“Some parts of society has truly become Federated. Things like language, for example. We’re lazy apes, always seeking a more comfortable solution, one that involves less work. Trade, with its regular grammar like Spanish, the twenty five strong alphabet, the addition of a letter to imply plurals and its pronouns that can be used for gender and genderless identities - decided through context, is one. Traditions though…they underestimated people’s stubborness. Did they think that the Swedes would surrender their fika and generational atheism? That even though Mecca fell the hajj would not continue without the Black Stone of Kabaa? That the Pope’s influence, waned as it has, would be utterly reduced?“ - extract from the Aeon of Arcologies, s.31, sociologies textbook, multiple authors

The ache resonated. His eyes felt ready to burst, his spine tender and the muscles of his neck were stiff. Cotton, a hangover feels like being swabbed in cotton.

The nightmares of the Regial, antidiluivan horror that peered through the keyhole of his door, did not improve his sleep either.

“Hologram, what is the time?”

Siran Solieri manifested at the square table that occupied his kitchen.”The clock is 7.58. Are you expecting someone?”

Martin sipped from his coffee. In this, Sala was superior to the Vänern Arcology. The camps had actual beans for coffee, whereas the black liquid in his porcelain cup came from a reformulator, albeit a limited one. A true reformulator was worth its weight in gold, or credits.

“A…someone will probably show up around eight.”

Siran - never his father, it wouldn’t do to forget that - inclined his head.

“Who told you this?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was the Administrator?”

Knock.

“Who is it?”

“Berenice Sonnentag.”

Coffee spewed over the table.

“Not who you suspected?”

Could holograms, the limited subroutines of apartment consciousnesses, feel amusement? The machine spirit that had his father’s appearance sure was making a proper imitation of amusement.

“Let her in.” Martin grabbed a cloth and wiped the spill. It wouldn’t be proper Swedish manners, not fika, if he didn’t offer coffee, so he poured another cup.

“Hello?”

“Straight, and then your left,” he called back. So far he had no visitors, so this would be the first time he had a guest over.

Berenice entered, kicking the door shut with one foot, arms held close to her body. I guess I’m not the only one who is worried. Martin gestured at the second cup.

“I made coffee. Or, the reformulator did. But then, I own the apartment, so by any…” oh dear, I’m rambling, make it stop…

He cleared his throat.”Want coffee?”

She nodded.

Berenice sat down at the table. With one side of the table against the wall, she sat to his immediate left. The placement of the table had seemed like a clever and intimate idea when he moved in…less so now.

Berenice gripped the cup. She raised it. Put it down. A beautiful brooch in her hair, formed by red glass caught the light. It didn’t have that perfect, almost mathematical precision that Martin associated with synth. She scratched her right side, the hair of which was held up with another brooch, this one of white glass. As her hair moved, the smell of shampoo like honey filled the air.

Her mouth moved.

“Come again?”

“I said,”she began, louder,”that I’m sorry.”

Martin raised the cup to his mouth.

The old ladies at the orphanage had taught him that for an apology to count, the person making it had to take responsibility for whatever they had done. The old parroting of that two-syllabi word meant little if not backed up by actions.

“What are you sorry for?”

Berenice startled.

“Are you,” he tried to keep the heat from his voice,”sorry that you left us? Are you sorry that we survived?”

Better to draw it out, now, before their Tutelage began in earnest. He didn’t want have a comrade, a team-mate with a grudge or someone at his back he couldn’t trust. Even when he…plied his business back in Sala, he had made sure that he could trust those under him, and to take the measure of those above.

Her eyes were on the coffee. Martin’s were focused on a point between her brows.

“I’m sorry that I left you. That you and Calix had to fight by yourselves. That you, alone, had to undergo the Ennas Dilemma by yourself.”

Curiosity seized Martin’s tongue.”The Ennas Dilemma?”

“I saw a cast of the fight in the parking lot. You had no chance.” She fidgeted.”That’s why they call it the Dilemma. If you can’t win, what will you do?”

Apparently make sure that your teammate survives, then fight til you can’t anymore. He had reservations about the grade he had gotten, but in lieu of Berenice’s explanation…it made a depressing amount of sense, didn’t it? The High Command didn’t want Proxies that would flee when the fights got bloody. No, they wanted someone who stood their ground.

Martin grabbed a cinnamon bun and took a bite. Someone who didn’t run - who died at their post.

The more he thought about it, the less sure he was of his cause to hold the ground.

He thought back on that deviathan, the one who had killed his parents, the cause of so much of what he was.”For me, the answer was clear then, though I’m beginning to wonder it ever was. But for you…you’re here apologising.” It might not be the answer Berenice wanted, the words which would absolve her of guilt, but it was the truth of things.

Isla had been furious - was still furious - but to Martin, it wasn’t so simple. Running, that parking lot had taught him, was perhaps the better choice.

“I…”Berenice shivered. Her eyes were glassy and shining. She swept one hand up, and Martin pretended that he didn’t see the fluid.”I do this. All the time. I…start something. And when it gets real, I run.”

She laughed like broken glass.

“I thought it would change.” A nimbus of light blinded Martin and so she sat there, a knight in green, with an apple on her board.The armor could shield her from enemy fire, but not her emotions. The armor-clad figure shook.

The panes of the helmet were tinted frost, and so Martin could not see…but another burst of light illuminated the scene; that of cups left on the table, two figures locked in embrace.

A knight with a coward’s heart and a ghost in white that would not relent. What words they shared, with those low voices, none can say for the Vänern Administrator, who shan’t

-but when the knight left, her steps rang against the metal of Level 9’s floor.

Each step became a beat, metal against metal. Those who passed gave the Proxy wide berth, for more than her armor it was her body language that announced her intention: nothing would stand in her way.

And if, in an apartment, another Proxy sat, smiling, thinking of both beginnings and ends, who would gossip? Not Coastline, for sure.