Droplets of steam gathered on the ceiling as O'neal opened his tired eyes. Around his legs, the still warm water of the porcelain tub lapped against the side of his hip whenever the faint reverberations repeated themselves. He rolled over onto his arm. Despite the waterproof pillow wedged beneath his cheek, the seal formed by his ear allowed him to make out the noise more clearly. It sounded like the floorboards were creaking from the tread of an indelicate thief. In his living room, perhaps? Or the kitchen? It was hard to say. The intruder’s clandestine wanderings seemed to meander without much intent.
The warspawn himself was more deliberate. After sitting up, he reached for the shower rail embedded in the wall and dragged himself out of the bath. Epsom salt and cloudy water ran down his shaking thighs like long translucent worms. Had it not been for the pole that had been recommended by his physical therapist, he might have rejoined them in the basin when he climbed over the rounded brim.
‘Cane first,’ O’neal thought as he groped around by the towel rack. Then, once he was certain he wouldn’t trip and crack his head open on the tile, the infiltrator staggered over towards the vanity and leaned past a row of empty pill bottles. A steam-covered Glock rested just behind the forest of orange plastic. The loaded magazine that accompanied it lay beside the weapon off to the right.
‘Feed lip to the rail; magazine forward; release the slide.’ The training he’d received on Deravan ensured each step had a level of fluidity that always felt vaguely unearned. The safety still issued a satisfying click after a round was secured within the barrel. ‘Gun is hot.’
The words echoed in his head while sweat beaded on his wrinkled palms. Hopefully, the sound of the action hadn’t spread beyond the foggy room. If it had, then the mechanism might be repeating itself the moment he opened the door. O’neal twisted the knob, regardless. A blanket of stygian night was already waiting for him in the exposed hall. It nearly forced him to fumble for the light if only so he could make out more than the stairs past the closet and his claustrophobic office.
Twitchy fingers choked up on the Glock’s rubberized grip. O’neal started limping across the rug, despite being nude from the neck down.
Thump. Thump. Thump. For once his cane wasn’t the cause of the beat that rose through the shifting floorboards. It made him nervous. Someone was either very dumb or very brave to have abandoned stealth in such a manner.
O’neal chose to bet on the latter. He could deal with dumb; meanwhile, it was the clever who often became deadly after you failed to give them their due. It was why he paused by the closet and attempted to clear the interior. If he just walked by the door, there was a good chance that the next thing he’d notice would be a gun digging into his back.
Of course, such prudence wasn’t much comfort when he heard a rustling behind him, anyway. “Son of a…” The curse hadn’t fully left his mouth before a blade was plunging firmly through his skin. ‘No,’ O’neal corrected himself with a flash of benumbed horror. ‘Not a blade. A…’
<[Cerebral uplink],> the trespasser finished, its tendrils clinging to his mutilated shoulder.
O’neal tried to reply but found his host had been casually suborned. In fact, were it not for the damage done to his spine, then he might have been locked out entirely. Instead, a few misaligned ports left him rudimentary access to his jaw. A couple moments later, he was able to trade them for partial control over his tongue.
“Fu-ucking… h-ell,” he gurgled through a pair of uncooperative lips. “H-ow did you... as-sholes… ev-ven fin-nd me?”
The [Deravian Archivist] lifted O’neal’s arm and braced his host against the plastic shelves. At first, there wasn’t a reply. Then, after a minute of perusing the parasite's memories for any useful intelligence, it deigned to answer his question.
“N-not… good enough,” O’neal gasped, his body struggling to raise the gun. “I w-wan-nt… the full story. …Or w-would you… prefer to fight me… w-while you… ugh… fish aroun-nd in-n my skull?”
The larger warspawn thought about it for a second. O’neal couldn’t see the bastard’s body language, but it wasn’t hard to picture the prick braiding several tendrils into thicker limbs.
the alien agreed.
O’neal reluctantly complied. Unfortunately, his begrudging cooperation didn’t guarantee a prompt response from the otherwise taciturn analyst. Finally, just as he was considering whether or not to speak up…
A black rage slowly crept across O’neal’s vision. The idea that he’d been unconsciously announcing his presence was almost as abhorrent as the risk of being overheard. “Would you care to repeat that?” he snarled, the anger lending clarity to his voice. “What is this nonsense? Has the entire invasion force been sabotaged, or do you just intend for us to distract the government with our death throes?”
The archivist’s tone didn’t shift.
O’neal grimaced at the suggestion. Somehow, he just knew that the only way to handle it would be with a sizable infusion of merit. One to fix his spine; another to address the ‘incentives’ that had been installed by the nobles back home…
A sharp jolt ran through O’neal’s neck, dispelling the half-familiar gripe. You’d think the species responsible for getting reports back to the Network would be a little more careful with their work. It wasn’t like it was easy to send the data when everyone’s implants were disconnected from their patron. Then again, now that the Sea was here, maybe his assailant believed he could rush.
O’neal stared at the vague shadow reflected in the brass knob. About a foot long and built like a fraying umbrella, the warspawn was literally writhing in place with the speed of its organic download. Later, once the file had been passed through its quantum relay, the information would be edited and disseminated for a price. Until then, it’d merely be a bulked out copy of everything O'neal had experienced.
…The parasite wondered which moment in particular had caught the spymaster’s eye. Surely, it hadn’t just grabbed him like an addict purchasing a fistful of scratchers?
O’neal found himself growing offended, despite the comfort of the upper crust's ambivalence. “That ‘plan,’ as you put it, could net me over a hundred merit.”
O’neal bit his tongue until the clumsy appendage bled. “Is that what it costs to rub elbows with the elite, then?”
The archivist paused. O’neal could literally feel its attention shift from his memories to the infiltrator himself. <...No. This one has yet to be properly recognized.>
The parasite was at a loss for words. By every rumor and reckoning his counterpart was at least four rungs above him in the hierarchy. If even he could be considered a beast…
“...What do they call you?” O’neal asked once he could finally open his mouth. “Surely, it’s not just a number.”
The archivist writhed.
A blinding pain suddenly shot up the infiltrator’s back.
The puppet shook a few dollops of ooze from its fangs and darted off down the stairs. O’neal lacked the strength to return the acquisitive farewell. Indeed, he lacked the strength to do much of anything as his body slipped numbly towards the ground.
The second time O’neal woke up, it was with blood caked across his ass and the imprint of a rug on his stomach. The shift in circumstances felt appropriate. Not because he had any desire to flop about like a paralyzed worm, but because there should be some visible evidence after the Sea kept fucking him over.
A low growl rumbled up his throat. O’neal briefly indulged in the gravelly sound before beating it back into silence. In truth, the news that he was leaving a trail changed little about his upcoming plans. His body was still broken, and the solution remained the same. He simply needed more: more merit - more upgrades to handle the predation of his predecessors and peers.
To that end, he mentally pulled up his window and waited for the last of the neurotoxin to degrade into its dormant precursors.
O’neal tabbed over to the [Upgrades] menu. A wall of options rapidly scrolled past. The first to catch his eye was one of the archivist’s, ironically enough. A [Quantum Intelligence Network], the Sea called it. At eighteen points, it’d allow you to project your thoughts to a remote node and then receive sensations in turn. Normally, it was used for fixed defenses as a kind of organic camera system. There wasn’t anything stopping you, though, from attaching additional modules and then chucking the thing off-planet.
The Third Discernment of Form had demonstrated that for certain. A [Universal Sniffer] to detect the pheromones seeping through his host’s skin. A [Remote Access Terminal] to intercept communications and then track them back to their source. O’neal couldn’t claim to know everything the archivist had installed; however, it probably came out to at least a hundred points by the time you tallied up the bill. Multiple that by the gate's low survival rate, and it wasn’t hard to see how his costs had rapidly ballooned. Heck, O’neal’s face-lift wasn’t anywhere near that complex, and he still required a good chunk of change.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
O’neal twitched rhythmically as he considered the unsaved prompt. He focused on the threat his host would pose while he was detached and watched the price tick up towards the nineties. Now the installation process included an injection of the very same neurotoxin that had kept him too numb to move. He could change it - drill down into the particulars until he was assembling the molecules himself; however, there honestly wasn’t much point. He’d never developed the skill set required to ensure the drug would work. The interest was missing too - that remained the domain of the alchemists and the rare nobles who pursued such a passion.
No, for O’neal, the autofill was enough. Especially, since there’d always been some antipathy amongst his pod for the architects behind their birth. It was because of the ‘experiments,’ he suspected - the genelines that had been thrown together as a test bed for the Third Wave. High command had consolidated a bunch of them within his cohort during basic training. Mostly to see which body plan proved the quickest, but also to weigh the advantages of eight limbs versus twelve or sixteen. It had bred a lot of discontent. You could only lose a fight so many times before you began to hate the bastard who’d given your opponent a leg up.
The screen shivered beneath the pressure of O’neal’s hateful recollection. Then, after a handful of seconds spent brooding over his past, a ripple rolled across his redesign, altering its purpose and price. The description now included a half-dozen spare tendrils in addition to his previous improvements.
‘Damn it,’ O’neal thought as he carefully reversed the change. ‘Not like that - like this.’ The telepathic interface flickered uncertainly in the face of his frustrated ire. Eventually, it seemed to intuit his intent and adjusted itself accordingly.
O’neal breathed a sigh of relief. He supposed headaches were what you got for making a request at [level 1].
‘Well, it won’t be that way for long,’ he decided after saving the crude rough draft. ‘If nothing else, the interactivity will rise with my rank once the assassination’s been confirmed by the Sea.’
O’neal pulled up the Network’s task list and stared at his golden ticket. [Contract - Elimination - General Target - Local Administrator - Authority > 2,000,000 adherents - 117 points].
It was almost enough to make his mouth water. Less so after acknowledging it’d require the death of Governor Bouchard; however, the offer wasn’t unexpected, and he’d had years to prepare for the necessity. He liked to think he’d used them well. His construction company had certainly expanded apace.
A quick glance at his cluttered office revealed a densely annotated calendar hanging from the open door. On the current page, there was a small reminder that the mayor was preparing a speech and that O’neal was scheduled to say a few lines. Something about the damage to the sewer system and the city’s plans for its repair. The details weren’t really relevant. The announcement would’ve just been a bunch of buzzwords, even if the Network hadn’t rendered them moot.
And the Network had rendered them very moot. In fact, if Bouchard hadn’t announced that he was dropping by to wave the flag, O’neal would’ve avoided the rally entirely. The Governor represented an opportunity, though. Perhaps the last one O’neal would receive before the Sea took a sledgehammer to the rule of law. Ergo, he had to make it work. Rushed - improvised - the quality of his operation was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was whether or not he could get the job done.
O’neal thought he could get the job done. At the very least, he told himself as much repeatedly while he removed his host from the floor.
The third time O’neal woke up, it was while he was nodding off in a golf cart with an empty cup of coffee in his hand. Mayor Horn was beside him - as was their security detail - yet it was the drink which had captured his attention as he weighed what he’d do for a refill.
Captain Gladhand offered him a commiserating grimace after he caught O’neal glaring at his cup. “…And that’s about where we’re at with the foot patrols deployed for this event. As for fire and rescue services, we have a ladder truck waiting in the wings in addition to an EMS team at both the north and the south entrance. Should the situation require it, there’s also an air ambulance on call; however, I think there’d be some real difficulty getting enough clearance for it to land.”
“Understood,” Horn replied while arguing vehemently with his PA via text. “Can we use one of the rooftops as a replacement, or should we try to arrange some space on the road?”
“Neither,” the cop told him. “We’re running short on time, and I doubt we can move enough people while the crowd’s chomping at the bit. It might be better to just strap our prospective patient to a gurney and then push them through the congestion by van.”
The two bickered over the details for a minute before deciding that this was the most practical solution. O’neal didn’t offer an opinion. Instead, he simply kept an eye on their argument until there was a break in the flow of conversation. Once he found his opening, the parasite twisted his neck towards the rooftops. “What about overwatch?” he asked them. “Is there anyone keeping an eye out in case we have another Hodgkinson situation?”
Captain Gladhand glowered at the grisly reminder. “Yes," he confirmed. "Two teams, both seconded from SWAT. The first will be providing support during the show itself. The other will be covering the skies in case someone gets clever with a drone.”
“There won’t be a jammer up?” the mayor asked as he abandoned his phone with a curse.
Gladhand shook his head. “We couldn’t get authorization from our contacts at the FCC. They said there’d be too much spill over, even with the Executive Order granting us approval.”
“A shame,” Horn said before following the statement with a sigh. “The fighting in Ukraine has gotten contentious and filtered down to my cruelest detractors. It makes my wife worry. I’d hoped to relieve her fears, despite how little ever comes of their assertions.”
The captain pressed his lips together in a silent prayer for patience. “Please don’t jinx us, sir. The bounty changes things. It won’t just be the usual suspects on the prowl.”
“Won’t it?” Horn argued with an air of startling sincerity. “Surely, our community isn’t the type to be goaded into violence.”
O’neal strove to keep his face relatively blank. As a member of said community, he knew that the line was closer than you’d think. Doubly so given the nature of the Networks’ aesthetics. Money was one thing. Magic? The chance to save someone’s life? That was a harder lure to spurn. Hell, if the Governor hadn’t satisfied his requirements, he'd have been tempted to nibble on the hook himself.
The captain understood the impulse. “Sir, there’s a narrative in play right now that we can’t afford to ignore. One that exists irrespective of political parties and which advocates for unchecked madness. It may not be fair, and it may not have been our intention, but we built it brick by brick all the same. Every time the X-men flew off to punch their problems away, it was all leading up to this. We can’t undo years of conditioning just because they’ve suddenly become inconvenient.”
Horn’s cheer disappeared behind the shadow of a tooth-grinding scowl. “Tch. Don’t tell me that. I refuse to accept the idea that Jack Thompson ever had a point. I’d rather risk getting shot.”
‘It may come to that,’ O’neal thought. Thirty meters ahead, at the edge of the ‘VIP box,’ the parasite could see a small child faking exuberance at his parent’s conversation.
The warspawn laughed and pretended it was due to a comment by his father.
A small twitch obscured the disapproving shake of Mannly’s head.
O’Neal narrowed his eyes as they approached the idling socialites.
The boy tapped his hip where neither of his guardians could see him. His middle finger stood out against the fabric of his pale green vest.
O’neal ignored the youth’s purported indifference and stared at the side of his skull.
Mana twisted through the air like ribbons of sharpened foil. At the edge of O’neal’s tendrils, the parasite could feel his flows being deflected by curls of 'Hardened Bone.' His temper ensured the pressure was sustained as the captain parked their cart by the curb. In the thirty seconds it took for the mayor to begin glad-handing his donors, the two of them warred back and forth, their battle invisible to their mundane audience.
Even O’neal barely noticed the scent of blood blooming across Mannly’s aura.
O’neal grunted and took the submission for what it was.
You could hear the air quotes in his sarcastic transmission. O’neal didn’t care. So long as Mannly adhered to his word, he could feel however he pleased. After all, it wasn’t like O’neal was any happier to be here than his counterpart. Not when he was about to kick off a massive manhunt. He had to do it, though. He couldn’t live like this.
‘Or maybe it’s just no way to live,’ O'neal conceded, his gaze blankly trained on the blonde. Mannly was young. For all that he endeavored to present himself as a well put together professional, he hadn’t yet realized that there was a trap to such lines of thought. Namely, how the world wasn’t a job you forced yourself to endure: it was a chance to build a foundation. One that could shield you from inequity and harm. Otherwise, what was the point? To merely eat, breathe and suffer until you stumbled across a run of bad luck? There had to be more to life than that. O’neal refused to accept the possibility that Deravan had been the proper state of things.
A flare of pain dispersed the maudlin thought as Mayor Horn stopped fishing for handouts. O'neal closed his eyes. In the time it took him to open them again, Captain Gladhand had restarted the cart and resumed their journey down the road.
Mannly drifted into the distance like a knife pointed at his back.
“...Sorry about that,” Horn muttered once there was no longer a chance they’d be heard. “I’m afraid the grind never stops. Do you need a moment? I can send someone to fetch you a bottle of water if you’d like.”
O’neal dismissed the offer, embarrassed by the crack in his composure. “No. Thank you. I doubt it would be of much help. I just need to power through the day. I’ll be fine once this is all over.”
“Optimistic,” Horn chuckled. “That’s not like you. Usually you’re the one telling me about how I need to sit down and pace myself.” He rapped his fingers against the door. The tiny taps of keratin upon plastic overlapped with the bumps in the road. “...How long have we known each other, now? Six - seven years?”
The calendar within O’neal’s office briefly flickered through his mind. “Five years this April.”
“It feels longer,” the man admitted. “Doubly so when we’re toddling along, and I can see you fighting off a wince. Between the two of us, it shouldn’t be you who has trouble climbing a flight of stairs. Speaking of which, have I thanked you yet for coming out here? I know my staff has been tearing after your secretary to get everything squared away.”
O’neal squinted at the morning sunlight reflecting off the glazed high-rise beside him. “I think there’s a voicemail somewhere in my inbox to that effect. I’d have to dig through the machine to be sure.”
“Then I’ll say it again. I appreciate you putting in the time.”
O’neal squirmed within his seat as well as within his host. “You don’t have to go that far; it’s not like I’m donating my hours.”
“I do,” Horn denied. “There’s ‘work’ and then there’s work, and you’ve always delivered the latter. It’s been noted. There’s a reason why we offered you the sanitation contract, even though Dave undercut your bid.”
A pair of bushy eyebrows rose as O’neal’s gaze cut to Gladhand. “Are you sure you should be telling me this right now?”
Horn waved him off. “It’s fine. The pace of his schedule was judged to be ineligible, due to the importance of having working toilets. There won’t be any complaints. None that matter, anyway.”
O’neal frowned, annoyed and appalled by the Sea’s ability to derail his life by accident. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything. I’ve been told that’s the first rule of politics.”
Horn laughed long and hard until he noticed his companion’s mood, then he trailed off and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, nevermind all that. We can share a drink later to celebrate. In the meantime, why don’t I introduce you to a few people. I understand you're looking to expand your business into the Springfield and Worcester area.”
The distant form of an old woman waited for them atop a stage. O’neal recognized her as Elizabeth Candeel, the Chairwoman of the Public Services Commission. That meant the broad figure she was deferring to was probably Governor Bouchard.
O’neal took a deep breath. He set aside the connections he’d forged, and the empire he’d built, before checking on the mana in his core. “You know what? I’d appreciate that. In fact, why don’t we run the gamut. Because if the first rule is to not say too much, then the second must surely be that you can never have too many friends.”