Zinnia
I've learned a few things in my short time in Sanctuary.
One: Humans aren't as safe here as they want to think.
If they were, I wouldn't be creeping down a frigid hallway, watching my own breath puff up around me while trying to hunt down a rogue machine.
That’s another thing I’ve learned. Machines like the cold. It keeps them from overheating. It's one of the only ways you can tell them apart from the rest of us. If you don't know better they blend right in.
Blending in is what makes them so dangerous. We can never pretend to be like them, but they're always getting better at imitating us. One day, there won't be any of us left.
That's if they have their way.
Not my way. My way involves tracking them down and letting my emp handle them. The little gun shaking in my hand is my only defense against machines. One shot of its electromagnetic pulse and the thing will be disabled. For a little while. Long enough for me to get in and disarm it permanently. Then it's on to find another.
Yeah, it's a lot of work for one person, and I've only taken down a couple in the months I’ve been here, but it's better than nothing. It's all I know how to do and I have to do something.
I stop at his — its — door and take one hand off the emp, wiping a sweaty palm on my pants. The threadbare fabric full of holes isn't much help, but I can't afford to miss because of a slippery grip.
The lockpick card slides into the underside of the keypad by the door and I work on steadying my breathing while it does its work. Hopefully the thing will already be in sleepmode. It'll just be in, disabled, and out, without anyone the wiser.
The keypad beeps, the lock disengages, and the door opens just enough for—
A huge mass slams into me and I'm thrown to the ground, skidding across the hallway as something streaks past me in a blur. My joints complain with every movement as I pick myself off the floor, already imagining the patchwork of bruises I'll have tomorrow.
It doesn't matter; it got away. It must have heard me coming.
The third thing I've learned since coming to Sanctuary? Machines are fast.
I know I don't have a prayer of catching up to him, so I take my opportunity to look around his place, searching for anything useful.
Footsteps clang down the hallway and I whirl around with the emp trained on the door, thinking the thing's come back, adrenaline slamming through my system all over again.
The footsteps skid to a stop and I lower the gun to my side; it's just a kid, scrawny but clean, not a hole to be found in his clothes. He's only a bit taller than my waist and braces himself against the doorway, heaving in great gulps of air, clouds of condensation puffing up around him.
"Are... you..." he rasps between breaths as he fumbles in his coat pocket for a piece of paper.
Paper... When was the last time I saw that?
"Zinnia Fre— Fre—"
"Frekampf," I snap, rolling my eyes. "What is it kid? I'm in the middle of something."
The kid takes another lungful; his chest must be burning with all that cold air. "I'm s'posed to give you this," he says, shoving an envelope into my hands.
Paper, again? Someone has way too much money to throw around. A kid without holey clothes, all this paper...
The paper envelope rips without any resistance and I shake the letter free, unfolding it and scanning it as fast as I can.
Dear Miss Frekampf,
...admiring your skills... yadda yadda...
...would like to extend an offer of employment...
My forehead's wrinkling as I read the note. It doesn't make any sense. The cuff on my wrist dings and I glare at it, disbelieving.
The letter said that would happen. A hefty sum wired to my account for proof.
The kid's leaving now that he's caught his breath, but he's gotta have the answers I'm looking for.
"Hey kid!"
He stops and turns, his head tilted to the side in a silent question.
"Who gave you this?"
He throws up his hands with a shrug. "Iunno. Doesn't pay me to ask those questions. Pays good, though." And then he's walking away again, leaving me alone in this cold hallway with this confusing letter and a weird anticipation coiling in my gut.
"Smart kid."
Aurora
A yawn forms in my chest and tries to force its way up, but I suppress it, blinking fast to focus my eyes on the work in front of me. The hum of computers and machinery are a lullaby and the warmth from their exhausts wraps me up in a comfy little cocoon.
This time, the yawn escapes, but I shake my head and squint at the beaker on my lab table, willing it to boil with my mind.
That doesn't really help — not that I expected it to — but turning up the flame does.
Soon it's bubbling and boiling just the way I need it to and I add a few drops of my serum to it, the clear liquid blooming with neon magenta that gives way to a soft sleepy blue as the heat continues to transform the concoction.
I turn the heat off and swirl the beaker in my gloved hand, steam fogging up my safety glasses as I try to coax the mixture to cool off enough for the atomizer.
Maybe this will be it. Maybe this time it will work. If I was superstitious in the least I'd cross my fingers, but I know it won't have any outcome on the experiment.
The mice look so peaceful in their permanent sleep, just like all those people I left behind when I came to Sanctuary hoping to find the cure.
Still, all logic and reason aside, I ask the Universe for help as the blue liquid filters through the atomizer, is converted to a mist, and sprays into the cages. I hold my breath. Please. I just want to see their beady little eyes open, hear their tiny squeaks and scratches as they burrow deeper into the bedding.
But all is silent save for the lullaby of the computers.
I feel my eyelids growing heavier. I know another episode is creeping up, but I can will it away, I’m sure of it. I just have to fight harder.
A knock at my door makes my eyes snap open, fully awake long enough to wonder who is bothering me. I'm not expecting a shipment until next week.
Of course there's always the other possibility. The one I don't like to think about. Because I know there's a reason I'm awake and no one else is. I just don't know what it is.
But someone does.
And one day, I'm sure they're going to find me and make that reason abundantly clear.
And I don't think I'll like it.
When I pull up the monitor showing the outside of the door, it's just a boy there, not quite a teen, rocking back on his heels, looking straight up at the camera. Cheeky.
"Who are you?" I ask through the intercom, leaning on the wall, my limbs getting denser, heavier.
"You Aurora Nightingale?" he answers.
"I asked first."
"I got a letter for you," he holds up an old-fashioned paper envelope, stark white, not even recycled. What kind of message requires paper and a hand delivery? Why would someone go to such lengths to avoid the net?
"Who from?"
He shrugs. "You want it or not?"
I sigh and buzz him in, leaning over to watch my sleeping rodents as my own eyelids drift lower and lower.
"Here you go," he says, sliding the envelope on the table in front of me. "Oh hey, are these bio?"
"Wouldn't be much use to me if they weren't." Synthetic pets were useless in experiments. Of course, if anyone knew I was experimenting on biological life, I'd probably be in all kinds of trouble. "But let's keep that between us, hm?"
"Sure, whatever," he says, moving from one cage to the next, his snub nose pressing into the glass.
I open the envelope carefully and unfold the letter within.
Miss Aurora Nightingale,
Your attempts have not escaped my notice and I believe we can be of use to one another.
I'm in need of someone with your set of skills and am willing to fully fund your research in exchange for your services.
If you accept, my associate will tell you where to go.
That's it. Three sentences using up a whole piece of fresh bleached paper and an envelope. All for what? A job offer?
"Why are they all sleeping?" the boy asks as I suppress yet another yawn. Willpower, Aurora.
"Oh, nevermind," he says, "this one's moving."
"What?" I spring to my feet and shove him aside, only marginally aware that I nearly knocked him to the ground. Sure enough, one of the mice — Subject 24-D — is waking up, her eyes blinking, a tiny little mouse yawn expanding her jaw as she stretches.
Suddenly, my heart's beating so fast I don't think it'll stay in place if it doesn't slow down soon. I scoop 24-D into my hands and carry her over to the array of monitoring equipment I haven't yet had the opportunity to use.
"What are you doing?" the kid asks, dogging my every step.
"I want to watch her vital signs. She just woke up from a very long sleep," I say. A sleep that I never expected her to wake from, if I'm honest. Hope's been hard to come by lately. I've been at this too long without any progress. Without anything saying I'm even getting close.
Until now.
24-D's heart rate is fast, but that's to be expected from a mouse. Meanwhile, mine is slowing down, routine overtaking excitement as my training and preparation kick in.
"Why was she asleep so long?" the kid asks while the heart monitor on 24-D fills the lab with a steady triumphant beeping.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?"
He scuffs his toe and I notice that his shoes look pretty new. The right size, too. Not hand-me-downs.
"I'm s'posed to see if you're coming first."
"Who do you work for?"
"Does it matter?"
I want to say yes, but then I look at 24-D and think about the possibilities. I'm finally making progress. The funding can get me there faster. But then again, who knows how much time this mystery employer will expect me to dedicate to his cause, whatever that is. My research won't go anywhere if I'm not in the lab to do it.
"Are you okay?" he asks and I realize I'm slumping forward, gripping the edge of the table to keep myself from falling. 24-D's monitor isn't beeping anymore. I can’t hear it through the haze of sleep trying to pull me under as I sink to the floor.
"On the desk," I whisper. "Pink syringe."
The kid's smart enough to figure out what I'm saying which is lucky for me. Otherwise I'd be taking a nice long nap. Maybe forever.
"This one?"
I snatch it from his tiny fist and struggle to hold it in my shaking hand. It takes three tries just to get the cap off and I know I'm too late. I'm not going to have the strength to do it. So much for willpower.
"Ever use one of these?" I ask him, my voice hardly a murmur. I know I'm slurring now, my eyes are rolling back, a heavy blanket of sleep wrapping around me, pushing me down, down, down, that far-off whine of the monitor as distant as a dream.
"Right here," I tap my leg. The syringe slips from my grip and clatters to the floor. I try, but can't open my eyes.
"Hurry," I manage to breathe.
The sharp prick of the needle comes and warmth follows. But not a sleepy warmth, an invigorating one. It spreads through my limbs, and in no time I'm able to force myself awake, pulling myself back up to shaky feet.
I can tell the kid's got a million questions, but he's been trained well. He doesn't ask any of them right now.
I sigh. 24-D’s monitor has flatlined and there’s no sign of respiration. She’s gone.
I unhook her from the monitor and deposit her in a tiny box in the freezer for a later autopsy.
I'm close. But not close enough.
"Alright kid. Take me to your boss."
Scarlet
The knock echoes through the hollow door and I narrow my eyes at the screen, all attention focused on the words scrolling past in a blur.
“Scarlet?” Granny calls with another resounding knock.
“Just a minute!” I’m so close to finally breaking in, but CAIN agents are following my every move, throwing up firewalls and blocks at every turn.
Granny’s knock rattles the whole room this time. “Now. Sanctuary doesn’t run on Scarlet time.”
My jaw clenches so tight that my teeth hurt, but my eyes never leave the screen, my fingers moving so fast across the keyboard that they’re blurry. Granny thinks I’m crazy for not trusting CAIN. Thinks I’m just inviting a HIT-squad. But there’s something bigger here and I just know it.
I slip by another firewall and throw up a decoy to distract them, the directory I’ve been looking for is right there, just once more layer of encryption between me and the answers need.
The door behind me flies open on its hinges and slams into the wall with a crunch of splinters. I’m distracted just long enough for them to lock me out again.
“Shit!” My fist comes down on the desktop and I shove the keyboard clattering into the wall. “What?” I snap, whirling around to face Granny, but I instantly regret it. No one talks to Granny like that.
“You’re going on a delivery,” she says, grabbing my wrist and hauling me to my feet. I try to wrench free of her grasp, but the old woman’s got a steel grip.
“And I’m going to have Dmitri take all of this crap out of here while you’re gone—”
“Granny, you can’t!”
Her eyes level at me, stern and hard as ice. “I won’t have you putting this whole family at risk because of your ridiculous notions.”
She drags me out of my room and down the narrow hallway. Chip comes stumbling out of one of the rooms, glaring over his shoulder at whoever just shoved him, rubbing his arm.
“Nice shoes, Chip,” I say, sending a glance down to his feet. Normally he’s clomping around in a pair of Dmitri’s old boots that have been passed through the family a dozen times over. These look brand-new.
“Got a new client,” he says, his chest swelling with pride. “Reg’lar. Granny knows ‘im. Pays good.”
I nod and hold out a fist for him. “Keep it up, kiddo,” I say after he bumps my fist with his and we make our customary exploding gesture with our fingers. He’s a good runner and he’s come a long way since Granny pulled the two of us off the streets years ago. I’m happy for him. Not that Granny’s going to let me dwell on it, dragging me forward until I’m sure she’s going to pull my arm out of its socket.
Once we’re in the front room, she shoves a package toward me, finally releasing my wrist. It’s red and throbbing, probably going to bruise, not that she cares.
“This is going to Jericho. No detours. They paid good money to have it delivered on time,” Granny says, pursing her lips. She taps the cuff on her wrist to mine and the address is copied over, a map of Sanctuary popping up on the screen with a blinking dot at the package’s destination.
Great. A hike across town giving Dmitri all the time he’ll need to demolish my rig. Well played, Granny. At least it’s a small package. Light, too.
I slam the door behind me; Granny hates that, but it’s not worth it to chase after me about it. Not when I’m on a deadline.
The smog’s thicker than usual today and I pull my hood up, securing the fabric mask over my mouth. It’s not much protection, but it’s better than nothing. I won’t go anywhere without my hood and mask.
I take one more look at the flashing dot on the map and take off at a run, zipping through alleys and shortcuts at breakneck speed. That’s what people hire Granny for, after all.
By the time I get to the building — a surprisingly clean steel-and-glass tower, no broken windows, no cast-offs hanging around outside — my lungs are burning. The air inside is as clean and clear as the glass panels, and I shove my mask down and take in deep lungfuls.
The address on my wrist says 22nd floor, but a place this fancy has got to have elevators. Sure enough, I look around the lobby and find a bank of elevators down a hallway. It’s weird that there’s no security here; weird enough to send goosebumps marching up my arms. Who did Granny say this package was for?
We normally have a steady list of repeat-clients, but it’s still not too unusual that I’ve never been here before. Though that rationalization doesn’t exactly make the alarms in my head any quieter.
I spin around on my heel, the prickle of being watched tickling the back of my neck, but no one’s there. I’m just still jittery from almost being caught in the CAIN. That’s all it is.
I can’t even think about what Dmitri is doing to my equipment right now — it’s actually painful to think of him hauling it away, leaving me without my connection to the net. But if I get out of here fast enough, maybe I can stop him. Maybe I can talk some sense into Granny.
I snort a laugh. Yeah, and maybe we’ll all be living in peace with the machines tomorrow. That seems way more likely.
The elevator control panel flashes at me when I tap it, an angry red message popping up on the screen with ‘Access Denied.’
I can’t help rolling my eyes. So they do have security. Just the worthless kind.
“Hello?” I call out into the empty lobby, my voice echoing up the stories-high atrium. “I’ve got a delivery.”
No one answers. Next to the elevators there’s another doorway that goes to a stairwell, but I’ll be damned if I’m hoofing it up to the 22nd floor after running all the way to Jericho. Good money or no.
The control panel looks easy enough, though. Once I get the faceplate off, I’ve got access to the wiring and it just takes a little readjustment and…
The elevator doors ding open and I waltz in, grinning to myself. Access denied, yeah right. Good luck trying to keep me out.
The 22nd floor is just as empty as the rest of the place and the goosebumps are back in full force. I’ve never felt this weird about a delivery, but it’s not really my job to have feelings about deliveries. My job is just to be fast and not ask questions. That’s how Granny taught me.
My breath fogs up around me as I approach the door to number 2284, the same number flashing on my wrist cuff. My footsteps echo with every step. And even though the place is light and bright, I can’t help but feel like shadows are reaching out for me from the corners.
I’ve definitely gotta get out of this place.
My throat tightens, blocking off my airway. The door to 2284 is ajar. What now? It would be easy to turn heel and get the hell out of here, but I’d never hear the end of it from Granny — especially if she had to give a refund — and that would definitely ruin any chance of saving my equipment.
“Hello?” I try, knocking on the open door. But the room beyond is just as empty as the rest of this place. It’s beyond weird at this point. Everywhere else on Sanctuary people are practically living on top of each other in squalor and here’s this big, beautiful, empty building. Makes no sense.
But there I go asking questions again.
I take a step further into the space — I can’t even tell if it’s supposed to be an office or an apartment, it’s so bare — and peer out the huge window that takes up the entire far wall. Half the city is spread out beneath me and suddenly everything and everyone I know seems so tiny.
“Did someone order a package?” I ask, my voice breaking. Just leave it. Leave the package and get out of here. Granny can’t complain if you delivered it. It’s not your fault no one’s here to receive it.
Somehow, I don’t think she’ll see it that way.
“I’ve been watching you, RedHat,” a voice booms. My heart slams into my ribcage and I stumble backwards, falling to my ass on the dense carpet.
“W-who said that? How do you know who I am?” RedHat is not a name anyone should know. Not anyone outside of CAIN anyway. And I can only pray that they have no idea about the notorious hacker’s real identity or there’ll be a HIT-squad waiting for me back at Granny’s.
My hands are damp now and the package slips from my fingers, landing on the floor with a hollow sound.
“You’re a woman of considerable talents, how could I not know who you are?” the voice says. I can’t tell if he’s bored or amused. Either way, I hate everything about this.
“Alright, you got your package. I’m going now,” I say, pulling myself to my feet, my throat so dry it’s painful.
“Aren’t you curious why I brought you here?”
Yes. “No,” I say, the door beckoning me. Everything about this is just wrong.
“Open the box.”
I swallow, my eyes darting to the plain box. It doesn’t look like it’s been recycled a hundred times. No ghosts of past ink, no labels covering other labels. Even the corners are crisp and sharp. How did I not see it before?
I should just walk away now. I should just turn around and leave, but I find myself reaching for the box and carefully prying it open. An envelope — fresh and white — falls in my lap.
“What is this?” I ask, but there’s no answer. If the guy in the speakers is still around, he’s quiet.
My hands are shaking as I rip it open and unfold the paper inside.
RedHat,
I have assembled a team in order to find the answers to the very questions you ask.
The truth is out there. I hope you’ll join us.
At the bottom there’s an address, a date, and a time. Tomorrow. My chest tightens.
“What does this mean?” I ask, flapping the paper in front of me. “Who are you?”
No answer again. I slump against the wall, my pulse racing. A team? I’ve only ever worked solo — mostly because no one buys into my so-called ‘crackpot theories’ — but to have other people working with me, other people that believe in the same things I do…
I could make some real progress. And if this guy has the resources to figure out who I am, who knows what else he’s capable of? Seems like I should try to stay on his good side.
The truth is out there, the letter says. And I’m going to find it.