IRVINE, 2040.
They look so small out there in the ring. Even though Ryan has personally seen to it that they receive the best combat training in all of Sacramento, if not the country, he still can't help but feel that familiar tightness of worry. It's the occupational hazard of bringing your child into the special militarized force you founded, but Ryan supposes that Evie's no longer the child he adopted all those years ago.
The Vermilion Wings Clan's underground fights always draw a small crowd of drunken gamblers, and today's no exception. The bet seems to be made easily for most of them after they size up Evie's scrawny build versus the burly man across from them.
"$10,330 for The Defector," Ryan says, gesturing towards Evie and raising his paddle. An attendant takes note of his bet, while some of the other spectators jeer at him.
"Such a specific price," one man croaks, eyeing Ryan warily. But there is surely nothing out of place. His ops team had outfitted him in a slightly beat-up Sheltersuit and colored his hair to render him unrecognizable. Being out of his uniform this long makes him antsy, but the disguise is impeccable.
"My angel numbers," Ryan responds politely, turning back to the ring. He has no interest in making friends.
The man scoffs at his unfriendliness. "Makes no difference when it goes to my pocket, I guess."
A booming voice surrounds them, lights centering upon the boxing ring in front of them. "This afternoon, we have THE HULK," – scattered cheers roar for the burly man as he raises his arms above his head – "facing off against THE DEFECTOR". There is even more scattered clapping, as well as some snickering, when the light directs itself to Evie's face. Evie, to their credit, doesn't even flinch.
"Everyone here should know the ground rules—" the voice continues, excitement gearing up as the clock shows only a few seconds left until the fight. "–which is that there are no rules when fighting at the Vermillion Wings." A cracking shot whistles through the air. "BEGIN."
The burly man immediately tackles Evie to the ground, his knee against their windpipe. People rush the edge of the ring, clearly taking pleasure in the resonant smacks that occur while his fists pummel upon Evie. Ryan arranges his face into passive stoicism, and checks the clock as though his scowl is purely concerned with his hefty bet.
Evie's hands dart out and snake around The Hulk's thick neck, wrenching him off. He tumbles to the ground with a significant thump, and Evie takes the chance to land a few strategically-placed kicks. The Hulk roars in pain and reaches out again to grab Evie, but they shimmie away gracefully. Every single one of Evie's moves is precise, calculated — just like Ryan had taught them.
In the corner of Ryan's vision, he starts to notice that the crowd around them is gradually growing larger as passerbys, likely other members of the clan, take note of the brawl. The gamblers had expected this to be an easy win and it's clear they hadn't anticipated Evie's lithe fighting.
The clock continues to tick down and The Hulk is unable to land any blows as Evie continues to dance around the ring, landing surgically-precise jabs wherever possible. The Hulk is brutish and strong, but it bears no importance in a fight against someone who can anticipate every unstrategic move. The Hulk's face reddens as his punches get even more harsh, his nail catching against the side of Evie's face and drawing blood. Evie breathes evenly, not even slightly winded.
The Hulk lets out a thunderous scream and with a flick, his arm retracts into his shoulder. The whole crowd is silent while the flesh rolls up like a telescope, sliding into a clean slot in his shoulder socket. A chainsaw emerges, nearly a foot long and roaring to life.
The crowd screams.
"Ladies and gentleman, you are in for a treat today!" The announcer booms, voice teeming with excitement. "Looks like we are in for a cross-category fight!"
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VIRGINIA BEACH, 2030.
The most common insult that Ryan got was "asshole". Sometimes they added the words "emotionally stunted" before the noun so that he was an "emotionally stunted asshole". But never, ever, had he been told that he was a "joy-avoidant, trauma-ridden asshole with the emotional intelligence of a nincompoop".
At least, that was until he met Miranda Ng, his latest attempt at a relationship. They'd met at a holiday party two months ago, and they'd been getting dinner once or twice a week ever since. Tonight, Ryan had gotten specialty wine — wine made from actual grapes, not the artificially engineered stuff most people were drinking these days — and they'd cooked pasta together. His 1-bedroom was usually sterile clean, so it unsettled him a bit to see the dirty pans strewn about his counters but it seemed distasteful to bring that up right now.
"Someone in my department told me that the FBI and DEVGRU interrogated a member of We Are Behind last month," Miranda said, smiling mischievously. She tucked a dark strand of hair behind her ear as she spooned some gnocchi into her mouth. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Ryan shrugged. "Not a member per se. One of the Fischers' children. Not a particularly useful one, at that."
Miranda frowned. "Since when did we interrogate children at the capitol?"
"Well, they're 16. Barely a child anymore."
"They?"
"Non-binary."
"A non-binary child nonetheless," Miranda said, swirling her wine in the glass. "Don't you think the tactics of DEVGRU are a little harsh sometimes?"
Ryan cut her a cold look, the way he did anytime someone said anything slightly offensive about the special force he had set up at the capitol. "You're right, I'll let the terrorists keep destroying the country and threatening national security."
Miranda gave him a wounded look. "Ryan, you know I support the cause and the government. I just don't think we should be interrogating orphans."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "I didn't get anything out of them. All they could do was cry until I finally brought them to the foster care facility. I just wish we had gotten their sister instead... from what I've gathered, she was much more involved with the family plans."
His words fell flatly in the silence as Miranda stared intently at her plate, swirling the sauce around.
"Did I say something to offend?" Ryan asked finally.
"You know those foster care facilities are no good," Miranda said slowly, avoiding his eye contact. "You really couldn't have looked into other options, like extended relatives or adoption?"
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Ryan waved his fork in the air dismissively. "The child said that their only surviving family was their sister, but I wouldn't be speaking to them if we had her in custody anyways." He frowned at Miranda, confused by her behavior. "Besides, our foster care facilities are top-notch. We employ only the best social work professionals—"
Miranda's fork clattered against her plate as she finally looked back at him, dark eyes burning in outright fury. "They treat children like cattle at the foster care facilities," she said with disgust. "The system is underfunded, staff is underpaid, and they do everything possible to make the children just as miserable." Miranda took an angry gulp of her wine. "I would know because I was there for five years. Which I've definitely told you about before."
Now that she mentioned it, a dim ringing of a memory pulled at his attention. "Oh."
"Oh?"
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it.
"You know what you need to know, Major McNamara?" The title that he'd worked so hard for sounded like a joke coming out of her mouth, her mock laughter cruel. "You are a joy-avoidant, trauma-ridden asshole with the emotional intelligence of a nincompoop."
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it then?" Miranda said, her voice raising a few octaves. "Listen, I know you have never really had a loving family. I know you have never had a long-term relationship. And you will never experience that as long as you're so obsessed with this or that terrorist organization and how people can be used to help you achieve your goals."
Miranda grabbed her coat and stood abruptly from the chair, heading towards the door. "Miranda," Ryan said, hoping to stop her.
"What?" She said it like a dare, half-ready to leave, half-ready to stay.
Ryan didn't want her to leave but he had none of the words to express it. Frankly, he wasn't even sure if he wanted her to stay because he wanted her to stay or because he was sick of being alone in this apartment. Either way, nothing more came out of his mouth and her name hung in the empty air between them.
Miranda scoffed at his silence, a glint of tears betraying her hurt. "You will never know happiness," she said, and the door closed behind her.
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IRVINE, 2040.
There are three main categories of underground fights with the Vermilion Wings Clan — human vs. human, artificially-enhanced human vs. artificially-enhanced human, and mechanical monster vs. mechanical monster, rumored to be built by the House of the Obsidian Tortoise. The highest stake and most popular fights are the ones that are cross-category. It usually doesn't end well for whoever's fighting in the "human" category.
Ryan tries to block all of this from his head as he watches Evie face down the burly man with a chainsaw for left arm. He knows Evie is a brilliant fighter, better than him even, and has fought plenty of lowlives with illicit artificial enhancements. But still–
A cold hand around his wrist jars Ryan out of the fight, and he looks down to notice a dark-eyed woman beneath heavy robes. Siti Safitri, the 53-year-old leader of the Vermillion Wings. Without giving him a second glance towards the fight, she ushers him to a trap door next to the stands that miraculously leads to a sleek elevator.
"You called me, Colonel?" Siti asks, her voice an impenetrable haught.
"Just placing my bets on a casual street fight," Ryan responds, stopping himself from thinking too hard about the cheers that echoed above them.
"I suppose it's a coincidence you know my angel number is my zip code from when I lived in Jakarta?" Siti laughs, right as the elevator clicks open to reveal an ornate office. Cloaked in mahogany and velvet, it's everything Ryan would have imagined Siti to brood in on a daily basis. "And it's a coincidence that your adoptive child is fighting in my ring?"
Ryan takes a seat in the plush seat across from Siti. "That's Captain McNamara to you."
Siti lowers her hood, revealing the barest of wrinkles and elegant aging. Of all of the gang leaders, Siti is the only who never opted for genetic modifications although that didn't preclude her from other morally gray behavior. "What brings you here?"
"I've been trying to get a hold of Park Yuno," Ryan says, raising his eyebrows.
"And what does that have to do with me?" Siti shrugs, lighting a kretek. The thick smoke of cloves unfurled in the air.
"We were tracking one of her devices," Ryan says bluntly. "And it was going well until we traced it to one of your underground markets."
Siti takes a long drag. "Our little pawn shops have no use for that deranged woman's personal devices. We only specialize in precious antiques."
"Or high-value, high-tech parts that can be traded with the Obsidian Tortoises," Ryan says, almost boredly. "Don't play around with me." Upstairs, he can hear more cheering but he pretends not to hear it. He will handle his job and Evie will take care of theirs.
Siti stares him down for a few seconds. She sighs deeply, as though the kretek is breathing new life into her. "This is about that terrorist organization you're so obsessed with, isn't it?"
"What's it to you?"
Siti stamps out her cigarette and gives Ryan a droll look. "I'll give you this if you take care of my people. There's a big fight coming up. There's no need for any government folks getting too involved."
"You know I agree."
Siti leans back in her armchair. "You're looking in the wrong places. Park Yuno has been helping them out, yes, but the White Tigers are really the ones who've got skin in the game. They always have fresh intel the rest of us never get. It's a wonder what their former members are up to these days, isn't it?"
Ryan turns this information over in his head, once, twice, before nodding. He can always count on Siti for reliable and valuable information, no matter how little. "Thank you. I'll get out of your hair now." He doesn't want to be rude, but the cheers have only increased and his imagination is playing all sorts of tricks upon him.
Siti snaps her fingers and a projection of the fight appears between them. Evie stands victorious, holding a detached chainsaw for the cheering crowd. They smile through the sweat, some blood shining on their teeth.
"Your Captain is quite the fighter," Siti says. "You can quit your worrying."
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VIRGINIA BEACH, 2030.
"You want to adopt me?"
Ryan gritted his teeth, already feeling cramped from the steel chair that the foster care facilities provided. Maybe Miranda had a bit of a point, but he didn't know why Evie was making this any harder than it had to be. He wondered if it was too late to pretend that he'd never stepped foot in here. He could go home, finish up the dishes, maybe call Miranda back...
"Yes," he finally responded.
"But..." Evie fidgeted with their hands, scrutinizing him with unabashed confusion. "You're just some random guy. Who interrogated me and wants to go after my family. Is that it? Are you doing this for more information? Because I'll give you anything you want here."
Ryan glowered at nothing in particular, somewhat stung by the accusation. Not that it didn't cross his mind, but was he really so cold that people thought him to be incapable without utilitarianism? "That's not it."
"Then what is it?"
Ryan had no fucking idea. Maybe Miranda was getting in his head. Maybe he was getting lonely. Ryan never dated anyone seriously – he felt incapable of love, deprived of it for so many years, and was never good enough at showing affection for partners to be satisfied. He wasn't against the idea of children per se, but he knew he'd never be one of those perfect parents you see in sitcoms about loving but dysfunctional families. And besides, his job exposed him to the most cruel parts of the crumbling world around him and he wasn't sure it'd be right to bring anyone else into this disaster.
But Evie had already grown up in this world and was directly involved with some of the disasters wreaking havoc on their world. They were both a survivor and a victim of it, and yet Ryan could tell they still had hope and optimism for the future. It was stupid, but refreshing all the same. It was a rarity in this world.
He'd purposely put Evie on the fringe of town so that Shailene wouldn't be able to find them, but he knew the girl was determined. He imagined Shailene finally finding Evie and dragging them into whatever radical organization she'd inevitably get herself involved in. He imagined Evie Fischer's name on the FBI Most Wanted list, next to violent criminals like Ragnar Blomberg. He'd seen their school records; Evie was a good student, an amazing one even, and was destined for more than the life of a criminal. A criminal fighting the wrong side of the fight just because of their parents' foolish decisions.
"Look, I'm offering, okay?" he said, trying to say it as kindly as possible. "You don't have to take me up on it. I can leave anytime."
Evie continued to stare at him, their dark eyes giving nothing away. They rested their sharp chin against their hand and pondered. And pondered. And pondered. Ryan looked away.
"I don't want to call you Dad."
"I don't want you to do that either."
A beat of silence.
"Okay, deal," Evie finally said, after what felt like an eternity and a half. Evie rose to their feet and held out their hand to shake. "Let's get out of this hellhole."
And despite everything, Ryan shook Evie's hand and a deal was struck.