I've never been more grateful for having my cheek shoved against a wall.

It meant that the badgers' neurocoms weren't scanning my face while they kicked my feet apart and frisked me. With the drizzling rain and carryover swelling from the pistol whipping, they'd probably have to make a pretty deliberate attempt at facial recognition to blow my cover.

When the gloved hands stopped slapping my pockets, I stole a peek back down the alley. Recruit Bum was still face-down, motionless, though the number of GreySec submachineguns still pointed at his back made him seem like a continued threat.

"What are you doing in this alley, Brother?" the gravely voice asked from somewhere behind me.

I gasped in relief, taking in a mouthful of mist and the kind of rank-smelling air you only get in a street-level alley. This was not an ideal situation, but at least my spoofed ID was working.

"Heading back…" I said, trying to keep my face pressed into the wall. "…heading back to the temple." I shook the beads above my head to punctuate the story.

The badger grunted, and I suddenly had far fewer weapon lights casting my shadow on the wall.

"You can turn around," he added.

I complied, putting my back to the wall. Even with the badgers pointing their muzzles to the deck, their high-output helmet lights gave me a good excuse to cover my eyes with my arm.

The badger cocked his head, then ducked slightly to get back in my eyeline. "Something wrong with your eyes?"

Maintaining my shield, I shrugged. "Neurocom's buggy I think. Not adjusting for the light."

Not true, of course. My top-shelf upgrades were handling the situation far better than I was. Considering I could count the microfractures in the far wall, making out the badger's name plate wasn't even a challenge — Corporal Hijazi. A fellow Hope resident with Saudi heritage, no doubt.

He glanced either direction, nodded to himself, then patted a gloved hand on my shoulder. When his eyes flashed green, I figured he was giving orders to his squad via neurocom.

One by one, every badger's weapon and helmet light clicked off. Tools for intimidating and confusing their prey, really. They didn't need high-output LEDs to see any more than I did.

"Better?" Hijazi asked, grinning from under his helmet.

I dropped my arm — no choice, now — and nodded.

"You know you were about to run into an armed looter, Brother Jorge?"

My eyes narrowed and I glanced at the badgers searching Bum's body.

"Armed?" I asked, summoning all the strength I had left to bite my tongue. "That right? He looks like…some dreg bum to me."

Hijazi shook his head and kicked a boot toward my dead recruit. "These scumbags can't find work, but they always manage to get their hands on hot steel."

I clenched my teeth.

The badger looked back to me and chuckled. "Had a Gallardo revolver on him, this one. Costs more than you or I make in a month."

Him, maybe. Or at least, before I was disemployed. But there was no way Bum had a premium firearm on him. Unless…

"Wait," I said, still glaring. "You mean he had hot steel in that box of shit he was carrying?"

Hijazi shrugged. "Gun's a gun."

Motherfuckers! Bum got his hands on hot steel alright, but only because I give him free run to loot the recycling store. And it was no doubt unloaded — the damn thing probably didn't even work.

Another timely reminder of why I hated badgers, despised GreySec, and downright loathed fucking lockdowns. But reality kicked me in the ass just in time to remind me that I was about two ticks away from being the next one on the receiving end of their eager trigger fingers.

Forcing myself to calm down wasn't easy — especially without being able to com-root my neurochems at will — but I made due by focusing on the mist blowing down from HighHold, the smell of decaying food, and the unnatural silence behind all the other senses.

Not a dead megacity, but a dying one. Held in stasis by jackboot asswipes like Hijazi here.

"Not letting you walk to your Refuge after this," the badger said, clapping me on the arm this time. "I'll have Officer Kim take you. Amber Street, right?"

"Sure," I said, though I wasn't.

Hijazi led me out of the alley and away from the blood — what hadn't been smeared all over me by the genius who decided to frisk me with the same hand they'd used to probe at Bum's corpse, anyway.

Out on the lifeless but well-light street, he pointed me toward a patrol truck parked along the sidewalk. My old friend the OGRE, workhorse of kill-happy militants around the world.

I climbed into the backseat beside Officer Kim, nodded to Hijazi, and briefly considered thanking him for saving my life as the showstopping final act of my cover story. But I couldn't do it. Even I couldn't lie through the amount of rage I was holding back.

When Kim asked me if I was alright, I just nodded.

"You've been through a lot, Brother," he said before signaling the driver to get us on the road.

Officer Kim had no idea.

***

Rain fell in sheets on the sidewalk between the patrol truck and the Simulists' temple. It brought an extra layer of solemn mystique to the empty streets, normally bustling with activity.

For me, it was a cold waterfall between the frying pan and the fire. As much as I wanted to get out of the HMPD's shadow, walking into the Simulists' den with a stolen set of beads was not going to end well.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Walk you to the door, Brother?" Kim, the officer beside me asked.

I coughed, shaking my head. "No! I mean there's no reason to get soaked out there, officer. You've helped enough."

Looking up, I flashed my most sincere smile. Kim eyed me so warily it sparked a surge of panic in my chest. All I would need is for him to get suspicious and run a facial recognition scan at the last minute.

Hoping to avoid such a disastrous outcome, I opened the door, launching myself into the rain. Splashing to the temple door, I gave the patrol truck's blackened windows a grateful wave.

Maybe they'd drive away before I had to walk in.

Nope. Still there. Sitting for no damn reason. And the rain made the bloody handprints that were once Bum seep down my clothes in disgusting brown runnels. The look was not conducive to strolling into some kind of holy building.

Reaching the door, I held up Jorge's string of beads and waved at the cruiser one final time. For all I knew, the officers were laughing and pointing behind their tinted windows, because they certainly weren't driving away.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, I waved the beads in front of the door's access panel, and it slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

I stepped inside.

A wave of warmth washed over me in the lobby as overhead Near Infrared lights bathed me in their soothing glow. The lights were especially intense right by the entrance. That was normal in many buildings beneath the overcity of HighHold where rain was frequent. I closed my eyes as a warm-air fan kicked on, cutting through the chill and blowing beads of rainwater from my hair.

When I opened my eyes again, I was startled by a trio of robed Simulists across the lobby, their orange hoods shadowing their faces. I stepped forward, silencing the fan and dimming the NIR lights.

"Welcome, Brother Jorge," said the big one in the middle, following it with a single slow nod.

The flanking robes closed in, a move that reminded me all too much of being shoved out of my office by the Farmers a few days back. One snatched the beads from my hand, while his counterpart took a firm hold of my arm with wetgear hands that squeezed like bench vises.

"Bring him to the narthex," the first robe added, pushing open a heavy synthwood door.

"Look," I said, as they pulled me along, "I found those beads. I was just coming to return them…"

I shot a quick look back over my shoulder, half expecting to see the HMPD busting through the door on my heels. I had mixed feelings about the idea of being arrested now that I was being taken to whatever the hell a 'narthex' was.

A well-lit room waited on the other side of the heavy door. It was an open space with archways leading to deeper parts of refuge, and synthwood paneling on every surface that made the whole affair look very old-world. Colorful paintings broke up the brown monotony in several places, but I was too busy getting shoved down on a long bench to take a good look at them.

I sat on the uncomfortable slab, hands in my lap, waiting for the three encircling clergymen to say or do something.

Finally, the big one I assumed was in charge snapped his fingers, prompting the other two to clear out. They disappeared through one of the archways, leaving the two of us alone. Something about the shadowy face under the hood didn't make a one-on-one exchange feel any safer.

"Care to explain why there's blood all over you?" he said, standing over me like some orange-robed henge.

I stammered, trying to decide if I needed to lie. Finally, I gave him the answer I figured he was looking for.

"It's not Jorge's blood, if that's what you're getting at. It was my…friend. Someone who got murdered by helping me." I swallowed hard, fighting back emotion that seemed equal parts fear and disappointment in myself.

I shook my head and brought my mind back to the moment. The 'now' where a huge guy in an orange robe was threatening me with cutting looks and strange words.

"What's a 'narthex'?" I asked the towering bastard. "Some weird thing you're planning to torture me with?"

The monk threw back his head and laughed, breaking his stoic poise. "No," he said through lingering chuckles. "it's this room. It's like a foyer."

I let out a single laugh, too. Mostly from the relief that I wasn't going to have a 'narthex' shoved in me, hooked to me, or bashed over my head.

"Anyway, wanderer," he continued, "I know it's not Brother Jorge's blood. Already talked to him. You're Jakob, and he figured you walked off with his mala."

"I'm sorry I took the beads. I just really wanted to get here."

The monk tilted his head, shifting the shadows cut by his hood. "Get here, or get out of there?"

"In my situation, not much of a difference," I said, forcing a grin.

"Well, you've arrived. Now what?"

I glanced around the room — the narthex — wondering the same thing. The bulk of my escape plan hadn't survived contact with reality, so there I sat, truly at a loss for ideas.

"You're the one in the robes," I said, shrugging. "Aren't you supposed to have all the answers?"

"It's on you to find your own answers, wanderer. I can help you ask the right questions, though."

"Yeah? And what are the right questions?"

Reaching up, he drew back his hood, the overhead lights chasing away the shadows on his chiseled features. Long, brown hair framed sharp angles showing many old scars, and a nose that had been broken more than once.

"You just asked the first one," he grinned. Despite his warzone of a face, the expression glowed with genuine warmth.

It was a sudden and unexpected comfort, but all that fell aside as a spark of recognition flashed in my head. The face was enough, but the small tattoo under his left eye reading '100% ORGANIC' clinched it.

"Oh, skitz," I muttered. "I know you."

He crossed his arms. "You a fight fan?"

I gasped, smiling ear to ear. I wasn't what you'd call a fervent follower of Enhanced Mixed Martial Arts, but I did watch the championship fight in 2162 — when the guy standing in front of me clobbered his opponent to the brink of death and walked away with the belt.

"Sorta, but damn…you're Fike Pierce!" I said, grinning. "Everyone knows you. What in the hell are you doing taking in lowlifes and junkies for these culties?"

He smirked. "If you want backstory, you've got to stick around long enough to catch me in a nostalgic mood."

I nodded, accepting his terms without another thought. If I was going to get stuck with some religious sect in exchange for a set of ID beads, I couldn't ask for a more badass recruiter than Fike fraggin' Pierce.

His presence made the whole place seem more legitimate. Not that I knew a lot about the inner workings of a Simulist order, but celebrity endorsements are never a bad thing.

"So, what do I have to do to get my own set of beads?" I asked, excitement derailing any plans to be low-key.

"Mala?" Fike asked. "You can take a set from the bin in the nave." He pointed to the central archway in the far wall.

This might be easier than I thought.

"But they're not coded, if that's what you're all hyped about. They're just beads. Only missionaries get the travel pass, Mister Jakob, and you're not likely to roll that task until you put in some years."

I couldn't help but wince. I was hoping escape wouldn't come down to borrowing another set of beads, but it was looking like the most likely option. It meant I'd have to keep playing along for who knows how long.

"'Roll the task'?" I asked.

Fisk waved his hand. "Covenant stuff. If you decide to stay, you'll get the full rundown."

"If I stay?" I mused out loud.

A robed sister walked past a nearby archway carrying a smoking pot on a chain that brought a fresh whiff of incense into the narthex. I scratched my trimmed beard, letting the spicy aroma overtake my senses.

"You can leave," Fisk added, "but I don't believe in coincidences. I think you ended up here for a reason. Your questionable means of getting here are irrelevant."

I certainly was there for a reason, but the thought of just walking out the front door offered up the appeal of instant gratification. I wouldn't have to play-act or learn some mystic truth to get to my rented garage, climb into my car, and oscar right out of town.

I would have to navigate the lockdown. Not impossible since I'd managed to spoof my NID, but still pretty stupid. Maybe if I could finish altering the records and take facial recognition out of the equation, I'd have a better chance.

"Are people who stay here allowed to use terminals? I wouldn't be cut off from the MetaNet or anything, right?"

Fisk unleashed another one of his roaring laughs. After recovering, he shot me a wry grin that wrinkled the ink under his eye.

"You really don't know anything about what we do here, do you?"