.

The wind caressed my cheek as it drifted by, tousling his hair as the breeze continued to the East.

McCreed’s face was now an impassive mask as he stared to out to the Spires, and slowly, marginally, I began to feel better.

Feeling like I had just stepped out of a murky haze, I began to feel more grounded, metaphorical feet planted and in control of my thoughts.

We stood like this for a moment as I primarily focused on breathing through my nose. McCreed still refused to react, and I had no clue what he wanted to even talk about as I resumed inhaling and exhaling quietly, my brain feeling less and less fogged as we stood.

The clouds were now very close, not exactly on top of us, but closer than I would’ve wanted without shelter. The telltale sign of a thick haze indicated heavy rains.

I could smell moisture as I continued to breathe, in and out.

Like arrows sent from the heavens to spear themselves into the grounds beneath, the rains fell, landing where they would. A blanket of mist partially obscured the neon glow of the Spire towers as the clouds encroached onward to surround it.

As if aware of the coming front, the neon signery faded and dimmed. Not completely going dark, but dully glowing with a much reduced output. Even with the Low-Light collection from cheap optical implants, the cluster of towers stood dark and foreboding; A striking difference from the bright beacon of hope only moments before.

Feeling no longer unsteady and nervous, I pressed on.

“Maybe,” I said, weather and breeze having somehow cleared my head and given me a new wind, “Maybe I’d ask why you were the one to sign off on the reports. The false ones.”

McCreed’s mouth formed a thin line. His lips changed color as they pressed together tightly.

It was clear I had said something he hadn’t planned for and it hadn’t pleased him. He spoke his next words slowly, voice neutral and measured as the storm raged on in the distance.

“Sometimes, Mr. Price?” He said, enunciating specific words, “Some people simply don’t have choices.”

He turned his head. He locked me in his gaze.

Like a physical strike, I felt the next breath catch in my throat as I began to choke. I couldn’t break away from his piercing, stormy gray eyes—Optical implants which matched the skies behind him in their intensity and looked so surprisingly real and organic.

So, so real.

He continued to speak, not breaking eye contact in the slightest as I remained silent, gurgling slightly as I continued to choke. Feeling a burning pain in my chest, I realized I'd been unable to work my lungs too.

“Sometimes?” He said, “Those lording over from above, in their high-rise positions above...above the anthill.” He waved his hand across the area where the Port and majority of The Stacks lay before us, “Positions of power. Positions of... Influence.”

He gripped the rail, and I heard a groaning squeal as his fingers tightened. Those nearly perfect and soft looking fingers which barely reacted as the metal deformed like putty, or molded clay.

“Sometimes? Those lords need only deign...Not request.”

As if on cue, lightning flashed. Bright enough to temporarily overload my optics.

At first, all I could feel was a sharp spike of pain, driven straight to my brain like a spear of jagged ice. My implants ground themselves to a halt in protest as an overwhelming wave of vertigo overcame me and I keeled over, leaning into the rail precariously.

As the optical implants struggled to compensate for the sudden changes in luminous conditions, they toggled rapidly between low-light and protective modes. I became disoriented. My head spin even worse as slideshow images messily flashed before my view in a parade-line of impressions and I tried to feel for the walkway beneath me.

A rush of air from a gust of wind felt perilous. I ended up planeted on my rear, reaching out with my right hand to grasp loosely on the railing as my left leg dangled dangerously into nothingness.

A sudden, white-knuckled fear of falling overrode all other instincts, or thoughts as I clung like a drowning man in a maelstrom. I was still unable to breathe or speak. The railing like a single tiny piece of flotsam in an ocean of fear, barely keeping myself from diving into the fathoms of despair below.

I had to mentally push...No. Shove.

I shoved as hard as I could against the single inexplicable and spine-tingling urge to just...fall forward. Forward into the inky blackness ahead.

Such a simple action to end all of my worries.

All of my loss.

All my pain.

My limbs felt cold as I sluggishly pulled myself up, clutching the topmost rail to stare downward.

It would be so easy.

So.

So.

Easy.

McCreed smiled.

A dazzling smile.

I lifted a foot and climbed.