Breadcrumbs…

She had been chasing breadcrumbs, following bits of information she had consumed from her core. It lurked within her, escaping from time to time, but never allowed to wander too far. It was a risk to consume something she knew nothing about, but it was the only way to contain it. It was the only way to prevent it from seeking new potential puppets. As long as she kept her wits, as long as she was sure that she was doing was what she wanted, then maybe she might mitigate the damage that it could cause.

Its knowledge was hers, in part. She knew more than she should have, as though she sipped at the future with each forced swallow of the core that infected her. Once day, it would be gone. But until then, it would fight her. Until then, her core was no different from the ghost that haunted the Academy. Inside of her, a beast waited for its release, watching as its power drained a little more each day.

The hum of the room changed; the automaton posing as a living entity sitting across from her was about to reanimate. The powered buzz of the glass panel signalled that round three of her little interrogation session was about to begin.

She cracked her eyes open to survey the visual assault that waited. Closing her eyes was the easiest ways to the relieved herself of the mind shattering experience of witnessing so many versions of the same event. Sounds drifted in the room engineered for silence. There were recording devices, she was sure, just in case she said anything that might be used to incriminate her while she felt ‘safe’.

Curses from an angry version of herself rose and fell as though a madman was playing with the volume control. She could catch snippets of her rage, enough to put context to her actions. If she concentrated, she could slide into any of the versions like an old suit, and see the world from their perspective. Treachery was the slightly older versions’ problem. She had been issued orders from on high, delivered, then isolated. The punishment that was her reward: exile. Exile was certain death out in the wilds past the killing fields.

The child rocking at Astral’s feet, hiding beneath the table, was four years old: a weapon of war in a place where the Military Regime retained dominance. She was among hundreds of new generation weapons, marching toward the ghost as proof of their power. Lambs to the slaughter. She’d survive…

Each version held a glimpse of the future, an altered future. Astral could never hold onto the details. Each skin was like looking through a photo album and then asking what colour was grampa’s van? What was the pattern of the dress worn by her cousin twice removed? Every detail as fleeting as the last. Was it important? Sometimes the little things held the utmost importance, like the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

She held onto the events and key players, locking away outcomes into a subconscious filing system for later analysis.

It was all breadcrumbs. Information that needed to be processed with time as each event surfaced, signalling the next course of possible actions. Why her core was feeding this level of information to her, Astral could only guess. Was the Academy really in danger? Or was that the story her core needed her to believe?

She had felt the threat for herself. The Ghost was real. She had seen wards. Something was contained beneath the Academy. Did she need to know anything else?

She knew she couldn’t give the Gaming Commission what they wanted, not without getting expelled or worse. Not that she committed a breach in their rules, but rather if she admitted to the potential of putting players lives in danger directly or indirectly. A teenager’s view of the greater good would be insufficient justification. As an adult, she’d have to content with exposing the general populace to the very real threat of the demonic invasion and shattering the people’s confidence in government security. There was no winning. She’d have to hold out.

The Gaming Commissioner came to life. He had been lifelike since the moment he sat at his chair in his side of the cell. Even during the long periods of silence, there was something resembling living among the layers of bulky black and white robes, set with gaudy silver and gold designs. In a society where wealth equalled power, showing it off was an important silent statement. Members of the gaming commission were at one point game champions. Seats on the commission were limited to six members, with twenty four committee members under each. Committee members needed to be players at some point in their Academy education. Why was this important?

Until this interview, it really wasn’t. Astral had revised the processes, sent investigative algorithms to fetch key data via Philip, and had assumed that this was the way the games attempted to seal its importance within the society’s framework without contributing something of value in return. At best, she thought they were peacocking. But now…

To hide the member’s identity, they wore a gold mask, frozen in a stoic expression. Over the mask, they wore a veil that was reminiscent of an ancient order’s confession chamber. The veil’s symbolism was out of sync with the purpose of the interviews, which was to find the guilty party and assign a punishment.

She had twice the advantage in detecting genuine life. The first, her tinted lenses, indicated that the new occupant of the automaton host was named: Percy J. Finley.

She had spoken with Julien Hedley and James Pearson in earlier sessions.

Her second advantage was her ability to see life-force energy. Only when the automaton had a new operator, could she see the distinction of the colour of his soul. There was no soul in the creation sitting across from her. Not a flicker of colour emanated from its center, not a shift in its non-existent aura, only empty eyes stared at her from behind its cold mask. She had met people with multiple personality disorders with more vibrancy in their souls than these lot. She wondered if there was something lost in translation between the humans and the robotic entity.

She reasoned that the robot’s constant presence was designed to unnerve the subject of the interrogation. She was likely expected to fret, worrying about some arbitrary slight that could be perceived as criminal from the eyes of a teenager, forcing a confession from her the instant they threatened to call on her grand-father. “I’d be grateful if you would.” She smiled. “He must be so very worried. I wouldn’t want to cause him any further alarm as to the status of my well-being. Shall I inform him of the treatment I am receiving?”

Needless to say, that call never manifested; she knew it wouldn’t.

The words flashed across the screen, hanging on the glass panel between them until it was ready to speak again. “Lady Daamon, we would appreciate if you took this matter seriously.” Astral stretched, but otherwise remained in her defiant stance, despite the nagging muscles in her legs. Rebellion required some level of suffering. The hue of his words shifted. Had her integrator been present and had physical access to her, he would have swatted her legs from the table.

It wouldn’t have mattered. Dezmond had trained her to assert her authority over others who would do the same. Control is something that is freely given. It was a wrestling match to see who would yield first, who would walk away, and who would win. A lifetime of battles awaited those who demanded control. It was easier to give in.

Astral offered her best bored expression, emphasizing her thoughts of the commissioners’ role by failing to make eye contact with him. Not that she could see his eyes, but starting at a place just above his head was enough to drive anyone nuts. Again the hue of his words darkened. He wore his feelings on the surface.

The digital signature between them shaped the words into existence, lighting up her dark room. She relied heavily on her personal aura to navigate the basics that the room offered. But digital signatures, could be as good as a soul. Someone had to write the text. Someone had to feel something when they wrote it. Someone had to embed a piece of themselves into the brief communication. There was a lot of information in those words.

Percy was arrogant, much older, and had a rigid belief system. She hadn’t proven herself yet, therefore she needed to obey. Once she had proven herself, she would need to obey her elders. There was no escaping this man’s self-worship. The more words he offered her, the better picture she could paint of him through the hues of his text, in the vocabulary, in the curt ‘do as your told’ fashion, which she too employed. She had a mission. He wanted control and like his comrades, he wanted her to acknowledge his control over her.

She had given the game’s guide a thorough read, planning out exploits that she might need. They had no reason to detain her, and would have to release her before curfew. They could be pricks and release her minutes before curfew and have her detained elsewhere just to prove that they could make her life miserable. But she had a job to do, and she had anticipated these scare tactics.

A curt buzz signalled that the curfew would be in effect in an hour.

It wouldn’t be long now…

‘Seth Wright is in critical condition.’

A lie. He’d been forced to in to a sleep status as per her plan. Keep him out of the picture so she could do her job without interference. She had no idea how hard he would fight her to keep the ghost active, but he would fight her. His prior health history was a boon, requiring extra medical care and attention. The only way out of the infirmary was with a clean bill of health. His mental health concerns would lend to a barrage of psychological evaluations. Granted, she was at the Academy in part to validate his abilities. She had no idea who else was monitoring Seth.

‘Should he die, you will be held responsible. You will be sentenced to a tour in the Killing Fields.’

A tour, she knew, she would be serving regardless of any crime.

‘Tell us the truth and we can avoid such messy business.’ She’s not the intended target for this threat. It’s leverage. Against her grandfather perhaps?

“If you feel it’s necessary. I’m sure by the time they realize what happened in this room, I’ll be dead. Oops, accidents do happen. I’m so sorry for your loss Councilman Daamon. There was just no way to know that she had been cooperating this whole time.”

Silence. His text was a mix of red and black, rage and vengeance. Vengeance doesn’t have to be all consuming to leave a mark on one’s words, the speaker only needs to want to put a person in their place through negative acts, traditionally, through intimidation and threats. If the intent is meant to be performed by the speaker, the deeper the hue and runnier the stain on the soul. Murder dripped like blood and stained as widely as vengeance.

‘Had you kept your helmet secured, we would have the evidence required to vouch for your innocence. Your prolonged detainment is unnecessary and entirely of your own doing. Why did you remove your helmet?’

“Orders. There was a glitch on the equipment check. We had enough time to know what the error did, but not enough time to find the source, let alone correct it. Removing our helmets was the only viable alternative to avoid detection. You’ll note, that all helm-cams across all squads have access to Squad VII’s cam feeds. I’ve mentioned this hours ago, and since you’re bringing it up again, I’m assuming you don’t have the technical competency among your legions of lawyers to verify the data.”

‘Removal of the helmet is prohibited.’

“Chapter 3, section 4, paragraph 2. The action is supported with chapter 6, section 2, paragraph 4 on equipment maintenance and faulty equipment. Which is supported further with chapter 9 on health and safety regulations in the event equipment was tampered with and may lead to severe injury.”

Silence.

The rule book wasn’t complex. There were loophole to exploit, often with the aid of advisors found on the same Gaming Commission. Advisors were accessible to captains as they revised the legalities of experimental tactics. Astral had traced a number of instances where experimental tactics had been used in the game’s first, then employed on the killing fields within days of the game. People were watching; but players had no idea that they were cogs in a massive machine. Little Guiney pigs with their little in-fighting, too distracted by trivial ordeals to feel the tug of their strings.

Astral revised those key rules before Seth discovered the fault. She wanted to be absolutely sure, they could get away with removing the gear, regardless of if Seth used an Advisor. If he did, there should be supporting documentation, suggesting that the Gaming Commission was aware of Seth’s plan. Player survival trumped surveillance.

Documentation could be erased, but the video would have multiple logs. Logs had dates, even if the supporting evidence no longer existed. Not that it mattered in the long term, or hell, even on the short term, but knowing that something existed gave her some peace of mind. The system designed to keep people in-line could just as easily be used to leash a powerful nuisance.

Evidence or not, the Gaming Commission would rewrite the rules, a player would inevitably get hurt under the new rules, and they would be revised anew. Status quo. She needed to survive. And they needed to put her in her place.

Seth was special. His name oozed with worry. Did they know about his gift? Were they hopeful that he’d be a champion to their war?

He was special. His fear was holding him back. In these formidable years, he needed to be set on a path that would alter his destiny. Was he fighting against his destiny, his innate design to combat the horde? He had convinced himself that if he survived the war, he could have this ‘normal life’. But his actions, his talents, didn’t support his claim. He’d have to stop sabotaging himself.