“Superhuman. That is the word they use to to describe Proxies, to describe us. Such a phrase all too often fall short of describing the reality.”

- extract from the Red Century, personal memoir of Guo Juan

The door was plain and scarred, in the manner of the older parts of the Vänern Arcology. In the week since his and Chiyo’s meeting, Martin had come to a realisation. Just as Camp Sala had more affluent parts, so did the Vänern Arcology.

The older, more worn parts, constructed in the wake of Devastation had a certain cultural appeal for some, but was mostly left to institutions or people who lived niche lives.

His hand hovered before the door.

He really was here. Part of a program to create Proxies. There was a part of him that didn’t really believe…

“Hologram.”

His dad’s image smiled back at him. For a second, Martin longed to touch his beard. Feel the coarse hair. He dismissed that impulse.

“Is this the right place?”

“The Bureau of Administration does not joke.”

Martin blinked. Was that sarcasm? “Got any advice?”

The hologram closed its eyes. “Among the class of 2095, there are several entities that have been deemed either dangerous or important by the Greater Arcology Vänern Mind. Such individuals may present opportunities or hindrances. Be cautious.”

Martin parsed that comment. In other words, do not befriend a bully, play the game and try not to upset someone with serious backing.

“You’re dismissed.”

As the hologram disintegrated, Martin imagined that it was shaking its head.

He grabbed the door before his nerve abandoned him and entered.

He stood at a height, peering down on an amphitheater terminating in a wide space at the bottom. The bottom space had a lectern and ten wide squares behind it.

In descending rows, people milled and sat. He began moving down, taking the temperature of the room. There were…cliques forming. Three that he could make out.

The first were formed around two twins with South-East Asian ancestry. Martin compared their faces to that of the Korean gang-enforcers he had known, and found subtle differences. The girl wore a traditional classical suit with a necklace and grey earrings of jade, whereas her counterpart wore an outfit that brought to mind sages. A…demi-robe, on top of which another robe was layered. Beads of onyx hung around his neck.

The two of them were surrounding by people who were, to describe it diplomatically, fawning.

Another clique had formed around a pale boy who sat ramrod straight. He wore a green t-shirt, tucked into black pants, cinched tight with a belt. He turned, making a curt chopping gesture to the girl he was speaking to. Martin almost missed a step. The boy wore an eye-patch on top of his right eye, the likes of which had been marked with a red wing. A symbol of a Sovereign and a promise. To avenge what could never be forgotten.

The third clique was no such thing. If the twins were hosting court, and the one-eyed boy spoke in the manner of a sergeant, then third oasis was an absence.

A darker boy sprawled along three seats, sleeping. His clothes looked like that of a vagrant’s. Patched, with stains and holes. A wide circle had been formed around him, and the other would-be Proxies were giving the boy looks.

He stopped, deciding where to sit. He didn’t care for the twins, and the their little pageant. The boy with the patch seemed a little too military for him…

He went down and to the left, placing himself in the row directly behind the boy who looked homeless. In deference to the way the others had stared at his neighbour, Martin felt it to best be cautious, but perhaps not too curious.

Yet, something in the way they stared at the boy reminded him of home, and the way the arcology-born would sometimes look at him.

He leaned back against the seat and mused. He really was here. A would-be Proxy.