“What is real is defined by the beholder. If the beholder cannot tell whether a ting is a lie or a truth… does it matter?” - written foreword by Kari Raskonnen, Chapter 16, Iron Legion II, 2095, Federated Press

“Sirrah, what is your pleasure?”

“Gin and soda.”

“A Tom Collins coming up.”

Martin took the drink, inspecting the bartender before he took a sip. The man’s water-combed hair, his old fashioned penguin suit and the bronze of his skin were clear and vivid, almost like the real thing.

The man’s affected accent were of the old western movies, a form of casts that had gone out of vogue before the Devastation. Had that nameless Proxy made that choice?

He leaned against the counter, taking small sips, turning his eyes in a wide arc. Tables of black metal had been arrayed around a slightly raised podium where a pianist played the organ. Men and women of all of Sweden’s ethnicities sat so, admiring the play. The people wore older suits, pre-Devastation.

He paused. The drink even had that fresh taste of lemon.

The counter, the pianist and the bartender weren’t real. The people at the café weren’t real. Even the sensations that he now experienced - the touch of the wood varnish against his hand - were fake.

If he focused, he could feel the sensor-nodes attached to his body, the ones that made the virtual reality so…real. None of the glitches or sometimes wooden characters of the camps here.

The difference between the camps were not just in size or commodities then, but also in technology, though he knew that.

He stared around, glancing down at the old wristwatch. It was producing an odd ticking sound, a noise that followed the rhythm of his heart. Had people really walked around with these all the time? No wonder they had been stressed.

He noted the time.

The message had been clear. “15.00, Baghdad Cafe, look for the lady in red.”

He rehearsed what he had intended to say, to ask about the health-exam and the note, which he suspected she had authored.

“Sorry for being late! Work took longer than I thought.”

He froze. A woman sat next to him. Red. Trousers, shirt and jacket. Martin looked down on his watch. She hadn’t been here a second ago. He stared into eyes like ocean pools and blinked. Martin shook his head, attempting to dispel whatever it was that had transfixed him. He distantly noticed short black hair, crowning a tanned face.

He forced his eyes to move away as his thoughts remained stuck.

“You’re not late.”

She made a motion with her hand, and the bartender poured a beer. They were both above the age of majority then.

He summoned whatever focus left to him-

He met her eyes, noting the epicanthic folds, aware of the disparity between the two of them. It was all well to stare, but he didn’t want to forget. While she might have called this meeting, it wouldn’t do to think that they were equals.

“I’m sorry,” she reiterated.The last time we saw each other, I showed you something you’d rather have forgotten.”

Martin shrugged, thinking of the deviathan. “It’s fine.”

She looked at him.

“I hadn’t thought about that memory in years. You caught me off guard.” The lie came smooth and honeyed.

She nodded, slowly.

“Still, I ambushed you the moment you entered the arcology. For that, you have my apology.”

It would be a lie to say that he had slept well in last nine day, but he did his best to reveal nothing of that sentiment.

An arm swung over the counter and he shook it, instinct overriding thought.

“I haven’t introduced myself, have I?” The right side of her lips quirked upwards.

“I’m Chiyo Moyamoto.”

Oh shit.