The door creaked open. The recording booth was a long rectangle. On the right side, three studio cameras guarded windows, covering the stage below. An olive green office chair was overturned at the foot of a large mixing board. Half a dozen vidscreens were mounted into a second console that boasted crossfaders and an assortment of levers.

Celia padded into the room, following a broken trail of crimson droplets. She took a wide step, careful to avoid stepping on evidence.

She had never been in this studio, but the contents of the room registered with unmistakable familiarity. Uneasiness hammered her spine like a xylophone.

At the head of the toppled chair, a swath of blood was smeared, as if something had been dragged across it.

She kneeled down and gently dabbed the substance. Raising her finger to eye level, her HUD cycled and created a double helix. Two IDs popped up, complete with medical histories and work information—KCAL 9 employees, one a director, the other a tricaster operator.

She wiped her hand against her dress and followed the blood smear on the floor to an olive green door. Blotches of rotten wood peeked through spots where paint chips had flaked off.

Celia took a deep breath. She grabbed the doorknob. A loud click echoed through the room as she twisted.

In the closet, she found the source of the blood.

They are dead, Celia.

“No, one asked you.”

It had been six months since she heard that voice. She had hoped that it was gone forever. That eliminating Costas had severed ties permanently.

But the similarity of her surroundings triggered unforgettable memories. She suspected the voice was harmless, residual programming, produced from circumstance, and not from an assassin directly taking control, but she could not be a hundred percent certain.

In the closet, two men were bound and gagged. Crimson flakes caked the hair on the nearest one.

It’s all your fault.

She shook her head like a defiant child. “No! I was not here. I did not do this.”

You should have been here sooner. You should have predicted his moves.

“I am here. I did predict his moves.”

Too late, Celia. Always too late.

She placed two fingers on the nearest man’s neck. A faint beat pulsed under her touch. She nudged him to a side, reaching for the second man. The extent of his injury appeared to go no further than minor bruising. His pulse thumped.

Celia sniffed, catching wind of a chemical scent. Something less pungent than bleach. Likely, these two men had been drugged and stashed in the closet to keep them out of the way.

From the stairwell, aging wood groaned, pounding out a series of rapid beats. Celia whipped around, eyes locked on the door.

Chitin brown exterior flashed in the dim light. Celia made eye contact.

RX-S7 held out his service taser, aiming squarely at Celia. His voiced echoed with a metallic tinge. “What happened in here?”

Celia raised her shoulders. “I found them like this.”

After a brief moment, RX-S7 holstered his taser. He traversed the length of the room, stopping a few feet from Celia, getting a better angle on the contents of the closet.

He knelt down next to her. Extending a metal hand, he placed two fingers on the neck of the nearest operator, as she had done moments prior.

It made her feel good that her adopted Black & White programming was carrying out the same routines as a professional espionage synth. Pride that she could become more than the sum of her initial programming briefly overshadowed the severity of the scene.

“That is strange,” said RX-S7. “They are alive.”

Celia nodded. “What do you think it means?”

After a computational cycle, RX-S7 said, “I am not sure.”

He knows exactly what it means, Celia. And so do you.

She quietly shushed the voice inside her head. It did not know what it was talking about.

Oh, but I do, Celia. I hunted men, remember? I know what it is like to go after prey. I know what it is to separate the wheat from the chaff.

She focused intently on the men in the closet, trying to shut out her new found conscience.

Blood. Not much, but enough to be disturbing. Workers for KCAL 9. They were doing their job when they had been attacked. There did not seem to be much struggle. Probably caught by surprise. Likely, these two were unconscious before they even knew they were in danger.

A slight smile crept across her lip. Her detective skills had come a long way from the child surrogate synthetic living with parents intent on leaving her for dead. All the clues she had missed back then—she would have seen knowing what she does now.

But her new knowledge was unable to shed light on motive. She could only share the obvious.

“It would have been much easier to kill them than to drug them and lock them up in a utility closet.”

“Yes. It would have been.”

Instead of saying what was on their minds, the synthetics continued talking in code. The truth about the assailant’s motives was a touch too real to vocalize.

He’s hunting synthetics, Celia.

“Shut up! We already know that.”

RX-S7 snapped his attention toward her. “I’m sorry. Was it something I said?”

“I—uh,” stammered Celia. Very unlike her. Very unlike a synthetic. “No. It is not you.”

Celia cowered, holding her head low. Her cheeks warmed. She could feel her blush response activate, and that knowledge made her cheeks burn hotter. Likely, they even showed bright red to anyone looking at her. She turned her head. A Black & White would never have this problem.

RX-S7 jostled the men in the closet, moving them from side to side, finishing up his initial inspection.

Peace of mind was all that Celia wanted, but the state of the two men in the closet, the blood smears on the floor, the threats on Valerie Von Medvey’s life, the trail of dismembered synthetics left beyond repair was too much to bear.

He is hunting you. All of your kind. Yet, no one wants to call him what he is.

“What is that?”

A murderer.

“It is not up to me to make that classification.”

RX-S7 paused. He slowly turned and glared at Celia.

She had seen this look before, much for the same reasons. A crazy six year old girl talking to herself. How could it be anything other than concerning?

“Sorry,” said Celia. “I am having a hard time.”

In a move that seemed uncharacteristic for an espionage synthetic, RX-S7 paused his investigation. He lowered himself to her level, placing both hands on her shoulders. “I understand.”

They held that position in awkward silence for what felt like an eternity. Celia had never heard of an espionage synthetic programmed for compassion. There was something strange, knowing that RX-S7 was built to kill people in the most underhanded and devious ways possible, yet here he was trying to console a six year old girl. Was this something RX-S7 had discovered on his own?

After all, she was no longer the sum of her programming. Maybe an infiltration synthetic, one that chose to wear a cardigan every day had been able to broaden his programming as well.

“Thank you,” said Celia.

RX-S7 patted her on the shoulder.

There was a question screaming in her head, but one she did not know how to ask out loud. In a hushed voice, she struggled for words. “He leaves humans alive.”

“Yes.”

“But not…” She left her thought unfinished.

“Yes,” said RX-S7, finishing it for her. His response carried a weight of finality with it. He understood. They both did.

Cutter could call it vandalism all he wanted, chalk it up to larceny, but the truth was synthetics viewed these attacks as murder.

“Why?” Celia asked. “Why would someone do this?”

But before they could share their concerns, a faint scratching emanated from overhead.