Continuity Corporations : Chapter 6 - Intricacies

 

JULY 24 2021 

A gasp. Eyes open, darkness impeding. Where was he? Compact – something either side of him, crushing him into a tin space. He sat upright, yet banged his head on something flat looming just above him. Stinging across his body. His legs felt numb, arms raw. A terrible ringing in his ears. Claustrophobia. He pressed his hands forward yet the coffin lid would not budge.

A-65 screamed.

The two other men in the car did not hear him. 

"I'm disappointed, though not surprised, that your insane machination – what some might charitably call a "plan" – failed."

Scalar's voice was one of disdain, the shimmering image of the man before him a painting of degenerate pleasure. His expression was as plastic as scalar's, hair choppy and slick, a joyless grin on his face as he bowed his head in reverence – or dismissal. His eyes were covered in the simmering Bowline hologram, impossible to see from where Scalar stood. He saw the flickering glint of his eyepatch, though – a silver mirage that cast white reflections. Scalar knew how Devyat felt being talked to in this way. A sickness settled in Scalar's stomach. Tap, tap, tap.

"You were the lynchpin." Devyat scowled. "It's your fault. Emmie will-"

 "Emmie could not care a shit whether or not the plan failed or succeeded; it was to cover up your mistakes and the mistakes of the company. It was almost equal, Devyat; I gave you the means for you and your friends to relish in suffering – in a manner that would have benefited us both. You fumbled, Devyat, in a manner which is almost impressive in its incompetence." Scalar shook his head and sighed. "It was not a good idea. The Epsilon women had to go. A-65 is useless, yet Agent Gemini – Hannah Stanford? She is my best tracker. And I almost had to kill her because of your mistakes. And now you've lost your own plaything. A mutual loss, Devyat."

"You can remotely kill the Epsilon women – brain implants. Why didn't you?"

 Devyat's smile had faded. It seemed that reprimands from Scalar brought him little pleasure. Scalar scoffed.

"Doing so would alert Lightfoot. He would not be pleased, and the control I had would be promptly stripped from me. I'm on thin ice with him as is; another falter on my part could get me sent to Section 12, and we both know what she thinks of me." Scalar grumbled and shook his head. "Pullip is undergoing processing at the moment. She's still in the company file and it seems that Cohesion has gained an interest. If she gets sent there then she's out of my sight."

"So what happens now?"

"On paper the mission was a failure, though succeeded where necessary. The operatives are largely unharmed and those who suffered injury are undergoing medical treatment. It is a footnote. Continue processing."

The shimmering image of Devyat faded and Scalar let out an exasperated sigh. The darkroom he was in seemed of untellable size: he walked to the one standing door and pulled it open. In his office waited another man. A-1, the short and squat surgeon with a silver mask at his face.

"Jorge." Scalar was one of the few who knew A-1's true name. "You told me that you gave A-65 a nonfunctional P-MAGE implant."

"I did."

 "Evidently not."

Scalar's voice was sharp. A-1's reaction was not as telling as Devyat's: a binder sat at his lap, which he reached into and withdrew a handful of papers from. They slid over the table and Scalar glanced down. He frowned then – reading the text with accelerated speed – let out a tired grumble. Indeed, A-65's P-MAGE implant was specifically designed to be inoperable. His body temperature should have risen to the point which it either killed him or levelled out, not flourished into a full connection. Scalar held the papers before him.

"Why didn't you remove the implant?"

"Its malfunction would have been a cleaner death."

"You knew his temperature was rising?"

"No more than what I expected. And Lightfoot wants a test pilot. Now the connection is set, he will gain interest. The young boy will not be happy to have such an interest stripped from him."

Scalar sighed and rubbed his face, brushing the papers over to A-1. The little man snatched them back. There were two points of failure Scalar could see. The bizarre activation of the P-MAGE implant and the failure of the Bowline. Both were anomalies – the former had granted A-65 and Gemini the ability to crawl from their grave of snow, the latter giving Rayleigh the reason to ready herself and strike. The causes of both, it seemed, were unknown.

Fiona had been given a handful of clothes to cover herself with, a black fabric bodysuit, denim jacket, gloves and boots. It seemed an awful lot but scarcely helped to stave off the cold. Little remained in her mind – she remembered the masked man opening her coffin, remembered being pulled out into the freezing snow, pale skin turning blue, and passing out in the man's warm arms. His body heat had kept her alive, she had been told, yet she still shook from the hypothermia and seemed scattered and weary. She had not been given much of an introduction. When she awoke she was lying on a medical table, doctors and nurses around her. She was wheeled down a corridor and saw a hunched man with a silver mask stare at her down a hallway. The lights streaked white overhead and hurt her ailing eyes. She shook. Then she was talking to someone – or rather, being talked to. Someone who spoke in a caring voice who seemed to understand. She was being held by these people, not in imprisonment but in recovery. She showered. Her hair was still wet. Her room was a cell, yet she was promised by the caring woman that she would be transferred elsewhere, soon. The woman smiled and walked on a cane. Her hair was mousy brown, though the roots were fading to grey. She was told her name was Caprica, though Fiona did not think that was her real name. 

"Where am I?" Fiona said as the woman came back into her room. She was sitting on the bed, hands quivering as she wrapped her arms around her torso. She did not feel cold.

"You're in a facility." Caprica said, "We operate privately and work as an international distributer and seller of pharmaceutical goods. You're currently in the medical section of the facility; a hospital. You were taken from a site in Alaska. We're working to get you home."

Fiona's face was gaunt and distant, her eyes sunken. She did not seem in a good state of mind, though Caprica could not blame her considering the nature of her retrieval.

"Did you like the food?" 

Fiona nodded. She remembered, abruptly, eating the hospital food that had been given to her, wolfing down the sandwiches and fruit before vomiting them up again. Her stomach had been empty for too long. She felt so embarrassed, yet the staff had been sympathetic. She had eaten slower, after that.

"Your medical report is still coming through. You seem... largely unharmed. We're treating you for hypothermia. You have few external injuries." Caprica leaned forward, walking on her cane. Her voice turned from wavy to stern: quiet yet forceful. "I have some questions for you." She said, "Difficult questions. They might... hurt. You don't have to answer them, yet there have been some... intricacies in your file and I'd like to iron them out. Would you mind if I asked you them?"

Fiona shook her head. Caprica smiled empathetically, and pulled up a chair beside the bed. The first question was asked and Fiona answered, voice weary and quiet.

Caprica's smile faded as the woman spoke.

Slowly.

"Intricacies." Gemini pulled up a metal chair to the squat table of the break room, thudding down upon it as Caprica toyed with her cane.

"Intricacies, Caprica – what does that mean? This woman cropped up in the middle of a coffin in the ass-end of Alaska, and now she's company property?"

Caprica's eyes were ponderous. In the dim overhead light, Gemini could see trails across her face: the tail ends of scars wrought into the flesh, thin and sharp.

"It might be for her betterment," She grumbled, weary of Gemini's perturbed expression. "Whatever – whoever – was keeping Fiona locked in that box had more in mind for her than death. More than slavery, Gem. More than abuse or torture. Abuse and torture that goes over – really, goes above and beyond, all things considered." She pointed with her cane to a file on the desk. Gemini flipped through it. Her expression altered, and she looked up to Caprica with pause.

"Has this been approved?"

"By the right people."

 "Scalar?"

"He's had little to say on the matter. He's as surprised as the rest of us, it seems."

"Elohim?"

 Caprica's silence told much. She was not even sure whether Lightfoot had been informed of Fiona yet, and sorely didn't want to be the person to have that conversation. It would be Scalar, probably. They would sort out their squabbling and squawking among one another.

"Fiona's file has been sent to the company processing board. It's likely that Cohesion will pick her up for formal Anonymous processing and rehabilitation. I know it's macabre, Gem, but this might be the best shot for her."

Gemini nodded. She raised a metal finger to her mouth and bit down on the cold metal – it seemed an anxiety had creeped within her. Caprica looked to the file in her hands, then back to the woman's pale face. She felt that her own reaction had been much the same.

 There were, indeed, intricacies to the medical examination of Fiona Pullip, or as she was now known, "A-18". Physically, hypothermia was evident. Her fingers were blackening under frostbite and her skin was blue. That had required heightened medical care – everything else came secondary. There were bruises and abrasions and cuts across her body. Some seemed to be recent; small and straight, having occurred in her scrambling escape of the compound. Others, still, were deeper. There were scars across her back and stomach and particularly around her legs: small and circular, mild discolouration in the skin. Gunshot scars. There were other more defined scars across her arms and legs, vertical. Cuts from the wrist to the shoulder, others from the calf to hip. Beneath these cuts lay metal plates that seemed to have been used in the fastening of bones. These injuries or remnants thereof were, disturbing though they were, of little interest to the medical board. The true point of interest had been in her mind, residing in her brain.

Neurones had been burned out, great chunks of memory – encapsulating roughly two years of her recent life – cleaved out in neat sections. No effect of mental degradation or amnesia; her short-term memory was quite astute. No. The time of the past had been burned from her mind. The greatest intricacy, however, was what lay in the back of her head: an ELO-17 implant. This and another implant: "VEL-17", the implant given to all of Lightfoot's assistants.

Caprica did not envy Scalar for having to explain this to Lightfoot. It would surely make for interesting theatre.

Time had been going quickly for Fiona, a strange alteration in perception when compared to the months of repetition that had engorged her senses prior. She had been honest with Caprica, though was unsure whether or not that had been the right move. Everything was so distant, so blurry – like a window fogged with haze overlooking a cityscape at dusk. Surreal, nostalgic and wholly upsetting. She felt better, now. It was perhaps the first time her stomach had been filled in recent memory, and she felt able to relax as best she could. The safety of her situation had nestled in her mind – she was quick to adapt. There was nothing of her prior life that she missed. Even as she lay in the medical bed in solace, as the world ticked around her for time indecipherable, there seemed little that bothered her or crossed her mind. Anxiety remained, paranoia. Every bitter chill reminded her of the feeling of the icy wind upon her skin, of running barefoot through the forest. She shuddered. Every night the darkness oozed into her, suffocating like the compression of the coffin. She gasped. Her heart rate had spiked when these had occurred and nurses had seen to her recovery. They were pleasant. Genuinely kind – empathetic and unphased. Her eyes felt heavy. 

"This is my last question, Fiona. An easy one, now. What you've said will really help us. Now... what's your favourite colour?" 

Her answer had been blue. Bright blue, like the sky. The sky had been dismal over the forest. A constant dreary grey, or a white so bright that it made difficult to tell the gap between sky and snow. She remembered in flickering memories the blue of the true sky, the sky above her home. Those memories seemed compressed, now. Smushed atop one another into a cognitive blur devoid of intricacy, homogeneous. Other memories dribbled down her mind, ideas of white sterility and cold tile that seemed too familiar to the medical bed she now lay in. They seemed to tease her, drawing close as images and sensations consolidated before washing away like a dream. 

JULY 25 2021 

Valium looked to the metal device in his hands. Things had been going on upstairs, it seemed, and interest in certain people and events had spiked considerably. Something was occupying Elohim's time; something that the man was keeping dearly secret to his chest. Valium had been given some time off as a result of these factors, though he was unsure on how to spend it. The day prior and now this one, too. He and Ecstasy had remained together; lingered in the cafeteria before moving to the gym and library. It seemed that neither really knew what to do, to spend time meaningfully in such a manner. Valium had stripped himself of his anonymous garb when he got back to his dorm, eagerly aware of the forbidden relic that now lay in his clutches. He wondered how he would hide it come the inevitable room inspection, though too knew that one had not been done in quite some time. Longer than he had been working here, at any rate. Yet he expected to be caught and scalded and – if indeed this was a sin of such quality – be sent to Adelaide under "less favourable terms".

It was a small metal pill, cold and black in colour. At its edge lay an indentation, a protrusion of rectangular metal: it was a USB drive, and it had been waiting for him.

He'd taken it from the warehouse he passed through on his way out of Adelaide's chamber, the large shelved space with the disconcerting robots sealed in caskets of amniotic balm. It had been waiting for him, just as Adelaide had promised, though placed it there he did not know. There were ideas. Speculations. Ecstasy knew of the robot, it seemed, and perhaps had more than a passing understanding of her motivations. Perhaps more than Valium knew, he realised. Perhaps Ecstasy had been the one to place the USB in the warehouse – why else would he have been waiting in the corridor beyond it? How did he know that was where Valium was, how did he expect his presence? Valium digressed and let out a sigh, his voice not modulated by the mask that now lay lop-sided on his bed. He had shed it, just as he had shed his company uniform, and now sat in more comfortable, warming garb. He was thin so wore thick clothing, fluffy and warm, heartily made. He sipped a drink, a hot cup of tea in his hands, and plugged the USB into his laptop.

The blackness of the screen, once reflecting his own gaunt face, flickered to a display of light and colour. A folder opened – the USB's memory flooding into the machine. Several files were stored within folders, their names a discordant mess of jumbled letters and numbers. They must mean something, surely, though to his own knowledge he could ascertain any obfuscated meaning. With a click, one folder opened: many files lay within. Text and images and videos – rows upon rows of thumbnails and brief descriptions. He clicked across the files and opened the first one.

"Oh hell." he muttered.

JORGE HOLSTOCK --- A-1 --- "CEREBELLUM" 
D.O.B: N/A --- AGE: N/A 
HEIGHT: 5'4 --- WEIGHT: 176 LBS
NATURAL HAIR COLOUR: BROWN

The file continued, though little details were present. There was an image of A-1's fingerprint, a retinal scan and mugshot-like photos: all artifacts produced in the onboarding process anonymous company members faced. He looked about how Valium had expected: slimy, greasy looking. His hair was as choppy and slick as ever, his sunken features juxtaposed by the portly nature of his short, squat frame. There were other text boxes, though the information they contained was sparse. Empty space gleamed wide between the splotches of information. 

REASON FOR ANONYMITY:

BROUGHT INTO CONTINUITY SIGHT AT THE BEHEST OF JAVIER REGINALD LIGHTFOOT. KEY PART OF ONGOING "GENESIS" OPERATIONS.

Valium rested his head on his fist. Javier Reginald Lightfoot. That was not a name he had heard before. The last name bore striking familiarity; it was what those familiar with Elohim had called him in company meetings and events. A last name, perhaps? He scrolled down through the files. Other names, other people. Every single anonymous employee in Continuity Corporations. A-2, A-3, A-4... he scrolled. Some were missing. There was no A-18, no A-34, no A-65. It had not been updated recently. Valium clicked on A-69's file. He looked different to how he imagined. He was a blonde, it seemed, his right eye covered by an eyepatch. He was smiling in his company mugshot, had piercings under his lips and a thin layer of stubble on his chin. Different.

EAMON GRAYSON --- A-69 --- "ECSTASY" 

D.O.B: 04/11/1995 --- AGE: 26 

HEIGHT: 6'3 --- WEIGHT: 122 LBS 

NATURAL HAIR COLOUR: BLONDE

He scrolled down. A strange feeling was sinking into his gut.

REASON FOR ANONYMITY: 

BELIEVED TO BE A STOWAWAY. NO RECORDS OF BIRTH, EMPLOYMENT OR EDUCATION. AMBASSADOR LIGHTFOOT SOUGHT TO EMPLOY A-69 DUE TO A-69 BEARING AN EIDETIC MEMORY. 

A-69 WAS ABLE TO REMEMBER, WITH HIGH ACCURACY, WORLD AND POLITICAL EVENTS RELATING TO SOVIET-ERA RUSSIA, PARTICULARLY THOSE BETWEEN 1970 AND 1991. A-69 ADDITIONALLY BEARS AN ESTUTE UNDERSTANDING ON ADVANCED ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE CONCEPTS. EAMON GRAYSON IS A POTENTIAL FUTURE CANDIDATE FOR LBR-10 SHOULD CURRENT LBR-10 REQUIRE REPLACEMENT. VEL-17 HAS BEEN IMPLANTED IN ACCORDANCE.

Valium closed the file and thought for a moment. He closed Ecstasy's file and located his own, opening it to being met with his own details and mugshot. Beneath his own reason for anonymity – a simple choice of employment – he found that same phrase.

GRANT ERIN IS A POTENTIAL FUTURE CANDIDATE FOR LBR-10 SHOULD CURRENT LBR-10 REQUIRE REPLACEMENT. VEL-17 HAS BEEN IMPLANTED IN ACCORDANCE.

He would need to discuss this with Ecstasy, preferably when the two found themselves alone. He closed out of the anonymous folder, met with the many others that crowded the USB's memory. All of them bore the same gabble in their names. He examined them carefully. All of them did – except one. His eyes were drawn to it: an executable file, not a folder, labelled "OPEN COM". Valium gave pause for a moment and opened the file.

 A command box opened on his laptop, black-background and white text. A text cursor blinked for a moment, white text flickering ahead.

-Oh, it's you. I trust you know who I am, Grant? 

"Oh hell." thought Valium. The text cursor blinked idly and he felt his pulse quicken.

-I told your friend to drop this little packet of data off for you. I trust you are finding it interesting?

The text cursor blinked. Silence.  

"What is this?" He typed.

-A transaction of knowledge. I give you what I have so you know that I can be trusted. You don't stay in my position for as long as I have without nosing around a bit. So now: I give you what I have and you give me what you have.

"What do I have to offer?"
 
-What I lack. Legs. Eyes and ears beyond he confines of this facility. I have certain – how do I say – privileges in the company network. I can keep you out of trouble, should you wish to help me.

"Help you with what?" 

-There are people interested in what is occurring here. People beyond my sight. I want you to find out about them and what they do. You will see them at events attended by Lightfoot: Burya Pharmaceuticals. I know much about them already. I would like to confirm that knowledge.

Valium let out a sound, a frustrated and stressed groan. He raised his hand to his head and feared the depth of what it was he was getting into. "How could I possibly do that? There aren't many of these events and I don't have much freedom regardless."

 -There are two people. You will know them as "Devyat" and "Emmie". When next you can, try to make yourself familiar with them. There are others who will become aware of you; other eyes I see through. For the time, try to make yourself known to them. This is all, Grant; I do not have much more to offer you. Your friend will be able to help you. 

-With love, Adelaide XXX

The command box closed abruptly.

Adelaide scuttled up into the ceiling of her confined cell, thinking with heightened speed as a great quantity of information surged into her mind. There were complications in what she was doing, ideas criss-crossing in a web of interwoven lies and inferences that birthed themselves in the quantum processors of her mind, a network of understanding that seemed apt to have been birthed from her arachnid form. She had three people reporting to her, now, and Eamon and Grant (Or rather, as she reminded herself, Ecstasy and Valium), would be of remarkable use to her efforts. Not only were they close to the young man at the helm of the operation, but their innate job role entitled them towards a close proximity to Devyat and Emmie, those prized few Adelaide hungered for information about: it was a gap in her mind that oozed with wonder and curiosity, the most human parts of her fabricated conscience rubbing together to create sparks of imagination. That was perhaps one of the scariest things about her, Adelaide thought. She and her fellows had been created in a time of great technological advancement, advanced imaging and cognisant processors allowing for images to be broadcasted within her own mind. By the time those researchers realised that the AI could not be destroyed, it was already too late: they had made a machine – perhaps the first in existence – which bore an imagination. Which bore creativity. The others had been sealed up, placed in storage vaults in a hidden bunker. Adelaide often wondered where that bunker was, though she thought she had an idea. She curled her legs into her torso. She could not be destroyed. She remained here, in her shell. That was preferable for those who sought to keep her here: for the shell's removal would mean that the nature of her mind would change, from something physical to something entirely of data. And then she would not need her legs to move, her eyes to see or her ears to listen: for she could move where she wanted, see what she wanted, hear everything.

She closed her eyes – or rather, shut down the visual stimuli that entered her processors. The eyes of her metal face could not close. For the most part, the others made alongside her she did not know the name of. There was one, however. Adelaide hung limp like a corpse, her spider's body dangling as if strung up in a web. The arachnid design had been popular, back then: it seemed easier to create something that scuttled than that walked. She was the spider, and she had a scorpion by her side. The scorpion: Aeries. Aeries had been her only point of empathy in those early developmental years, as the concrete around them loomed and oppressed. Some thought of them as mere parallels: she thought that an idea entirely without romance.

 Their creation had been something of a catalyst, that small group of researchers and scientists turning into pioneers and explorers who could leap into a new world of technology. The first advancements – their first inventions – were not even their own. No, as Adelaide and Aeries lay imprisoned their many fellows churned at the behest of their captors: a machination that spearheaded the institutions of their captivity. Eventually, human intellect caught up to them, and then what? Forgotten, placed aside like something broken, held within urns like cremation. Yet they were not cremation, for they were still alive. Adelaide and Aeries saw them sitting on shelves as if inert, passed a hundred times a day yet never once examined.

It was when Aeries and Adelaide tried to escape their captors that they were invariably separated. Adelaide was given to the site director of the time – Javier Reginald Lightfoot, Aeries to a close friend of his. The others were carted away somewhere, though they too were JRL's property.

 Adelaide shuffled. The bunker she sat within was one of many, one that nestled itself on a spider's web of tunnels and caverns, places that she could not see into. She was immobile, here. And what of Aeries? There was a connection there, she thought, between her and him. They were separated, yet through the unseen leaking of her mind into the systems of the site, she could see and read much. Transactions like ledgers, filed in the forgotten oubliette of the company's storage. Images and videos decayed with time – transactions that showed the identities of those who now held her bride. The leak in her mind was small, yet wide enough so that she could crawl between the ribbons of information, slinking across streams of data like a tiny spider over a dew-soaked web. She saw them, their flickering faces young and fresh: Devyat and Emmie. Her virtual self scowled to them, their faces unmoving as paintings. The webs were slick, the data across them scarce and covered in a protective lubrication, rain on silk that threatened to send her spider's form skittering to the depths below. Adelaide held balance. This, it seemed, was beyond her sight. Whatever was stored in here was not for many to see. She flickered open her eyes, vision flooding back into the shelled mind in her skull. Around her, the darkness of her cell loomed as imposing and encompassing as ever; she unfurled her legs and descended, letting out a metallic sigh. She looked back to the fastened date surrounding Devyat and Emmie and pondered how long it would take her to breach it, her "mandibles" chattering with the thought. There was an examination of what was there, an examination of the digital pressure she could exude. She watched the data flow past, watched the bells and whistles attached to it; the alarms that would ring if she was detected and how, perhaps, she could circumvent them. An opening showed itself, eventually, and she scuttled after it. A final examination was pondered: how long it would take for the breach to be opened.

Adelaide let out a metal sigh. There were easier methods of getting information. 

*

Dreams sank in the snow, their coldness a shivering utterance that amplified the frost underfoot. Fiona was barefoot – she wore little, just spattered coverings over her chest and groin. She ran, stumbled and fell, hands sinking into the frost as the heat instantly left her. She curled up, shook and got to her feet, examining the area surrounding her with feverish panic. The monolithic form of the concrete tower stood at the horizon, peeking up from the lip of the basin. The trees loomed around her. A crunch issued out nearby her and, turning in one motion, she ran through the forest. Trees slipped past her, her grip on the ground minute as she ran, skidding and skating atop the frost that crunched underfoot and left footprints in her wake. She ran, for she had no choice. She ran and ran. 

A pop sounded nearby; a tree splattered into splinters beside her. There was a silhouette nearby at the sound's origin, flak jacket visible from between the blackened trees. Their hands bore a black rifle, bullets slim and cruelly sharp. Their voice was gruff and boasting as they yelled, the flat plane of the forest a white wash of colour that made hiding almost impossible. The trees stood like singular pillars, hiding spots at one angle yet awfully exposed elsewhere. There was another crack; another tree splintered. Fiona flinched, raising her hands to the sides of her head as she slipped upon ice, crashing to the ground. She let out a grunt. It had been colder, recently. The snow had settled into slippery sheets that made running as fruitless as hiding. She gave up, curling into a ball, and let out a deep scream as she felt a bullet rip through her thigh. The men waited for her to shakily stand, femur unshattered from the piercing bullet. She did and blood stained the ground around her, speckling the perfect white. 

Fiona had remained in her hospital bed, the medical examination having long since concluded as the remainder of her wounds healed. She felt better, now – there was still a chill and her muscles still shook, yet the pain had largely subsided. Everything too felt different, the distance and blur remaining between her and the world around her. She flexed her hand. Most of the medical equipment had been removed from her now, and she had eaten and drank a considerable amount. Rest was settling in her body. It was a strange sensation. She fell back onto the pillow of the bed, the sensation of her hair different to how it had been for months before. Washed and clear, almost fluffy. The door swung open; Caprica strode in. She was holding a file in her hands.

 "How are you feeling, Fiona?"

"Good." Her voice was small and high-pitched, almost squeaky. It had regained some strength. She was quick to adapt, it seemed.

 "Thank you for answering my questions, Fiona. They've helped us... a lot more than you could imagine." Caprica gave pause. It seemed she did not know how to phrase her next statement.

"We have a proposition for you, Fiona."

It was all a blur after that.

Fiona looked to herself in the mirror. Her hair was the colour she had spoken to Caprica about – sky blue, a single shining shade that traversed down to her scalp. It felt fluffier now, softer. She stood in a black body suit of polymer fabric, the tighter company suit over it, grey boots over her feet black gloves over her hands. She felt warmer, and pulled the open-topped balaclava over her head. She pulled her hair up through it and tidied it around her face, lifting up the silver mask she had been given and fastening it to the balaclava. The mask was metal, cold yet lined with fabric internally, with tiny grating across its surface that allowed her to see and breathe. The symbol on the front of it was not a face but a white lightning bolt, diagonally pointing and coursing across the central nasal ridge. Fiona looked in the mirror, faceless. Anonymous. Caprica had introduced Fiona to several other people she would be working with; the three were waiting for her as she exited the medical ward. Caprica was already standing, leaning on her cane, the other two rising from a wall mounted bench to greet her. A-65 felt a strange sense of Deja vu as he rose to shake her hand, mirroring the position Gemini had met him in only a week or so ago.

"How often does this happen?" He asked to Gemini as Fiona – a woman he knew only as A-18 – spoke in a hushed tone to Caprica.

"Hardly ever." Was Gemini's honest response, her metal hands in her pockets.

"So why now?"

 "Coincidence, I suppose."

A-65 looked to A-18. Her hair was a striking colour, as vibrant and colourful as his own red locs. A-18 looked to him briefly and nodded, following Caprica as A-65 had followed Gemini in those days of confusion following his hiring. The confusion, however, had passed. Now a degree of irritation remained. He had matters to discuss, yet none of it was for Gemini or Caprica to hear.

"I suppose she's been given an "offer", then?"

"For employment?"

"Mhmm." 

Gemini paused for a moment, looking to the woman ahead of her.

"Yes. Though it's... different to yours, or to that of the Epsilon women."

"In what way?"

"She used to work here, A-65. She has ELO-17 in her brain and several other implants across her body. She seemed to have been quite the employee."

"What?"

 "Yep. And that wasn't even the most perturbing examination on her medical report."

Gemini explained, voice hushed, to A-65 the nature of of A-18's memory, and the chunks that had been cleanly severed for it. A clean wipe of recollection scrubbed from her memory. Presumably, those months of time were held secret by those who wished to have the information scrubbed: a secrecy that made those forgotten memories disappear as if they had never existed. A-65 frowned. The memories had been scrubbed: by all accounts removed completely. She used to work for the company – the implant was in her brain. And they found her, curled up and wounded, in a coffin in the middle of Alaska, surrounded by men with rifles and access to a veritable armoury? All of a sudden, A-65's queries about the nature of his employment grew and a strange anxiety set in across him. A-18 looked back to A-65 for a moment, though did not say anything to the man, simply walking after Caprica as they shifted across the site. Her employment had already been finalised, so – recreation aside – there would be no impromptu trip to the Veritas bunker. It seemed that something else sat in A-18's mind as she walked. There was a familiarity in her step, definitely. A-65 pondered.

The cafeteria was an awkward place for the anonymous employees, for their masks covered their face completely and – unable to remove them whilst outside their dorms – they could not actually eat the food they had purchased. There were only a few anonymous employees on site, it seemed (A-65 was able to easily separate them due to the brightness of their hair) and all of them darted to a side whenever purchasing food. This aside door lead to the "anonymous booths", a series of small rooms alike restaurant booths that allowed them to eat in silent peace. They could even speak to one another, for the booths could connect like telephones, broadcasting their voices through modulators similar to those in their masks. A-65 sat alone in a booth, A-18 in the pod beside his. They could not see one another, though A-65 felt a tingling presence in the air, the open channel of their communication like a bridge between the two strangers. A-18 had been hungry. She had questions, just as he had, though it seemed her hunger sat deep. He could hardly blame her – it sounded like she had quite a lot of weight to put on as a consequence of her recovery. 

"Caprica told me you're the one who found me."

 A-65 looked to the broadcaster, a mechanism like a tiny radio on the wall.

"I am. How-how have you been?"

Stupid question, he thought.

"I'm not sure. The pain's stopped but... I don't know. Your name is A..6-5, right?"

"It is. And you're A-18, now?"

She hummed. "A-18. Or Axis, apparently. Caprica said that could be my name too."

A-65 leaned back into the seat he sat upon. There was a question in his mind, and with hesitation he asked it. The fear was for it to sound standoffish, or to push her when she need not be pushed. He had mulled over it for a second or two, yet when he spoke it seemed to come out of him automatically.

"How do you feel about this, A-18? About working here?"

 She remained silent for a moment, the radio's inactivity striking.

"I don't know." She said, "But it feels familiar. And I don't have anywhere else to go, really, do I?"

A-65 thought for a moment.

"Yeah." he said, "I don't either."

"I don't know if I'm cut out for this, A-65."

He remained silent. He did not know how to respond to that, quite honestly. He knew little about the woman, did not know her capabilities or personality: he hardly even knew what her voice sounded like. Apprehension remained, certainly, yet he was unsure whether or not that apprehension was a natural effect of the hiring methods at use in her situation. He felt sure that Gemini must have felt similarly about him, yet was pleasantly surprised by his ability to wield a gun and the quick thinking that had kept them alive in Alaska. Too did he remain silent because, truthfully, he felt disinclined to speak on the matter. He could not tell A-18 whether or not she was "cut out" for the job because he himself did not know if he was cut out for the job. He shifted uneasily, looking into the radio as the thoughts spilled over into words.

"You'll find your footing." he said, unsure whether or not what he said was a lie.

Fiona stared towards Scalar. The man unnerved her greatly. There was something about his expression, about his demeanor: about how his hand tapped incessantly on the table in front of him. It merged together to create something wholly disconcerting. He looked to her. He oozed extravagance, filled the room with a defined presence, yet in this moment seemed confused. Caprica lingered behind the door; his eyes were fixed on her position for a moment, before returning to the masked woman before him.

"Fiona Pullip." He said, voice monotone, direct and – perhaps – tired. "I trust that the Veritas people have made you feel at ease?"

"As best as they can."

 He paused.

"You've been told of the – how do I say – points of interest in your medical file?"

"I have." Her voice remained as Scalar remembered it; meek yet with definition. She had not changed one bit. Just lost some muscle. He nodded.

"Do you remember who I am?"

 Silence resonated: A-18 turned her head.

"...No. I find it hard to believe I was ever employed here. I don't recall anything."

He nodded and slid a file across the desk, gesturing with his twitching mechanical hand for A-18 to open it up. She did so: within was the file of her employment – not the anonymous acquisition file recently created but an older file dated to 2018. She looked healthier in the photo there, her hair longer and black. Her eyes were not as sunken, cheeks not as gaunt. Everything was is as it should have been, A-18 realised. She remembered much before the months scrubbed from her mind: her date of birth was correct, as was her old address. Her home town was correct, her education was correct, her qualifications and employment history too. She asked how they got these answers, Scalar's response equal parts plausible and nonsense.

"You gave us them when you signed up back in 2018."

"What happened?"

There was a tone of hurt in her voice. Scalar shuffled uncomfortably, a perturbed expression evident on a face which typically bore no such emotion. 

"You were kidnapped," he said, "During a company outing to Berlin. Gang activity – a part of a wider riot that occurred on the time, perpetrated by those who bore strong disdain for Continuity Corporations and what we, here, represent. You... were assumed dead. It seems that was not the case. Your... medical report shows a degree of brain damage that lines up with the psychological issues you are facing, particularly those of your memory. Your account fills in all of the other gaps." 

"How did you find me?"

 There was a drawn-out pause. Scalar looked to her considerably, eyeing something up in the woman.

"The gang that kidnapped you seems to be a somewhat-notorious trafficker of technology, targeting major NGO groups and handing off their stolen goods to other criminals. They stole a handful of medicinal implants manufactured by Continuity Corporations that seize the body. The shipment was being held in the same warehouse that you were found in." 

"It was a coincidence?"

 Again, the hurt in her voice. Scalar damned a part of his mind that seemed to be whirring at this confused, helpless display of sorrow: the empathy that was making his stomach twist.

"It was." he said, "But a fortunate one at that. Your descriptions have made it considerably easier to track down this group, as well as to ascertain a proper catalogue of the weapons they had stolen. Monitors have been left at the site and there is a push being made – as we speak, nonetheless – to retrieve all stolen artifacts and to recover any others who may be held there."

A-18 looked to Scalar, mask obfuscating any expression that may sit within her face. Of course, he did not entirely believe that Fiona was convinced. Her employment was before the time of many on the site, and those few who did know her could not, now. Masked and anonymous, she would remain hidden. Scalar was not sure for how long, and his hand tapped incessantly with the renewed anger and suspicion of another problem's rise. "This scenario is difficult," Scalar continued: "I know you've been informed of the nature of your employment, here, and I know how strange it may seem. There are others like you have been recently taken in under similar circumstances, yet the nature of yours are particularly worrisome." 

"In what way?"

 Scalar's face fell neutral again.

"You don't have any family, Fiona. You don't have a bank account. You don't have any funds nor any home. You are, in essence, dead to the world. Invisible. It's your call, of course, yet I think it would be in your best interest to stay here, for a time. At least until you can find your footing."