Cassandra Wheeler
~36 hours until control breach
I am barely awake when the high-pitched buzzing wail of my phone goes off. It can not already be 5:30. Please, God, let it not be 5:30.
Groaning and twisting in bed, I pull the covers around my legs as I blindly grope around for the source of the noise on my bedside table. My fingers find Ms. Bunbun’s furry butt and I press her to my ear instead, dampening the noise for a few more seconds until the alarm stops on its own.
Thank goodness for that.
I can still feel yesterday’s exhaustion in every tendon and bone of my body. I could sleep for a hundred more years and even that might not be enough time to recover. How long was I awake last night? It feels like every time I finally calmed down enough to close my eyes, I would remember something horrible and my heart would start racing again.
When I try to think about everything that happened yesterday, I struggle to keep it all straight. Morgan is actually a girl named Rosalyn. She is a clone (illegal!) of her mother, Dr. Abrams, my boss’s boss. Dr. Abrams used to be a terrorist. She personally knows the FBI agent in charge of investigating the spree of Imago attacks that have been terrorizing the arcology.
Like the Imago attack that happened while we were all having lunch at the mall. The one that almost killed Riley and Rosalyn both. And then there was the whole mess with a second attempted attack that Rosalyn noticed and stopped while we were waiting for the elevator at the transit station. Or how about when we snuck into the abandoned Zeta tower and saw a bunch of armed men carting off the very same Imago that attacked us before.
Someone at Praxis is responsible for all of this. Has to be. People with nanite glitches are being forcibly turned into Imago, and those Imago are then being captured. Why? To what end?
How am I supposed to go to sleep and wake up and act like normal and go to work today when all of this is happening? Who are we supposed to trust to stop things from getting any worse?
My phone alarm goes off again. I roll over so I’m face down into my mattress and groan.
Except: that’s not the sound of my alarm. That’s–
I flail around until I’m upright in bed, hair loosed from my sleep bun falling into my face and tickling my nose. I scramble to grab my phone before it falls off the table but I’m way too sleep deprived for even this minimal an effort of coordination. I squawk in dismay as my phone falls face-first into the carpet and and I narrowly avoid joining it.
The phone continues to vibrate, like one of my brothers throwing a tantrum.
Somehow, I manage to regain my balance and pick my phone up. Steady myself just in time to see the incoming call from Riley time out.
I check the time.
Riley, it is not even five o’clock yet. What are you doing, calling this early? Why are you even awake?
I am just about to call her back when a text message comes in on the group chat – from Riley again.
Oh.
There’s been multiple message while I’ve been asleep.
Semaphore Log
🍏RottenApples.Ltd🍏
WileyRiley: God fucking damnit
WileyRiley: WOULD ONE OF YOU PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE
WileyRiley: What’s even the POINT of a call function
WileyRiley: IF NO ONE EVER ANSWERS
WileyRiley: oh my god
WileyRiley: oh my FUCKING god
Cassiopeia: Riley?
WileyRiley: fuck!
WileyRiley: finally
Cassiopeia: What’s wrong? Did something happen?
Cassiopeia: Were you trying to call? I can call back
WileyRiley: Don’t bother
WileyRiley: My implant’s fucking busted and I can’t hear jackshit rn
Cassiopeia: Oh no!
WileyRiley: I was only calling because I was trying to get at least ONE of you to look at your freaking phones oh my god
Cassiopeia: Well, it worked on me. What’s going on?
Cassiopeia: You’re scaring me a little.
WileyRiley: Fuck, okay, uh
WileyRiley: Let me think a second on where to start
It takes the better part of fifteen minutes for Riley to work herself up to actually saying what happened. I push her into going along with one of my anxiety management exercises and I think it helps a little. It at least gets her to start talking.
WileyRiley: Cass I’m scared
WileyRiley: She left everything here
WileyRiley: Her extra clothes, her phone and tablet, god her meds
WileyRiley: I don’t know where she went
WileyRiley: She hasn’t come back and Dad won’t let me leave my *fucking* room. I am like, BEYOND turbo grounded
WileyRiley: Between getting caught in bed with Rosalyn
Cassiopeia: !!!
WileyRiley: My implant getting busted
WileyRiley: All the beer cans…
Cassiopeia: Riley Parson are you saying you two actually got together!?
WileyRiley: I don’t fucking know!!
Cassiopeia: How can you not know!?
WileyRiley: I *thought* things were going great and then she just
WileyRiley: Freaked out on me
Cassiopeia: Freaked out?
Cassiopeia: Wait, back up
Cassiopeia: You two were drinking???
WileyRiley: Oh don’t you start too
Cassiopeia: You’re both underage! And you can’t consent while impaired!
WileyRiley: Consent???? We weren’t
WileyRiley: Oh my god
WileyRiley: It was just kissing dude
WileyRiley: Okay, MAYBE there was some like, heavy petting and
WileyRiley: Jesus fuck this isn’t the point I’m not talking about this right now
WileyRiley: And anyway we were equally impaired!!
WileyRiley: It would be legal in Canada!!!
Cassiopeia: Riley! We’re not in Canada!!!
WileyRiley: God!!!!
WileyRiley: Dad already chewed me out, I don’t need this from you too!!!
WileyRiley: I’m freaking the fuck out here
Cassiopeia: I’m sorry
Cassiopeia: I’m just struggling to wrap my head around everything
WileyRiley: You and me both girl
WileyRiley: I know I fucked up okay? I screwed everything up and she probably hates me forever now and now she’s out there somewhere by herself with no one to help her and FUCK
Cassiopeia: Riley it’s going to be okay
Cassiopeia: And Rosalyn can take care of herself
WileyRiley: Are we sure about that?
WileyRiley: You didn’t see her Cass
WileyRiley: I thought things were going good, and then out of nowhere she started crying and made us stop and then ran to the bathroom to throw up and then fled completely
WileyRiley: Did I fuck something up? Did I go too fast?
WileyRiley: What if I never see her again
Cassiopeia: Riley! Rosalyn does NOT hate you
WileyRiley: You don’t know that! You barely know us!
Cassiopeia: I know what catastrophizing looks like
Cassiopeia: I promise, things will be okay. We’ll find Rosalyn and the two of you can sort things out. We were going to meet up this morning to talk about what to do with the Imago stuff, remember?
Cassiopeia: IF she doesn’t show up to that, then let’s all look for her, together, okay?
WileyRiley: Okay
WileyRiley: Okay, right, yeah
WileyRiley: I forgot about that
WileyRiley: Wait shit there’s no way my folks are letting me leave the apartment after this
WileyRiley: And Ros doesn’t have her phone on her
Cassiopeia: Brayden and I will look, I promise
Cassiopeia: We’ll find her and make sure she’s okay, alright?
WileyRiley: You’d do that?
Cassiopeia: Of course :)
Cassiopeia: We’re friends right?
WileyRiley: 😭
Cassiopeia: And Rosalyn’s my friend too
Cassiopeia: I want to make sure she’s okay
I spend almost an hour on the phone with her talking about nothing in particular in order to calm her down enough to get some sleep. Her mom will be home before long and and that is a confrontation she will want to be rested for. Before we say goodnight again, I give Riley my personal line and promise her that she can reach out to me any time.
I myself am way too awake now to even think about going back to sleep. I settle for cleaning my room, making my bed, and then getting myself ready for the day. Any hope that I might be able to sneak out of the apartment early to look for Rosalyn, however, is squelched when I run into my mother on my way out of the shower.
“An early start to the day,” she remarks. She doesn’t yet have her makeup on, but her platinum blonde hair has already been combed and straightened. Her white blouse and black pencil skirt are wrinkle-free.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit.
“Still?” Mom wrinkles her nose. After a second of looking me over, she says, “Once you’ve made yourself presentable, you can make breakfast for your brothers. And let me know if this insomnia of yours persists; I can have your doctor put in a prescription for something.”
“Uh, thanks, Mom.”
“Of course, dear.”
And then Mom’s gone to wrestle my brothers out of bed.
Breakfast with my parents used to feel like such a nice family bonding experience. Dad says all the most successful businessmen eat at least one meal a day with their families, which means it’s always been a priority to do breakfast together in our house.
Lately, though… it feels like I have had to become well practiced at hiding an increasingly large part of my life from them. I keep worrying I will slip up and say something I should not.
They would never have approved of it when Brayden and I were dating. I am supposed to consider only equal-earning families or higher. And if Dad would have been against Brayden, he would absolutely forbid me hanging out with a D-Class Asian girl like Riley. Mom would have accused me of ‘slumming it with the help.’
Rosalyn they might have at least seen as a fitting networking connection, but after everything she told us yesterday, I do not think I want to know what either one of them might say about her.
It is more than a little uncomfortable for me to admit it, but I would have fully agreed with them before any of this happened. But now… there is something about it that feels wrong. If I tried to explain it to Riley, she would probably just remark how my family are ‘elitist snobs’ or some such. Maybe something ruder.
I don’t want to think of my parents that way, but…
As I finish setting the table with plates of pancakes and scrambled eggs for my brothers, Dad comes up behind me. He kisses me on the back of the head and helps himself to the third plate I had prepared with a quick “thanks dear.”
I try not to show how upset I am. That was supposed to be my plate. Making a fuss about it will just get him annoyed with me, though, and I still would not have my breakfast back.
Instead I return to the flashstove and start on another round of eggs.
Neither of my parents take my internship with Biotique seriously. They think this is just another girlish whim of mine, something I need to get out of my system before buckling down and training under Mom to take on a position in HR under her. They expect me to get a simple job sanity-checking the Superintendent’s employment decisions, that I will get married to a man ‘fitting my station’ and focus on the important thing in life: having kids.
I do not even know if I want to have kids!
Francis and David feel like terrors. They were the first to the table and did not even thank me for breakfast. When they were younger they fought and screamed at each other and everyone else constantly. Now they’re both twelve and all they care about is video games. All they’ve talked about since they ran into the kitchen this morning is their latest obsession. Something about how their new Call of Duty game features fully modeled human organs that you can explode with grenades? It sounds repulsive to me.
Mom is the last to the table, her face fully made up now and rendered something like smooth porcelain. Dad looks up from the newsfeed on his phone and the two start discussing the stock market and which government subsidiary they should bet on going under next.
I hand Mom her breakfast and then plate some scrambled eggs for myself. No one has yet said anything to me about the attack on the mall yesterday, or the fact that I had been caught up in it.
I should be grateful for that, I guess.
Better to be sitting here at a full table, poking at the single remaining egg, and feeling completely alone. I check my phone for any updates, but none have been sent.
I hope Riley and Rosalyn are okay.
Once breakfast is finished, I stack everyone’s plates in the sink and run the water over them quickly so the maid has an easier time of it when she comes by this afternoon.
“Cassie, sweetie, what on earth are you doing?”
Mom’s voice stops me mid-motion, David’s plate still in my hand. I look down at the bits of egg still stuck on and then back to her. “Tidying up?”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Leave that for the domestic, dear. You’ve done plenty today, already. You have that little internship of yours to get to today, don’t you?”
I stare down at the plate again, trying to figure out my next move.
The worst part is that she is right.
Mom sighs, her face a too-familiar look of disappointment. “Wash your hands properly and get going. You don’t want to be late.”
Right. Work.
That is where I am in fact going today.
Work and nowhere else.
I put the plate back and leave the water running just long enough to rinse my hands. “Yes Mom, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I know you like things tidy, but that’s why we pay a professional.”
“I know, Mom.”
She waves me off once I finish drying my hands. “Now get going, and remember–”
“–being on time, is being late,” I finish with her.
Riley Parson
~34 hours until control breach
I’m still trying to adjust the settings on this shitty pair of back-up hearing aids. Neither I or Dad can figure out what’s wrong with my implant. A hard reboot did nothing – it’s like something with the software itself has been wiped. We won’t be able to know for sure until we can get me an appointment with the audiologist, and who knows when that will be.
The new-old hearing aid is this bulky-ass ugly thing that hooks over my left ear with a cable that physically sockets into my implant’s port and it’s just heavy enough that I can’t forget about it. We’re lucky it’s one of those silicone molds that you can shape to fit.
I haven’t had to wear this piece of shit since I was like, 11. There’s supposed to be a partner for my right ear, but the battery for that is dead-dead. Won’t hold a charge at all. Which means it’s all mono audio for me for the foreseeable future.
Fuck, I wish Rosalyn would come back.
I need to apologize to her.
No–
I need her to shake her repeatedly until she tells me what the fuck is going on with her and what the hell happened and then I can apologize for whatever the fresh fuck I did wrong. But she’s not here. She’s not here and I’m alone in my room with my Dad as prison guard and any minute Mom will come through that door and I’m going to be in so much fucking trouble.
There’s no in-built AI on these old devices to help auto-adjust sound levels, no dynamic filtering based on where you focus your attention, none of that shit. The communication with my implant is strictly one-directional. Like, my current gear isn’t exactly cutting edge and the cut-outs or electric shocks I sometimes got blew chunks but at least I could choose whether to have the air vents hissing directly into my ear or not.
I’ve just managed to find a balance between nails-on-chalkboard and Charlie Brown Adult levels of sound fidelity that at least lets me understand most of what’s coming out of my screen when the door is thrown open. Mom hasn’t even changed out of her cooking gear. Grease-stained apron draped over one shoulder, hair pulled back in a bun. She pauses in the doorway to take in the state of my room.
When Dad locked me in here, I wasn’t sure yet if Rosalyn would still be coming back. I sure as shit didn’t want anyone going through her stuff and finding anything questionable though, so I unpacked most of it and hid it around my room. The girl clothes went into my dresser, her bagged meds are hidden away under the pile of dirty laundry I shoved under the bed. I stuck her tablet in the bottom of my own backpack and left her jacket on my desk chair. Rosalyn’s (much emptier) backpack now hangs off the side.
I’m keeping her phone next to mine, with me on the bed. No one’s tried to call it yet.
I don’t say anything to Mom right away. I don’t have the energy to put up any more attitude right now. She stares at my hair before taking in my face. If it looks like I’ve been crying, well. Fuck you.
And then suddenly she has her arms around me and I’m wondering if this is it. Bear hug of death, spine-breaker suplex, tombstone pile-driver.
It’s not a wrestling move. It’s a hug.
A really tight hug.
“Mom?” I manage to get out. She’s making my ribs creak. I didn’t think she could hug this hard. I don’t think she’s hugged me in years. She doesn’t do this.
Mom says something fast in Cantonese, faster than I can follow, the words blurring together.
I cough into her shoulder. “Mom, my implant– I can’t– speak slower?”
She lets go of me, barely. Hands still on my shoulders, looking me in the eye.
Smiling.
At me?
Who is this woman and why has she replaced my mom?
“Of course, of course. I’m sorry,” Mom says, slower this time. Switching to English, she continues, “I’m so relieved.”
What?
At my confused expression, she smiles again. Ducks down to plant a kiss on my forehead and combs the hair out of my face. “We’ll take you to a proper stylist this weekend, get this touched up and done properly.”
“What?” I manage to verbalize.
“Your dad told me about what happened with your implant as well.” She sighs, shaking her head. “You’re overdue for a replacement, I know. I’ll see what we can do.”
“What– wait. But. You kept saying we don’t have the money for–”
“We’ll take out a loan. It’ll be okay, honey,” Mom says, placating. As if we haven’t had this argument a dozen times before. As if we hadn’t just had a huge argument that there was no room in our budget to fix me.
She pulls at my hair, lifting up the purple strands and letting them fall one by one as she inspects it. “You did this with that Morgan boy’s help, I’m assuming? Hm. You cleaned out the bathroom properly, I hope.”
“I– yes?”
“Ah, young love.” Mom puts a hand over her heart as she closes her eyes, still smiling. “So, how was it? No, don’t tell me. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that with your mother.”
Mom giggles wildly. She steps away and takes in the room another time, as if seeing it and me with a fresh eyes. Moves to needlessly adjust Rosalyn’s jacket where it rests on my chair, shooting me a look.
“Morgan’s?”
I nod, dumb.
“You used protection, I hope.”
I choke out, “What?”
“I know these things are not strictly legal, but that’s not stopped my daughter before.” She shoots me a knowing look.
Is this– what, a fucking bit? Some sort of reverse psychology thing?
Am I on some hidden camera show?
“Your father knows a guy who’s tapped into these things. I can ask him about getting you some pills to better manage your periods so we don’t have to worry about that part so much. It wouldn’t do for you to settle down too early.”
Mom laughs like she’s made the funniest joke in the world.
“Settle down?” I echo, baffled. “I’m not– what? With– with Morgan?”
“Oh it doesn’t have to be with Morgan specifically, as grateful as I am to that boy. Mm, you’re right, he’s still a little more… effeminate than is ideal, isn’t he? There’s still plenty of time to find you a properly masculine match.”
I think I’m finally catching on to what’s happening here and if I am, this might just be the worst possible reaction from her.
“Is he coming back today?” she asks me.
My brain is going to break. The parts are catching on each other and straining under the pressure and any moment the whole thing is going to go up in smoke with gears and springs flying everywhere.
“I don’t– I don’t know.”
“Your father scared him off, didn’t he.” Mom scowls. Finally, an emotion that I can agree with. She shakes her head. “I’ll have a talk with that man later.”
“What are you doing?” I finally manage to ask.
“Hm?” She looks at me.
“Why are you… happy about this? What the fuck?”
“Language, honey,” Mom says automatically.
”I– we didn’t even–“ Indignation is starting to win out over the one-two punch of humiliation and confusion as I throw my hands into the air. “We didn’t even fucking do anything!”
“Language. And there’s still time,” Mom answers smoothly.
“Morgan’s not even–” I manage to stop myself in time, before I accidentally out Rosalyn. Her situation is bad enough without me blabbing about it. I don’t even know if it would be enough to get Mom to believe me.
“Oh, honey.” Mom smiles at me one more time. She pulls me to my feet and wraps me in another hug, pulling me in tight.
I accept it all in a dazed horror.
She lets go of me. She hasn’t looked at me with this kind of sincere approval since I was maybe seven years old and in trouble at school because I punched some dumbass kid for saying racist shit.
“Why aren’t you mad at me?” I get out. “I– I dyed my hair Mom, just like you begged me not to. I got drunk. And high. I even– Dad caught Ros– uh, Morgan and I… uh, well.” I can’t get myself to finish the sentence, my face burning up.
“…You’re right, I should be furious with you right now,” Mom finally says. “But you know why I’m not?”
She takes my arms again, holds both my hands in hers.
“You’ve been struggling through so much these past few years, I know. And… I’ve tried to help you, sweetheart. I really have. I knew this ‘lesbian’ thing of yours would be just a phase, that you were making a terrible mistake by trying to build your whole identity around it. And I just… how can I be mad at you when I can finally say, with complete certainty, that, Riley, sweetheart, you’re going to be okay.”
Something in my chest breaks and I can’t hold back the tears anymore. Mom holds me in her arms, her hand running through my hair as she tries to sooth me. She’s so warm, and soft, and being so kind. None of this is for me. That thought only makes me cry harder.
“Oh honey,” she whispers. “I’ll always love you.”
It would have been better if she had just struck me.
Cassandra Wheeler
~34 hours until control breach
The Epsilon mall is still closed despite the lockdown being lifted. I stand in front of the shuttered gate, staring at a piece of printer paper that has been taped over the metal slates. It is a picture of a red stop sign with a caption saying the mall is temporarily closed for repair. A Security officer in a light blue uniform stands by the gate with a tablet plugged into a wall outlet. Reading through something?
The chirp of my phone jars me from my stupor. Getting it from my purse, I see a message from Brayden asking where we are meeting. I text back that the mall is still closed and ask for suggestions. A second later he texts back with a linked address to a café off the F50 south transit station.
-Chattr Log-
B-Max6969: Are the others coming?
Cassiopeia: Riley is sleeping
B-Max6969: Are you fucking kidding me
Cassiopeia: Did you read the group chat?
B-Max6969: No, I saw something went down but everything had timed out by the time I woke up
B-Max6969: Cass, what’s going on?
Cassiopeia: It’s a long story, I’ll tell you when we meet up
Cassiopeia: It’ll just be us
Cassiopeia: Please don’t make this weird
I set my phone map to navigate me to the café and turn away from the mall gate. At least it turns out not to be a long walk. I have to go back to the transit station I just came from and take another elevator further down the tower. The morning crowd feels just as busy as it ever, despite everything that happened.
I wonder what everyone who has been forced out of work today is doing? Do they all stay home? Can they afford to? I am seeing a lot more people casually wearing face masks than I have all month. I suppose an attack on the mall is a lot harder to compartmentalize than one on a nightclub or a private office.
Brayden is already at the café by the time I get there. The only thing interesting about it is the name: Acti-Jane’s. Otherwise it looks interchangeable from any other mass-market coffee shop, with faux brick wallpaper along the interior, and a single analog clock for authenticity hung between the pair of screens displaying the menu behind the counter. There’s a pair of women working the coffee machines, dressed identically with their hair pulled back into buns and green smocks overtop solid black shirts.
In other words: this place is boring.
I say as much to Brayden as I sit down across from him.
“Good morning to you too, Cass,” he mumbles. He avoids looking directly at me. Not a great start. I can not be made to dance around his post break-up awkwardness today. I keep my phone out, waiting for it to connect to the store-net. Once the menu pops up I put in my order and glance up at him.
“Did you already order for yourself?”
“Oh. Uh… No?”
“I can get you something, what do you want?”
He twists in his seat to study the menu over the counter. “A regular latte is fine I guess. And one of those panini sandwiches?”
“Chicken Culture okay? I can’t remember if you liked that or the pork better.”
“The chicken is fine, thanks. I can pay you back–”
“It’s okay,” I insist, plugging in his order as well. “I know paying the others to spy on me probably cleaned you out.”
I immediately feel guilty for it when I see him flinch. That was probably a little too petty. With that out of the way, I put my phone to the side and look him in the face. He seems nervous. Is this the first time we have been fully alone together since the break-up?
I really hope he behaves.
Brayden shifts back in his chair, finally returning eye contact. He takes a breath, mustering up the courage to say whatever it is that’s on his mind.
“Hey, so, Cass, um…”
If he is just going to tell me that he is so sorry yet again and ask if I still have feelings for him, I am going to scream.
“So,” I start with enough force to make it clear that I am going to be in control of this conversation, “I heard from Riley earlier this morning...”
“Oh. Yeah.” Brayden twists his mouth into a frown as he sits back into his seat. “What the hell is going on there?”
I launch into everything that happened. I feel a little bad about talking about Riley and Rosalyn’s personal business but it feels relevant to explain why we can’t do what we had originally planned and instead need to go searching. Brayden at least seems to be reacting appropriately.
“About time,” he says, shaking his head as I share that Riley and Rosalyn might be getting together. When he hears about what happened with Rosalyn, though, and how she apparently never came back last night, his whole body bends forward in concern.
Just as I finish catching him up, my phone chimes saying our order is ready.
Brayden jumps out of his seat first. “I’ll get it.”
I take my egg sandwich and coffee from him with a thanks when he returns, and let himself get settled before saying anything.
“So about searching for Rosalyn…?”
“Oh, right.” Brayden takes a sip of his coffee and makes a face. “Burnt. Uh– anyway, sure, yeah. We can try? Rosalyn is the one with almost all the stuff we found on her tablet, so it’s not like we can do anything without her anyway.”
“Actually I think Riley has it now?”
He goes still, alarm on his face. “She does?”
“Yes?” I answer, becoming confused by his reaction. “Riley says she left everything in her room last night. I assume that includes her tablet.”
“I– yeah, I guess so.”
“But also, Rosalyn is our friend and we care about her?” I continue. “And even if we didn’t need anything from her, we should still make sure she’s okay?”
Brayden holds up a hand to stop me. “Okay, okay, Jesus. I wasn’t going to say we shouldn’t!”
“Good.”
We finish the rest of our breakfast together while discussing where Rosalyn might have gone to hide. At least in this, I can be glad to have Brayden around. He has known Rosalyn a lot longer than I have and he has a lot more ideas of where to look. We draw up a list and split it up between us based on where would be easiest for us to check throughout the day.
Working together with Brayden always makes me think back to handling those street-rescue cats from when I volunteered at the pet shelter. All teeth and claws but with something sweet waiting if you were patient enough. It is a little too easy to think about him in the same terms of rehabilitation. The same temptation.
I have to be strong, though. Mom always warned me to never give a boy a second chance. They will see it as a weakness and walk all over you for it. Brayden already betrayed my trust once. If we can stay friends, that would be nice. But I can not let him be anything more to me again.
It is the best for both of us.
When we split up, I leave to check the nearby gym and then a few of the transit station café shops. Brayden heads in the opposite direction on the long shot that Rosalyn might go hide in some of her old places around and outside the school.
It occurs to me that I am going to have to keep a pretty fast pace for this search if I am going to do all of this before work.
Cassandra Wheeler
~29 hours until control breach
I would have kept looking if work was not an issue. I want to believe Rosalyn will turn up fine, that we are all merely over-reacting, but there is just something about the timing that is making me nervous.
At work, I struggle. Maybe more than I ever have. The sleep exhaustion is catching up to me and the caffeine is wearing off fast. I do my best to get through the day with a minimum of discomfort. I fetch Dr. Caldwell and his doctorate assistants their coffees, handle printouts, scan files into the computer, and so on, all while half-distracted with worry for Rosalyn and Riley. I keep waiting for Riley to reach out and tell me how things went with her mom, or to tell us that Rosalyn came back, but so far nothing.
My performance makes Dr. Caldwell even more short-tempered with me than normal. Usually I just have to deal with him staring at my chest or my back but after spacing out on his instructions yet again he snaps at me to go take my lunch break and shoos me out of the lab.
When Dr. Abrams first approached me months ago, I had hoped that maybe I could switch to interning for her instead. I tried to talk to Mom about Dr. Caldwell once and she just gave me a sort of sad smile and told me that I needed to toughen up. Gave me that advice about not giving out second chances. I wonder what Riley would say if I told her – I feel like she would probably tell me to start punching people? Not helpful, even if the thought is appealing.
And there is no way I would ever tell Brayden – then he would go and actually punch people.
I’m halfway through a can of soup I got from the vending machine when I get another message from Brayden, asking to meet up with me again this evening after work.
Semaphore Log
🍏Rotten Apples.ltd🍏
Cassiopeia: Why?
B-Max6969: There’s something I need to talk about in person, okay?
Cassiopeia: If Riley’s able to join us, that might be a good idea.
Cassiopeia: We can compare notes.
B-Max6969: Uh
B-Max6969: Just us? If that’s okay?
Cassiopeia: Just us?
B-Max6969: Yeah
I make him sit on that for a few minutes, half-hoping Riley will chime in. I haven’t heard anything from her since she texted that she was going to school today after all. Which I hope means that things with her mom didn’t go as bad we feared.
Tabbing over to TrackApp, I check that Francis and David made it to school okay. Their locations pop up right where they should be in grade school. Ever since Mom got upset with me over them skipping class last year, it is hard not to get a little anxious.
Tabbing back to Semaphore, there’s still no response from Riley. I feel bad for Brayden – everything around his dad sounds like a nightmare. Even more so if what I think is going on with him is true… but I can not keep being his emotional crutch anymore.
Even so, I find myself in the middle of typing an agreement when a commotion out in the hallway draws my attention. I join another intern sharing the break room with me – a grad student named Henry – in peering out the doorway. We are not the only ones wanting to see what the fuss is about.
“What’s going on?” Henry asks the woman in the doorway across from us, I think that’s Grace. An older woman I recognize from my employee training session. She works in accounting and has on this gorgeous lemon yellow dress that goes down to her knees with a white trim. It must be her favorite dress because she wears it constantly. I told her once it makes her look like a can of lemonade and I think she still hates me a little for that. I promise it was a compliment!
Grace shakes her head, looking just as lost as us. “Mattie says a bunch of Security just came running through with one of those FBI types.”
Henry gives an uneasy laugh. “What, they didn’t get enough of us last week?”
Oh.
Oh no. Dr. Abrams.
“What?” Henry cocks his head down at me. “What about her?”
Oh shoot, did I say that out loud?
Security comes back into view down the end of the hall, saving me from having to explain myself. Escorted in the middle of their formation, Dr. Abrams walks with her head held up, glaring at us all through her glasses.
She’s wearing a tan blazer over a dark green shirt, tucked into the waistband of some tight black pants with black shoes. Her cane today looks like it’s been carved from a singular piece of wood, with a rubber-capped end that thumps against the floor with every other step. From context, I half expected her to be handcuffed, but no, she appears to be unrestrained. A good sign, I hope?
Walking alongside her is a tall brown-skinned woman in an old-fashioned business suit, matte black and shiny in the hall light. The jacket is partially unbuttoned at the top to reveal a blue tie around her neck that lays flush against the mild swell of her chest. There is a gun holstered in her belt. A pair of handcuffs jangle against her hip on the opposite side. The woman’s skin looks flawless from here, but otherwise free of make-up.
She looks… looks weirdly familiar, but I can’t place where from.
Rosalyn said the FBI agent that talked to her and her mom dressed similarly to this.
“Quit gawking and get back to work,” Dr. Abrams snaps at all of us. “I don’t pay you people to stand around.”
“You barely pay us at all,” Henry mutters under his breath.
Impossibly, as if Dr. Abrams heard him, she glares directly at Henry as she passes by. She stops in front of him and prods his chest with the handle of her cane.
“I pay lunkheads like you more than you’re worth. Maybe it’s time I reconsider paying you at all.”
Henry shuts his mouth, the color draining from his face.
“Is everything okay?” Grace asks her.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Dr. Abrams says, turning away from Henry as if he’s beneath notice. “I’m going to be out of office the next few days is all. Dr. Caldwell is in charge until I’m back. You can forward any other concerns in the meantime to my PDA.”
And then in an surreal moment of self-awareness, Dr. Abrams adds to the hallway at large, “Try not to celebrate too hard.”
The brown-skinned woman in the suit rests her hands on her hips, looking impatient. “Dr. Abrams, we’ve got too much to do today as it is.”
Her voice has this odd nasal quality to it.
It reminds me of how Rosalyn talks.
I wonder… her build and her face… could she also be…?
The woman freezes in place causing the Security officer behind her to stumble to a halt as well. Her eyes search around the hallway until landing on mine. The harsh, angry scowl on her face causes me to take a step back.
I learn about the existence of transgender people yesterday and now suddenly I seem to be seeing them everywhere. I have to be jumping to conclusions. I mean, seriously, what are the odds?
And then the moment is over. The entourage is moving again, carrying Dr. Abrams and the strange woman with them. As soon as the elevator doors close on them, the hallway erupts with speculation. Everyone has a theory. Some of them are less attached to reality than the others.
“Dr. Abrams used to be with the CIA,” Terry, a balding middle-aged scientist I’ve only talked to once confidently declares. “That eye? Obvious spy shit, it’s why she can’t get it regrown.”
“How can spy shit be obvious?” Henry asks.
“Well it wasn’t back then,” Terry answers.
“Oh shut up, she’s just a cheapskate,” someone else chimes in.
“I bet it’s another round of questioning,” Grace says knowingly. She pauses expectantly until someone else asks her why she thinks that.
“Well, you know,” she continues in the tones of someone eager to show off their insider knowledge, “Ms. Abrams was involved in the unrest back in the 60s. I heard her say once, over the phone mind, that she had friends who died in the riots and all, and not on the side of the police.”
I shift in place, chewing my lip while the gathered crowd takes this information at face value. I silently drop out of the conversation, pulling back into the break room while feeling vaguely anxiety-sick. Back on the table, my phone buzzes and I hurry back to it, hoping for a new message saying all my friends are safe and sound. It is not that. It is Dr. Caldwell and he wants to see me in his office.
Immediately.
I dither in the break room, cleaning up after not just myself but everyone else by rinsing the plates and dishes that piled up in the sink. Does this count as knowingly delaying my arrival? I am just being responsible. Not avoiding whatever could have prompted this request nor being alone in a small room with my boss.
It turns out that I need not have worried – at least, not for that reason.
Dr. Caldwell is already with someone when I enter his office.
The man sits in the only other chair, across from Dr. Caldwell’s desk. He’s tall, clearly muscular with the same kind of fancy grey-black out of place suit and tie that the woman escorting Dr. Abrams was wearing. The fabric of the suit is a shiny matte black, silk maybe? It looks perfectly tailored and like it costs the exact amount of money that would make Mom and Dad croon in approval.
Neither of them stand as I enter, Dr. Caldwell only acknowledging me with a raise of his eyebrows.
“Ms. Wheeler, you sure took your time in getting here.”
I resist the urge to bite my lip and instead bow my head in apology. “Sorry, Dr. Caldwell. I was cleaning up from my lunch break and then there was–”
“You saw that show with Security then,” he says, interrupting me. “I trust that you at least have the sense not to join in with the gossip of old women.” His eyes jump down to my chest briefly and I have to fight the urge to react.
I glance towards the man in the suit. This is the man from the press conferences, I realize. Alexander Lowe. The FBI agent that Rosalyn talked about. He smiles at me and I make myself look back to Dr. Caldwell.
“Is everything okay with Dr. Abrams?” I ask. Dr. Caldwell’s mouth twists in distaste. Before he can say anything though, the other man laughs. His voice is loud, as if expanding to take up all available space.
“Becky will be fine. She’s just agreed to help us out in keeping something like yesterday’s fiasco with the mall from happening again.”
“Oh.”
I feel like I should say something else, have some sort of reaction, but I do not know where to start.
The man in the suit turns in his chair to look at me properly and shoves an open hand in my direction. “Ms. Wheeler, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Special Agent Alexander Lowe, of the FBI.”
I swallow my shock long enough to put my hand in his. He squeezes hard enough to hurt while pumping my hand twice.
I try not to wince. “That’s me. I’m sorry, what’s going on?”
Am I sweating?
Agent Lowe lets go of my hand and relaxes back in his chair. “I was hoping to get a few minutes of your time to go over a few things. You’re not in trouble or anything like that, don’t worry.”
Oh I am definitely sweating.
In a single fluid motion, Agent Lowe dips his hand into his breast pocket and pulls out some kind of flip book which opens to present his badge for inspection. I have never seen an FBI badge in person before but I can only assume it must be the real thing, given the context.
Agent Lowe puts the badge away and cocks his head to Dr. Caldwell. “I was hoping we could do this in private. You mind loaning us your office for an hour or so, Devon?”
Dr. Caldwell looks between him and me. “You realize even though Ms. Wheeler is merely an intern that she is still bound to the same encompassing NDA and non-compete contracts regarding company secrets–”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Agent Lowe cuts him off with a bored wave of his hand. He caps it off with a derisive laugh. “I’m not here for anything to do with your work, so you can all unclench your butts around me, please. I could hardly care less about whatever new tube of toothpaste you might be working on.”
If anything, I think this only upsets Dr. Caldwell more. He purses his lips in silent indignation before turning his attention fully on me in a way that makes me afraid all of this is going to come back against me soon.
“Very well,” he says. He stands up, putting a hand on the back of his chair. “The two of you can use my office. Ms. Wheeler, come find me in the lab when you’re done here, please.”
And just like that he walks past me, shutting the door behind him with more force than strictly necessary.
And I find myself alone with the FBI.
Agent Lowe gets up from his chair and moves to sit in Dr. Caldwell’s chair. He puts his feet up on his desk, shoes brushing aside a stack of papers my boss left behind.
“Go on, sit down,” Agent Lowe says. He gestures toward the seat he just vacated. “Get comfortable.”
If I was braver, I would ask if this is voluntary.
I am afraid of what the answer might be.
I sit down, trying not to shake as I rest my hands on the arms of the chair. Agent Lowe reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a bag of candied chocolate, popping one end open.
“Want some?” he asks.
“Um…”
He tips the open end over the desk and pours out half the bag between us. He gestures with his free hand for me to take some. I’m not really one for chocolate, it’s a texture thing I think? But these aren’t… terrible. Chocolate and… citrus together?
He smiles over the table at me. Reaches into the bag and tosses a handful in his mouth. Barely chews them before swallowing. “Not bad, right? They’re Floridian.” He shows me the label on the bag. A huge picture of an orange made up to look like the sun, in a chocolate casing. He repeats the process again of eating a handful all at once.
“They’ve been able to swap out most of the factory labor for prison work, thanks to the latest tech. Cuts costs and lets people pay back their debt to society. Pretty impressive product when you consider that, don’t you think?”
I pause, melted candy still in my mouth.
“If the model holds out, they’ll have to start finding ways to make more prisoners just to keep up with demand.” He laughs at the idea, emptying the rest of the bag.
I swallow, and I swear I can feel the chocolate sticking to my teeth.
Agent Lowe gestures at the candy remaining on the table. “Did you want any more?”
“Um. No thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and crosses his legs at the ankle as he gets comfortable. “Let’s get down to it then. Thank you so much for agreeing to talk with me, Ms. Wheeler. Can I call you Cass? Do you prefer Cassie?”
“I… Cass is fine?”
I find myself unsure where to look and Agent Lowe’s eyes on me make me feel like I’m being dissected. I settle for focusing on his boots, the heels scuffing the surface of Dr. Caldwell’s desk.
“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, Cass. This all is strictly off-the-record. And while Praxis Security is a marvel and an asset, I find in my line of work it always pays to double check everything.”
He hasn’t actually asked me a question yet, so I decide it’s safe not to say anything.
“You’re familiar with Dr. Abrams’s son, yes? Morgan?”
“Um…”
“He’s a troubled kid, I’m sure you know by now. Even putting the matter of his physical health aide, he suffers from quite a few mental health issues – low self-esteem, delusional thinking, the works.” Agent Lowe pulls a sad face, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to get him to open up to me, you know? Get him to see reason, so I can help him, but he just isn’t willing to talk.”
I make myself swallow. “Um. Willing to talk?”
Agent Lowe flinches, and shakes his head with a hiss. “Sorry sweetheart, pretend I didn’t say that would you? I’m not at liberty to discuss an active investigation.”
“What?” I squeak out.
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” Agent Lowe waves a hand through the air like he’s dispersing smoke. “Morgan is going to be fine. But only if I can convince him to let me help.”
“I don’t– what? What are you talking about? Active investigation? Morgan?”
“That’s already more than I should have said. Do you have any insight on Morgan’s character that you might be willing to share?”
“Why are you asking me?” I blurt out before I can think better of it. “Riley’s known him way longer than I have and–” I manage to get myself to stop talking.
“And?” Agent Lowe prompts, raising an eyebrow.
“Just um, they’re… closer?”
Agent Lowe doesn’t say anything for a moment. He glances at his wristwatch, a pensive look on his face. “This is Riley Parson we’re talking about?”
I feel like I’ve just made a big mistake.
“Um. Yeah..?”
“How close would you say they are, exactly?”
When I don’t answer – not out of some reasoned approach to the situation but because sheer panic is keeping me from assembling a coherent response – Agent Lowe leans back further in Dr. Caldwell’s chair and folds his hands behind his head. I can hear the joints creak under the stress.
“You’re a bright young thing, so let’s not beat around the bush. You know who I am, correct?”
“Uh… the FBI…?”
“Working on putting an end to this spate of terror attacks in your arcology.” He holds up a hand. “Yes, I know they haven’t officially been recognized as intentional acts as such, but that’s at the request of your Board of Directors so as to not panic the public. I’m sure an intelligent young woman like yourself saw right through that.”
I think he’s trying to flatter me with that comment but my heart is too busy trying to implode for it to have much effect.
“Furthermore, I know you met privately with Dr. Abrams on multiple separate occasions to give her access to research materials the good doctor was legally barred from accessing. Further, I already know all about the modified air filters she ordered you to distribute around the Arcology.”
My heart is pounding in my chest. I feel dizzy. Maybe faint.
“I– I– I um…” I stammer. “They’re repellant.”
That makes Agent Lowe pause. He raises an eyebrow. “Repellant? For what?”
Should I have said that? I can’t fake ignorance now.
“Against Imago, and… NMIV in general, I think.”
He doesn’t answer right away. After what feels like an eternity he snaps back to life, a smile spreading across his face.
“Is that so? How very interesting. Well, that’s neither here nor there but thank you for that little factoid.” He looks at my face again and chuckles. “You can relax, Cassie sweetheart. You’re not in trouble. Not yet at least, and not from me, certainly. I’d be taking you down for a proper PQI if you were. But no one, least of all me, wants to ruin the future of a beautiful young girl who had the misfortune of an unscrupulous boss.”
He smiles again. There’s something deeply self-satisfied about it.
“No, we’re all on the same side, I promise you.”
Agent Lowe shifts position, feet off the desk now. He leans forward, hands clasped together in his lap as he stares at me.
“For the time being, what I’d like from you, Ms. Wheeler, is some clarification on a few details of yesterday’s events. I have a timeline I’d like to run through with you, if that’s quite alright?”
I force myself to start breathing again.
“Oh, and, Cass? It should go without saying but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town until this investigation concludes. We wouldn’t anyone getting the wrong idea."