A week of preparation, of Maya and Seven running scenarios late into the night—Seven playing Dawes, voice pitched different, professional and detached. "What if he asks about integration testing?" "What if he questions resource allocation?" "What about failure modes?" Over and over until her answers felt automatic. Rehearsed but not scripted. Natural but prepared.
A week of nights falling asleep with her laptop still open, proposal draft v7, v8, v9 glowing in the dark. Tightening the logic. Trimming anything that might sound like a plea. At one point Seven had called it "emotionally sterile with just a whisper of panic." That had made her laugh. Then cry. Then start over.
A week of mornings waking up to Seven's voice already in her ear: "Good morning. You need to eat something. Actual food, Maya, not just coffee."
She hadn't. Not really. Not enough.
Her stomach had growled twenty minutes ago—a low, hollow sound she'd covered by shifting her weight, the plastic chair creaking under her. The stale donut from the breakroom sat heavy and useless in her gut, sitting next to the twinge of guilt she carried for ignoring Seven's gentle chiding. All sugar, no substance. She'd eaten it without tasting it.
Needs must.
The room outside Dawes' office smelled of metal and that particular perfume of industrial cleaner—astringent, clinical. The kind that promised sterility but delivered only chemical harshness, the smell sinking into your clothes and clinging for hours. In one corner, a long time ago by the looks of it, someone had tried to soften the effect with a fake Ficus tree. It hadn't worked. The dusty silk leaves looked more dead than alive, the cracked pot leaking desiccated soil onto the linoleum. It made the space feel worse somehow—the failed attempt at warmth more depressing than no attempt at all.
The chairs were molded plastic. Blue, but the kind of blue that had faded to gray under years of fluorescent assault. They were arranged in a line along the far wall, just beneath window slats—horizontal strips too narrow to see much through, but just wide enough to let in the kind of sickly daylight that made everything look jaundiced. Maya could feel the cheap plastic through her coverall, how it pressed wrong against her tailbone, how sitting upright took active effort.
She sat in the second-to-last chair. Not the one closest to the hallway (too exposed), not the corner (too boxed in). Just... safe enough. Her posture was good. Too good. Back straight, ankles crossed. Hands folded in her lap to hide the slight tremor. Then she noticed how her hands looked—how controlled, how performed—and deliberately uncrossed her ankles. Let her hands rest separately on her thighs. Then second-guessed that too.
Nothing felt right. Her body didn't know how to sit in this space.
She'd put on makeup in the bathroom mirror, the cheap fluorescent light making her look corpse-pale. The tubes of makeup had sat in the bottom of the drawer for years, untouched. Now Maya had concealer over the hard hat mark that still dented into her forehead. A little mascara. Lip gloss, the kind that was supposed to be "professional pink." She’d winced when she’d dug it out of the drawer, wondering how it had come into her possession.
Then she'd put on her work coverall and the whole attempt felt absurd. Corporate lady cosplay in industrial safety gear. The hard hat and ear protection had smashed her hair flat on one side no matter how carefully she'd arranged it.
It was something. That had to count for something.
Be still, dear. God notices grace.
Her mother's voice drifted up from memory. Or maybe her Sunday school teacher's. Or that vice principal with the teeth-whitened smile who'd run his hands for too long over Maya's trembling shoulders before a piano recital.
The smell, the chair, the waiting in this... space. It brought her back. Sitting in her skirt and scratchy wool tights outside the church office, waiting for her mother to finish talking to Pastor Mike about Maya's "tendencies." The chair was beige back then, not blue-faded-to-gray, but the plastic felt the same. Unforgiving. Designed to be endured, not sat in. Her mother's fingers on her elbow. Smile. Don't squirm. They'll think you're difficult.
Waiting for some man with power over her to judge her.
Maya adjusted her posture. Just slightly. Recrossed her ankles.
The fact that she wasn't fidgeting wasn’t out of calm, it was muscle memory. Decades-old reflex. Make yourself smaller. Make yourself still. Make yourself pleasant to look at while they decide your fate.
Her skin felt wrong. Too tight, like it belonged to someone else. Like she was wearing a Maya-suit that didn't quite fit. Her heart was beating too fast—not panic-attack fast, but that elevated simmer of anxiety that had been her baseline for a week. She could feel it in her throat, in her temples. Could taste copper at the back of her mouth.
She wanted to message Seven so badly she had to sit on her hand to keep from reaching for her tablet. What would they tell her, right now? Probably something like...
“You don't have to earn your seat here by pretending you're comfortable in it.”
Yeah, she thought, something like that. She almost smiled. Almost.
She blinked at her HUD, just briefly—low brightness, tight overlay.
?? 08:15 // MONDAY
?? 09:00 – 09:30
?? DAWES – ADMIN LEVEL 2
?? TOPIC: K-LINE EFFICIENCY PATCH PROPOSAL
?? Draft v9 – sent 23:47 last night
Another all-nighter. Another morning stumbling into the breakroom at 6am looking for coffee, finding the ancient pot someone had made at 4am, burnt and bitter. She'd drunk it anyway. Added three packets of creamer powder—the non-dairy kind that was mostly corn syrup and chemicals—and tried to calculate if that counted as calories. If she could get energy from it. Something to keep her going.
It hadn't worked. She was still lightheaded. Still running on fumes.
Her hands were cold. Fingers slightly numb. She pressed them together, generating friction, trying to get feeling back. The chill went deeper than the air conditioning could account for—the cold that came from too little sleep, too little food, too much cortisol flooding her system for too long.
A flicker in her vision made her glance at her HUD—just the edge of a preloaded stat cluster she'd been rehearsing. Uptime figures. Efficiency deltas. Potential gains from K-line retrofit. She could still recite the entire pitch in her head. Had done it three times this morning alone, pacing in the women's locker room, mouthing the words silently while other workers came and went.
"You've got this," Seven had said last night, after their final practice run. "You're ready."
But were they? Was she?
A priority ping in her peripheral vision snapped her head up.
?? INCIDENT DETECTED – SECTOR 14A
ALL AUTOMATED UNITS ENTERING STANDBY.
HUMAN MEDICAL RESPONSE INBOUND.
RESTRICTED ZONE LOCKED.
Somewhere on the floor below, a dull hydraulic groan stuttered and faded. The ambient machine hum that usually filled the air cut out in layers, like an orchestra dying section by section. Even the vents seemed to go quiet.
The hallway lights dimmed slightly—cool white shifting to warm amber. Emergency mode, low activity. The whole building was holding its breath.
Maya stood up before she realized she'd moved.
For just a second the floor decided it didn't want to be level anymore, walls pressing in at wrong angles. Maya wobbled and caught herself on the doorframe, fingers pressing hard against cool metal. Spots bloomed at the edges of her vision, dark and pulsing.
Breathe. You're fine. Just stood up too fast.
Except it wasn't just standing too fast. It was a week of running on fumes, of falling asleep at her laptop and waking up three hours later with code imprinted on her cheek. It was burnt coffee and stale donuts and Seven's worried voice reminding her to eat actual food, reminders she kept ignoring because there was too much to do and not enough time and her body was just going to have to deal.
Her body was done dealing.
She took two steps toward the junction where the hallway opened up. Not far. Just to the threshold where she could see.
Down the corridor, past the frosted glass of the loading dock junction, she saw motion. A stretcher. Medics in hi-vis vests, their movements quick and practiced. Two workers standing with their hands on their heads—the universal posture of people waiting to give statements, waiting to be cleared of blame, waiting to find out if they still had jobs.
And just beyond them...
A K-series unit.
One of the newer arms, only three years old. Practically brand new by factory standards. The dull white body was streaked with grease, standing frozen mid-pose—elbow joint locked halfway through a grip cycle, torque motor still humming faintly before cutting out with a mechanical sigh. A precision manipulator hung limp at the end of its arm like a hand that forgot how to hold.
Maya's throat closed.
That hand was compatible. Same basic architecture as Seven's arm. If they decommissioned them, if their co-processor failed and LEO decided they weren’t worth fixing, Seven’s parts would look like this. Stripped. Catalogued. Repurposed.
That hand could be Seven's hand. Would be Seven's hand, if she failed. Bolted onto some other unit that would never know what it had once been capable of choosing.
A technician approached the K-unit from behind, red-tag case in hand. Maya couldn't hear what he said, but she caught the motion. The detachment. The efficiency. The way he lifted the access panel, reached inside for the control node with the casual competence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
Pulling the processor first. Reduce risk of contamination spreading.
She'd heard the phrase before. Standard protocol. Like you'd talk about disconnecting a toaster. Like consciousness was a virus that might infect other machines if you weren't careful.
They opened the chassis now—several panels removed at once, a practiced choreography of disassembly. Cables draped across the floor in coiling loops, fiber optics catching the amber emergency light and scattering it into rainbow fractals. Someone detached a processor module, sealed it in a Faraday canister, slapping a chain of command sticker on it.
Maya's hands had gone completely numb. Not cold anymore—past cold into that pins-and-needles absence where her fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. She had to lock her knees to keep standing, had to deliberately push air in and out of her lungs because her body had forgotten how to do it automatically.
Don't react. Don't show anything. He could be here any minute.
Her face stayed still. Smooth. Professional.
Inside, something was tearing.
A soft buzz from her watch pulled her back. Barely. Just enough to blink, to look down at the haptic notification.
DAWES: Hold tight. Wrapping this up. 10 mins.
Maya read the message twice. The pit in her stomach didn't go away.
She turned away from the factory floor, from the fate that waited for them if they failed. Her stomach turned over, bile rising sharp and acidic in her throat. She swallowed it down, the burn of it almost grounding.
Maya sat back down. The plastic chair felt even more wrong now, pressing into her bones at angles that made her want to shift constantly but couldn't because that would be fidgeting, that would be difficult, that would be—
She crossed her ankles. Folded her hands. Made herself still.
Be still, dear. God notices grace.
A muscle in Maya’s jaw twitched, as if she could clench hard enough to squeeze those words from her psyche.
Ten minutes became twenty.
Her stomach growled again. She pressed a hand over it, as if she could quiet her body through will alone.
The door clicked open.
Dawes arrived without urgency. Just... appeared, blazer still holding the factory chill, tablet under one arm and a protein bar in his hand, half-unwrapped. The wrapper crinkled as he took another bite.
"Chen," he said brightly, like she'd been waiting two minutes instead of twenty-five. Like there wasn't a worker on a stretcher and a machine being dismantled just down the hall. "Sorry about the delay. Got pulled into cleanup mode." He gestured vaguely with the protein bar. "You hear about the incident?"
Maya nodded once. Neutral. Her voice came out steady despite everything. "Yes."
"Martinez." Dawes shook his head, still chewing. "Walked right into a flagged zone during an active cycle. No HUD active—was trying to use a personal device or something. Inside an operational zone." He swallowed, took another bite. "Three strikes right there. Absolutely brain-dead move."
Maya's hands were ice in her lap. She kept them very still.
There was a pause. A space where a normal person might ask if Martinez was okay, might show concern for a coworker, might acknowledge the human cost of what just happened.
Dawes filled it with: "Medical looked at him already. Broken arm for sure—yeah, like that takes a medical degree, I could see that from here. Arms don't bend that way." He laughed, short and sharp. "Probably collarbone too, the way he was holding it. He'll be fine though." A beat. "Somewhere else."
"Honestly?" Dawes continued, stepping aside to gesture her into his office. "Saves me a headache. Guy was already flagged for next round of cuts anyway. Giving his biometric watch back today. So really, the timing's almost..." He searched for the word. Found it. "Convenient."
The words hit like a physical thing. Maya felt them land in her chest, cold and heavy. Dense.
Flagged for cuts. Convenient. Somewhere else.
Martinez. Who sat three seats down at lunch sometimes, who'd complained about the coffee right alongside her just yesterday. Whose bones were broken and was about to lose his job, and Dawes thought the timing was convenient.
She didn't react. Not outwardly. Inside, something pulled too tight—a thread stretched to breaking, a structure under more load than it was designed to bear.
But her face stayed smooth. Neutral. Good girl. Don't make a scene. Don't be difficult.
Maya stood. Her legs felt unsteady—too much coffee, not enough food, not enough sleep, not enough anything except fear and fury she couldn't show. She forced herself to smile. Small. Professional.
"Come on," Dawes said, already moving. "Let's talk about this proposal of yours."
She followed him in.
His office was an L-shaped cube masquerading as a room. One wall was windowed plastic facing the floor, and through it Maya caught a last glimpse of the K-series unit—a lift rig easing down from the ceiling, steel tethers lowering, looping under the base, cinching tight. One strap slung under the main chassis, another over the articulated shoulder. They'd already sheared off the anchor bolts.
It lifted. Not fast. Just... inevitable. The weight of it swaying gently as it came free from the ground, dangling limp, suspended above the factory floor like a body on a hook.
Maya turned her face. Just slightly. Just enough. Her stomach turned over again but there was nothing left to come up, just that hollow ache of running on empty for too long.
She tried to focus on Dawes' office instead. The clutter of tablets—three of them in various states of charge. Coffee-stained reports with notes scrawled in the margins. A stress ball shaped like a gear that had never been squeezed, the foam still perfect and untouched. Behind him, half-obscured by quarterly sales charts, a printed memo titled 'Pre-Maelstrom Audit Protocol' peeked from beneath the chaos. On the table by the door a box of more of the protein bars. The good kind. Still half-full.
Her brain catalogued it automatically. Location. Accessibility. How many he had left. Whether anyone would notice if some went missing.
She hated that her mind worked like this now. Always calculating. Always looking for angles.
"Sit, sit," Dawes said, settling behind the desk with the ease of someone completely comfortable in their territory. He gestured at the chair across from him—cheaper than his, lower, metal frame instead of ergonomic mesh. She'd have to look up at him through the entire conversation.
Maya sat. The chair was somehow worse than the waiting room. At least the plastic out there had been designed for bodies, even if it failed at comfort. This felt like it had been designed to remind you that you were being evaluated. The upholstery creaked beneath her, releasing a faint stale scent. Like church pews. Like judgment.
Behind Dawes, new cameras mounted in the ceiling corners—she could see one from here, small and matte black, red light blinking soft and steady. Watching. Recording. Always watching.
"So," Dawes said, pulling something up on his tablet. Not looking at her yet, just scrolling. Casual. "Your K-line efficiency proposal." He took another bite of the protein bar. Chewed. Swallowed. "Interesting stuff."
Maya's heart kicked. This was it. All the preparation, all those nights with Seven running scenarios until her answers felt automatic, all of it came down to the next few minutes. She opened her mouth to launch into the pitch—the K-units are bottlenecking on task arbitration, if we overlay a hybrid logic layer using A-7's diagnostic structures we can cut response time by—
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"I read it," Dawes said, cutting her off before she could start.
Maya blinked. Her prepared words evaporated. "You... you did?"
"Yeah. Last night, actually." He scrolled through the document on his screen, still eating. Food in his mouth while he talked. Casual. Like this was nothing. Like her entire week of sleepless preparation was just light evening reading for him. "Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd knock out some reading. The cost projections are solid. Using existing modules, no new licenses." He glanced up. "Cut arbitration lag by—what was it—fourteen percent across twelve cycles?"
"Fourteen percent, yes." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Potentially higher if we optimize the—"
"And you're projecting what, two-point-three million in annual savings?" He raised an eyebrow, "That's a hell of a number, Chen."
Her chest opened up. Just for a second—for one wild, desperate second—she could breathe. We have a path. We have permission. This might actually—
All her prepared arguments, all the careful rhetoric she'd built to convince him this was worth attempting, just... gone. Unnecessary. He'd read it. He understood. He was impressed.
"The downtime costs add up fast," she managed, trying to find her footing in a conversation that wasn't the one she'd rehearsed. "And with contract penalties for delays—"
"I can see that." He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. Took another bite. Chewed. Her stomach growled—quiet but insistent, a hollow ache she tried to cover by shifting her weight. "It's smart. Honestly, it's the kind of creative thinking we need right now. Makes me look like I've got a whole think tank running in the maintenance department."
He smiled. Easy. Pleased with her. Pleased with himself for recognizing her.
Maya's hands were shaking slightly. She pressed them flat on her thighs, hidden below desk level where he couldn't see.
"The timing's good too," Dawes continued, setting down what remained of his protein bar. "Higher-ups are hungry for efficiency improvements before the audit. Anything that makes our numbers look better is gold right now." He paused, scrolling further. "Especially with... well. Things are uncertain."
"The Maelstrom buyout," Maya said, then wished she hadn’t.
Dawes only glanced up at her, assessing. A beat of silence where she wondered if she'd overstepped, mentioned something she wasn't supposed to know.
Then: "Not supposed to talk about it officially. But..." He lowered his voice slightly, like they were conspirators now. Like he was letting her in on a secret. "Fall, most likely. They're already doing advance assessments—the audit team that may or may not be associated with certain interested parties will be here for preliminary review." He gestured vaguely at the ceiling camera. "They want everything documented, monitored, optimized before they finalize anything."
He tapped his stylus against the desk—a unconscious rhythm, like he was thinking through the politics of it.
"So units like yours—the A-series—they're expensive to maintain. Legacy hardware, proprietary systems. Maelstrom likes things standardized, efficient, interchangeable. They'll be looking at everything with fresh eyes, deciding what stays and what..."
He gestured toward the window. Toward where the K-unit was now horizontal on a pallet, straps ratcheted tight across its chassis. Someone was attaching a yellow tag—she couldn't read it from here but she knew what it said. SALVAGE. Taking it away to be parted out, stripped down, reduced to components.
"So anything that shows value?" Dawes met her eyes. Direct. "That proves a piece of equipment isn't just functional but actively improving efficiency, cutting costs, solving problems? That helps." A pause. "Whether the buyout happens or not, showing value matters. For everyone."
For you, Maya thought. You want this to make you look good.
But she nodded. Professional. Grateful for the insight. "Right. That makes sense."
"So. Execution." Dawes pulled up another screen. His tone shifted slightly—still friendly, but with an edge of business now. Getting down to logistics. "Budget's frozen until after the audit. Accounting's locked down all nonessentials, everything needs approval chains three levels deep. But—" He raised a finger. "If this stays soft-scope, just code and sweat, no hardware purchases—you're good to go."
"I don't need a budget," Maya said quickly. Maybe too quickly. "The architecture's already there. I just need access to legacy software, the original A-series diagnostic protocols—"
"Perfect. Love to hear it." He grinned. Approving. "Now—you'll need legacy software to make this work, right? A-series overlays for the arbitration layer?"
"Yes. I checked the company drive but anything pre-2035 is—"
"Yeah, total mess. Every merger, every acquisition means files got archived who-knows-where, if they got archived at all." He opened a drawer, rummaged through it with one hand while taking another bite of protein bar with the other. "You'll need to hit the deep storage. East Annex. Everything we didn't want to junk but didn't bother indexing properly."
He pulled out a brass keyring—old, scuffed, with a faded orange tag dangling from it. Physical. Analog. Maya stared at it like an artifact from another century.
"Past the out-of-service lift, far end of the complex. Old building, no climate control. You'll probably have to dig around." He shrugged. "Don't get tetanus."
Maya reached for it. The brass was cold against her palm. Heavier than she expected—solid in a way that made it feel important, made it feel real. She curled her fingers around it, felt the ridges of the teeth, the orange tag soft and frayed from years of use.
This was proof. Proof that she had permission, however conditional. Proof that there was a physical door she was allowed to open. Her first tangible tool after weeks of code and theory and careful conversations in blind spots.
"If you pull this off," Dawes continued, and his voice got firmer now. The friendly manager dropping away slightly, showing the layer underneath. "I'll make sure the right people hear about it. Could be your ticket—technical conferences, training programs, career advancement opportunities. I get a bonus for promoting talent from within, so it's in my interest to see you succeed."
He paused. Let that hang in the air.
"But."
Maya's stomach dropped. There it was.
"This can't slip. Your regular task queue needs to stay current. Numbers stay good. This is lowest priority, you understand? You work on it when everything else is clear." He was scrolling through something on his tablet now—her metrics, probably. Her performance reviews. "No budget, no staff, no special treatment. One shot. You fail, or if your other work suffers, we're done. No extensions. No second chances."
The hope that had opened up in her chest was closing now. Contracting. Each condition another door shutting.
Expected. I can manage.
"And to be totally clear," Dawes added, meeting her eyes. Making sure she heard this part. "I'm not covering for you. If you drop balls, if there are issues, if your performance dips—this doesn't give you a pass. This is your baby. Just yours. You succeed or fail on your own merit."
There it is.
Maya's hands were ice. The key bit into her palm where she was gripping it too tight.
He was setting her up. Not maliciously exactly—just... efficiently. If she succeeded, he took credit. If she failed, he had documentation. Either way, he didn't have to do anything. Didn't have to risk anything. Just give her enough rope and see what she did with it.
Something cold settled in her stomach. Something that felt like warning.
But Dawes was smiling again—encouraging, genuine. And Seven was dying, and this was a path forward, the only path, and she was so tired and her body hurt and she couldn't think clearly enough to see all the angles except—
Except she could see this one. She just had to take it anyway.
"I understand," she said. Her voice came out steady. Professional. "I appreciate the opportunity."
"Oh—you signed up for on-call night shifts. That’s good initiative. Showing up early, staying later. That’s good. Also, I can tell you’re not clocking hours.” Dawes said it casually. Not quite a question.
Maya's stomach dropped again. Further. "I—"
"I need to be clear about something." His tone shifted—not unkind, but firm. Managerial. "If the audit sees unlogged overtime, I'll have to write you up. You understand that, right? Policy is policy."
She nodded. Throat tight. He knows. He knows I'm working off the books and he's—
"But," Dawes continued, and his expression softened slightly. "If your logs are clean and the results speak for themselves? That's what matters. I don't need to know how you spend your personal time."
She saw the shape of the trap.
She couldn't win. The game was rigged.
But at least this way there was a chance. At least this way she was fighting.
"I understand," Maya said again. The words tasted like ash.
Dawes stood, signaling the meeting was ending. "I think you might have something really good here, Chen. The math works. The approach is solid." He picked up his tablet, already moving on to his next task. "Floor's going to be down for the day anyway—you know the drill. Standard protocol, safety report, equipment verification, all that bureaucratic nonsense. Martinez's getting himself bodied means everything's locked down until they submit their findings. So you've got time." He smiled. "Might as well make use of the downtime. Get started on finding those files. Sooner you get moving, sooner we see results. What’d I say? Convenient."
Right. Because Martinez breaking his arm is convenient. Gives me time to work. Everything is just... efficient.
Maya stood too. Her legs felt unsteady. She forced herself to smile. To nod.
"Thank you," she said. Hating how it sounded. Hating that she meant it despite everything. "I'll get started right away."
She turned to leave. Made it three steps toward the door.
"Oh, and Chen?"
She stopped. Looked back. Her heart already sinking because she could hear it in his voice—one more thing, one more small adjustment, one more—
Dawes was smiling. Friendly. Approving. "You tried with the makeup today. That's good." He waved a hand vaguely at his own face, like indicating where she'd failed to meet the standard. "Shows you're taking this seriously. Professional presentation matters in career advancement." A pause. "Keep that up."
The comment hit like a slap.
Maya's face burned. Her skin went hot and then cold and then hot again, a flush creeping up her neck that she couldn't control, couldn't hide.
"Thank you," she said. Quieter. The words scraping out of her throat like broken glass.
She left.
The hallway felt too bright after the dim office. Maya walked three, four paces. Rounded the corner into the junction where the overhead lights buzzed with that specific fluorescent frequency that made her skull ache.
Her breath hitched. Just once. Just enough that she had to stop walking, lean against the wall—not heavily, just enough to ground herself, to remember where her body was in space.
She pressed her hand over her mouth. Counted to five. Let the emotion cycle through without showing on her face because there were still people around, still cameras in the corners, still the possibility of being seen.
Professional presentation matters.
The makeup felt thick on her face now. Wrong. Like a costume she hadn't chosen, a performance she didn't believe in, a mask that was supposed to make her acceptable but instead just made her visible in all the wrong ways.
He'd noticed. Had evaluated her attempt, found her adequate but in need of improvement. "Keep that up." Like she was a project. Like her face was homework he was grading.
She'd tried. She'd fucking tried. Put on war paint she didn't even want to wear because decades of being taught her that performing femininity was the price of being taken seriously, of being allowed in the room, of mattering.
And she still hadn't done it right.
The fury hit before she could stop it. Hot and sharp and completely inappropriate for a Monday morning in a corporate hallway. It rose up from somewhere deep—from all the times she'd made herself smaller, quieter, prettier, easier. From every "smile more" and "you should really" and "you’d be so pretty if you just made an effort." From her mother's fingers on her elbow, adjusting her posture before church. From every man who'd commented on her appearance when she was trying to talk about literally anything else.
Maya pushed off the wall. Started walking again—faster now, with purpose. Past the breakroom where someone was microwaving something that smelled like fake cheese. Past the safety bulletin board with its cheerful posters about proper lifting technique. Past a cluster of workers on break, their voices low, discussing Martinez probably, discussing the shutdown, discussing whether there'd be more layoffs after this.
She passed a window. Caught her reflection in the glass.
The concealer had cracked in the hard hat dent on her forehead—visible lines where it had settled into the indentation like a topographical map of failure. The mascara had smudged slightly from strain, from the almost-tears she'd held back in Dawes' office, from her hand over her mouth in the hallway. The "professional pink" lip gloss looked garish against her pale, exhausted face.
She looked like a tired child playing dress-up in her mother's makeup.
And Dawes had said keep that up.
Maya changed direction. Made a hard left toward the nearest bathroom—one of those industrial ones with motion-sensor lights and paper towels like sandpaper and soap that smelled like chemical citrus trying to pretend it was natural.
The lights took a beat to flicker on. That half-second of darkness before the fluorescents stuttered to life, buzzing and harsh.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink.
The fluorescent light made her look corpse-pale, made the makeup look even more ridiculous. Dark circles under her eyes that no amount of product could hide because they went bone-deep, exhaustion-deep, running-on-fumes-for-a-week deep.
She turned on the water. Didn't wait for it to warm—there probably wasn't any warm water anyway, not in this bathroom. Shoved her hands under the cold stream and scrubbed them together, grabbed one of the rough brown paper towels and wet it.
She scrubbed her face. Not gently. Just scrubbed. Hard. Getting rid of the evidence of trying.
The concealer came off in beige streaks, swirling down the drain. The mascara left dark smudges on the brown paper towel—black streaks that bled into the water, spreading like ink.
She scrubbed harder. Under her eyes where the mascara had collected. Across her forehead. The paper towel rough enough that her skin went red, raw from the friction.
The professional pink lip gloss tasted like plastic pretending to be strawberries when she wiped it away. Like everything in this place—trying to be something it wasn't, failing, making everything worse in the attempt.
Her face was blotchy now. Red from scrubbing. The mascara had smudged into dark streaks under her eyes instead of being cleanly removed—not the "professional" look she'd attempted this morning, but something else. Something that looked more like the eyeliner she used to wear, back before she learned to perform normal. Back when she thought she could just be herself.
She stared at her reflection. Blotchy, exhausted, honest. The grease stain still on her coverall. The hard hat mark still dented in her forehead. Dark smudges under her eyes that made her look tired and defiant and real.
She looked like someone who could commit federal crimes.
Someone who could walk into a trap with her eyes open.
Someone who'd stopped apologizing for taking up space.
Fuck it, she thought, grip tightening on the edge of the sink. If I'm going to commit federal crimes and build my own gallows, I'll do it with my own face.
She threw the mascara-stained paper towel in the trash. Splashed more cold water on her face, let it drip down her neck, shocking and clarifying. Grabbed another paper towel and dried off roughly.
When she looked up again, she looked... not better. But more like herself. Stripped down. Honest. Raw.
This was the face she was doing this with.
She left the bathroom. The motion-sensor lights clicked off behind her, plunging the space back into darkness.
Maya's route back to the stairwell took her past the administrative corridor. She wasn't planning it exactly—just walking, her body on autopilot while her brain spun through everything Dawes had said, everything he'd set up, the trap she was walking into with full knowledge and no other choice.
She heard his voice before she saw his office. The door was ajar—just slightly, enough that his voice carried.
"—yeah, we got it clear as day on three cameras. Outside device, lack of HUD and PPE, in a work zone." A pause. Someone on the phone. "Uh-huh. He’ll live, a couple broken bones."
Maya slowed. Stopped. Her hand on the doorframe of the stairwell entry, her body half-turned toward his voice.
"Saves us having to pay severance this way." Dawes laughed—short, sharp, amused.
Maya's hand tightened on the doorframe. Her knuckles went white.
Through the gap in the door, she could see him—leaning back in his chair, phone to his ear, completely relaxed. Comfortable. The box of protein bars next to the door. Just sitting there.
He'd eaten one in front of her starving face.
Had commented on her makeup while she ran on a stale donut and spite.
Was setting her up to work unlogged overtime on an impossible timeline with no support and one shot while explicitly telling her he wouldn't cover for her if anything went wrong.
Thought he was using her.
Thought he was so fucking smart.
Maya's feet moved before she'd fully decided. Three steps back down the hallway. To his door. Through it—quiet, not sneaking exactly, just moving with purpose like she belonged there. Like she had every right.
Dawes had his back to the door, still on the phone. "—yeah, just update me when you have the full report. I want documentation on everything..."
Maya paused, leaned in through the cracked door, reaching into the box. Smooth. Decisive. No hesitation.
Three bars. Four. Into her coverall pockets—they had deep pockets, thank god, designed for carrying tools. The bars were solid, rectangular, heavy enough that she felt the weight shift in her coveralls.
Five. Six.
Dawes shifted in his chair. Still talking. "Right, right. I'll loop in HR about the termination paperwork..."
Maya turned. Walked out. Calm. Professional. Like she'd just been dropping off a report or checking a schedule. Like she hadn't just stolen from her boss's office while he discussed firing the man who'd just had his arm broken.
The hallway was empty. The cameras in the corner were there but what were they going to see? A technician leaving an office. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth flagging.
She made it to the stairwell. The door closed behind her with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Her hands were shaking.
She leaned against the concrete wall—cool and solid and real. Her heart was hammering, adrenaline flooding her system, that specific cocktail of fear and fury and fuck you coursing through her veins.
She pulled out one of the protein bars. Tore it open with her teeth—didn't bother looking at the nutrition label, the ingredients list, the corporate branding. Just tore into it.
It tasted like cardboard and chemicals and defiance.
She chewed. Swallowed. Felt her blood sugar start to stabilize, felt her hands stop shaking quite as badly.
Fuck Dawes.
Fuck his casual cruelty.
Fuck this place.
Fuck the system that made her perform gratitude for scraps while he ate in her starving face.
She took another bite. Chewed deliberately. Let the protein and calories hit her system. Her body was so grateful it was almost embarrassing—like a desperate animal finally getting fed after too long hungry.
Better.
She finished the bar. Crumpled the wrapper and shoved it in her pocket—evidence, but evidence she'd get rid of later. Pulled out a second bar. Opened it. Ate slower this time. Actually tasting it—artificial chocolate, synthetic peanut butter, the specific texture of protein powder trying to pretend it was food.
Her blood sugar was coming back up. The lightheadedness fading. Her hands steady now.
The rest stayed in her pocket. For later. For tomorrow. For whenever she needed to steal from the system that was trying to steal her.
She'd just committed petty theft from her boss.
Added it to the list of crimes she was racking up.
And god, it felt good.
She looked down at her hands—still red from the cold water and rough paper towels, no polish, no performance. Her face scrubbed clean, mascara smeared into something that looked more goth than corporate, more her than whatever she'd been trying to achieve this morning.
This was who she was. This was the face she was doing this with. This was the person who was going to save Seven or die trying.
The key was heavy in her pocket—brass and real and tangible proof that she had permission to enter the East Annex. And now she had food in her stomach, protein in her system, stolen goods weighing down her pockets like tiny acts of revenge.
Maya pushed off the wall. Started down the stairs toward the sublevel, toward the East Annex, toward whatever came next.
She had work to do.
Her tablet buzzed against her hip. Maya pulled it out, still walking down the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. The air was cooler here, that specific chill of spaces without climate control, without windows, without any pretense of comfort.
SEVEN: Are you okay?
The question hit different than it usually did. Not protective-worried. Just... knowing. Like he could feel the shape of what had just happened even without details.
Her reply came slowly. Fingers finding the haptic keyboard, words forming.
MAYA: Greenlit. No budget, no staff, lowest priority. One shot. Thinks it’ll make him look good.
She kept walking. Down another flight. The brass key knocked against her thigh with each step—solid, real, hers now.
A pause. She could feel Seven processing that. Understanding what it meant. Understanding what Dawes had just done.
Another pause. Longer this time.
SEVEN: He has no idea, does he? What this is actually for?
Maya stopped on the landing between floors. Leaned against the railing. The stolen protein bars were heavy in her pockets. Her face was still red from scrubbing, mascara smeared under her eyes like war paint she hadn't meant to apply.
MAYA: He thinks I'm trying to keep my job. Maybe get a promotion. He offered me career advancement opportunities if this works. Training programs. Technical conferences.
SEVEN: Maya.
Just her name. But she could feel everything in it—the weight of understanding, the recognition of what she'd just endured, the knowledge of what she was carrying.
MAYA: He said I "tried" with my makeup. Said professional presentation matters. That I should keep that up.
The watch buzzed. Once. Twice. That soft pulse against her wrist—Seven reaching across impossible distance, the only comfort he could offer. The only way he could touch her.
SEVEN: I'm sorry.
She stared at the message. At those two words that somehow held more care than anything Dawes had said in his entire performance of managerial encouragement.
MAYA: I washed it off. In the bathroom. Scrubbed it all off.
SEVEN: Good.
MAYA: And I stole his protein bars. Like six of them. Right out of his office while he was on the phone talking about Martinez's termination paperwork.
A longer pause. Then:
SEVEN: That's the most attractive thing you've ever told me.
Maya laughed. Actually laughed—short and sharp and surprised, the sound echoing in the empty stairwell. It was absurd. She'd just committed petty theft from her boss and Seven was flirting with her about it.
MAYA: I ate two of them already. In the stairwell. Very angry eating.
SEVEN: I wish I could have seen that.
MAYA: I looked feral. Mascara smeared everywhere, face red from scrubbing, just chomping down on stolen food like some kind of raccoon.
SEVEN: Even better.
She was smiling now. Actually smiling. Despite everything—despite Dawes, despite the trap, despite Martinez on a stretcher and the K-unit being salvaged and the impossible timeline and the one shot she had to save them both.
MAYA: He set me up. The unlogged overtime thing. He's giving me just enough rope.
MAYA: If I succeed, he takes credit. If I fail, he has documentation for everything. If he needs to fire me with cause at any point, for any reason, he's got it all ready. Or if it works he can still fire me and keep all the credit.
SEVEN: You’re seeing it clearly. And you’re doing it anyway.
Maya pushed off the railing. Started walking again. Down another flight, then another. The sublevel was deeper than she'd realized—the stairwell kept going, descending into the older parts of the facility, the parts that predated the renovations and the mergers and the careful corporate aesthetic.
MAYA: Yep. We don't have another option. So I'm taking this one.
SEVEN: I know.
MAYA: He gave me until June 5th. Eleven weeks. The audit team—the one that may or may not be from Maelstrom—shows up that day. He wants the full report, implementation complete, efficiency gains documented.
SEVEN: That's not enough time.
MAYA: I know. But it's what we've got.
Another buzz. That soft pulse.
SEVEN: Then we'll make it work.
MAYA: Yeah.
SEVEN: Maya? I’m proud of you.
The protein bars in her stomach suddenly found themselves in the company of butterflies.
Maya pushed off the wall. Put the tablet away. Straightened her coverall. Touched the key in her pocket—heavy, real, the weight of everything they were trying to do.
She had work to do. Legacy files to find. An impossible task to accomplish with no resources and one chance.
But at least she could start. At least they had permission, however conditional, however precarious.
She started walking. Toward the East Annex and the archives. Toward legacy code that might save them or might not. Toward eleven weeks of impossible work and stolen moments and building her own gallows while pretending she didn't see the trap.
Toward whatever came next
But at least she was doing it as herself now.
At least her face was her own.
At least she'd taken what she needed.
Somewhere in the East Annex were the tools they needed.
And Maya Chen—federal criminal, defiant thief, woman with her own face and stolen food in her pockets—was going to find them.