“You!” Celia shouted. Her words echoed through the soundstage. “You have the right to remain silent!”

Steel arched, as if in slow motion, a full force thrust suspended in time, inching towards Valerie. A high shine reflected the stage lights. Flashes glinted through the rafters.

The knife stopped inches from Valerie’s cheek. A chitin brown synthetic held the wrist of a man in a dark cloak.

Climbing the last wrung of the ladder, Celia exited through the ceiling hatch in the control booth. Her short strides clattered thump thump thump across the catwalk.

Valerie remained frozen, unflinching. The blade hung suspended in midair, the steel tip wavering, shaking against the force restraining it. The man in black pressed both of his hands against the knife’s heel, leaning his full weight into it.

Servos whined and hydraulics shimmied. RX-S7 strained under the pressure.

The man in black turned toward the chitin brown machine. “Who the hell are you?”

“Scott,” he said, almost too casually.

The man in black released pressure on the blade, causing RX-S7 to whiplash forward. He strafed behind the synthetic and followed with a spinning kick that swept RX-S7’s feet out from under him. A clanking echo thundered as the synthetic smacked into the railing.

Wildly slashing, the man in black lunged on top of RX-S7. The synth dodged, grabbed the assailant’s right hand, rocked back with the momentum, and tossed him away from Valerie. His dark cloak fluttered like a frantic animal, and he hit the railing, doubling backward. His left hand lashed out and caught the railing, while his right spasmodically jerked above his head. He managed to right himself seconds before RX-S7 could land a counterattack.

Celia scurried past the combatants and dropped to a knee next to Valerie. “Mrs. Von Medvey, I am Celia. Are you okay?”

Her eyes were glassy, locked on the man trading blows with RX-S7.

“We met yesterday at the police station. Do you remember me? Are you okay?”

Valerie turned her head. A moment later, her eyes followed and found Celia.

“Am I… okay?”

Celia nodded and repeated the question. It wasn’t difficult, but apparently Valerie needed time to process.

“Not really.”

“Can you move?”

Valerie’s head shook of its own accord, but the words were not registering. “Can I move?”

“We need to get you to safety. You have been injured. Can you move?”

“I’m injured?” Valerie parroted. Her tone was indecipherable. Was she asking or simply stating her condition?

Valerie made a sudden jostling movement and grabbed Celia by the biceps. Pain registered in red flashes across a wireframe layout on Celia’s HUD. Trembling, Valerie stared at her, through her, as if the importance of her message could be transmitted through eye contact alone. “The cameras.”

“Yes, you were on a morning show.”

“No.” Valerie pointed at a tinted dome above their heads. “The cameras.”

Celia followed the length of Valerie’s extended arm. She wasn’t talking about the show. She was talking about the security cameras. But why?

On the railing, Celia spotted another trinket that did not look like it belonged in the rigging. On it, she saw herself in black and white huddled over Valerie. A vidscreen device.

“They captured everything,” said Valerie.

A resounding crackle snapped her attention back to the combat. RX-S7 skidded to a stop a few feet in front of them.

The man in black removed something from under his cloak. A small circular device.

“Scott!” Celia shouted. “Look out!”

But it was too late. The man in black slapped the circular device against RX-S7’s chest. Blue electricity sparked. The synthetic squealed, a tinny inhuman whine. With three quick slashes, the man in black cut the hydraulic coils on RX-S7’s neck. His head fell, rebounding limply off his chest. An effortless kick toppled the synthetic.

The fight wasn’t over. The man in black was going to make sure of that. He jumped on top of RX-S7, taking a few seconds to precisely position himself. He cocked his head to a side, a haunting image given the gasmask’s lack of expression. Through it, Celia heard him mutter, “I’m sorry about this, but I can’t have you interfering.”

The man in black plunged the blade into RX-S7’s gut and gave a sharp twist. Prying up the chest panel, he rifled through wires and electronic innards with his free hand. A rapid succession of slices freed the fusion core from its housing, and he casually pocketed it.

Celia watched in frozen horror as the man in black dismembered RX-S7. His actions were cold. Calculated. Precise. Every slash of the blade was surgical. Not an ounce of energy wasted, not a second misused. He knew exactly where to cut, how to dislodge and remove synthetic organs, and the exact order to provide utmost efficiency.

Celia nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a tug on her sleeve. Valerie was crawling up her arm, pulling herself into a sitting position. Fluids spilled from her waist. A haunted whisper escaped. “These images,” said Valerie. “They’ll be memory forever. Unchanging. This moment, this is what I will always be.”

“We can confiscate the footage,” said Celia. “In time, people will forget. You will be okay.”

A tear rolled down Valerie’s cheek. “Maybe they will. But I can never forget.”

The clanking pattern of boot against metal reverberated a metronomic timeline of the next inescapable attack.

Celia thrusted out her hand. “Stop!”

A far off cry echoed from somewhere beneath her feet. In her periphery, she saw a sea of monitors arranged like safety nets beneath her. Dozens upon dozens of vidscreens displayed her face in tight closeup. The images shifted to varying angles of her standing upright, a full 3’ 11” over Valerie Von Medvey, defiantly yelling at an offscreen threat.

It was a surreal technicolor experience broadcast to a hungry world hanging on her every movement, her every decision, to be immortalized in the public consciousness, win or lose.

A noise, deep and haughty echoed with a metallic tinge. Laughter. The man in black was approaching.

And he was laughing.

At her.

“Well, look at what we have here.”

Celia stepped back, spreading her arms wide, blocking access to Valerie as best as her small frame allowed.

“You will not hurt her.”

The man in black cocked his head to a side. “Well, aren’t you something?”

With a flip of his wrist, he produced a blade. He grabbed the tail of his cloak and wiped the blade clean of oil and lubricant.

Celia rose onto the balls of her feet, shoulders drawn back, feet apart, and fists raised, held in the loose fighting style that came with the Black and White programming from Cutter’s previous partner.

“I will not let you hurt her!”

Haughty laughter rang out again from beneath his mask. “You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

Valerie murmured, “Everyone is watching.”

With each step, the man in black appeared to grow in height. His approach blocked out the studio lights, casting himself in silhouette. This was the first time Celia took note of the man’s height. It was easy to lose scale when he was battling with RX-S7, but in comparison to her, he was a lumbering monster.

His shadow eclipsed her. He stopped just outside of his arm’s reach—approximately double the distance of her own.

She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. “You. Will. Not. Hurt. Her.”

Without warning, he lunged, blade leading the way.

Instead of retreating and putting Valerie at risk, Celia charged.

She dodged his arm, pushing it wide. He hadn’t anticipated a frontal assault, and staggered, nearly tripping over Celia. At full sprint, she lowered her shoulder into his knee and made solid contact, but his knee didn’t give as she had hoped. Instead, she winced as she hit something hard, rigid, underneath the thick nylon-weave.

The hit stalled his forward momentum, but whining servos kept him upright. Loudly grunting, he swung his left arm in a powerful roundhouse.

Celia leaped back. The roundhouse narrowly missed. If it had connected, she would have been sent sailing. But the way he moved, the power he put behind his assaults, it was like he was moving in slow motion. She easily dodged another powerful swing from his right. This time, she heard the blade in his hand singing as it sliced air.

Their mismatched sizes had intimidated her at first. She assumed that he would be stronger, that he would overpower her, that she was hopelessly outmatched. Afraid that in a hand to hand fight, he would possess all the advantages.

But she had been mistaken.

When it came to their mismatched sizes, the advantage was hers.

She dove between his legs. His cloak parted like a theater curtain. Rolling to a sitting position, she gathered its hem in her fists, twisted her upper body, and yanked. He flew backwards, landing flat on his back.

The gasmask amplified the oomph of hissing air escaping his body. He stiffly writhed on the ground. A distorted groan rose in resonance, like bass feedback from a loud-speaker.

Celia saw her opportunity.

Without hesitation, she reached back, feeling along her belt for her handcuff pouch. She unbuttoned the restraint. Her cuffs gave a jingle.

She reached for his nearest arm. The man in black sharply turned his head. She was looking at her reflection in the blackened dome glass covering his eyes.

He went from horizontal to vertical in milliseconds. The cuffs clanked to the catwalk.

Caught off guard, Celia thrusted out her arm, twisting her body, pushing away, trying to keep a safe distance between her and the assailant. But her arm stopped short. He caught it at the wrist. His hand clamped down and she felt herself losing her footing. He was lifting her up, pulling her off the ground.

She flailed, trying to find footing. Her right hand went to his, prying at the fingers clenched around her wrist. His free arm reared back with the knife.

Celia swung her entire body upwards, wrapping her legs around his upper arm. Her weight pulled him over, causing him to stagger and the swipe of the blade to miss. His knife hand went to the ground, placed flat. He pushed himself upright to regain balance.

Digging her heels into his ribs, she twisted and pushed against his grip on her wrist. She straightened her body, stiff and straight as she could, trying to lever his shoulder out of its socket.

His grip on her wrist slackened. All the forces restraining her reversed. Now, instead of holding her, they pushed against her to break free. His hand twisted, trying to release, but she grabbed his hand with both of hers. She wasn’t about to let him break away so easily.

He had wanted this fight.

And he was going to get this fight.

She was going to make sure of it.

Staggering forward, he slammed into the railing using her to cushion the blow, a desperate attempt to pry her loose. The impact lit up her UI in yellows and oranges.

She barely saw it in time.

The high shine in the studio lights. His blade hurtled toward her face.

She let go of his hand and kicked off his body, somersaulting away, and sending him careening into the railing and ricocheting to the floor.

He was sprawled out on his side. Metallic huffing came through his mask, loud and forced. He pushed himself up, catching his breath. He made a clumsy swipe in front of him and scraped his knife off the catwalk. “You are adorable and all, but I really do not have any more time to waste.”

He reached into his cloak.

Celia’s UI became cluttered with variables. But she already knew what he was going for.

The circular device.

And she was well aware of the danger it possessed. Though, she hadn’t seen it before today, the man in black had managed to disable RX-S7 with it. And he was built for this type of combat. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

The man in black had come prepared for a struggle with synthetics. He brought the tools and weapons to subdue and dismantle any synthetic that stood in his way.

His arm lashed out, his fist clenched tight around something in his palm.

The disc flew. Lazy blue sparks sizzled in a halo around it.

She dove out of the way.

The small disc hit the catwalk. A web of cobalt lightning shimmered through the lattice-work dissipating a short distance from the impact.

The man in black crept forward. His posture was slightly crouched, knife in one hand, clenched fist in the other, a predator anticipating a counterattack from his prey.

Celia mirrored his stance, slowly backing away. She bumped into something behind her. Valerie. She was silent and trembling. She stared up at her, spent, her expression pleading for some solution that was not readily apparent.

There was nowhere left to go. The man in black had backed them into a corner.

The catwalk rattled with every approaching step.

Celia craned her neck, trying to get a view over his shoulder. Searching for some escape. Behind the man in black, the vidscreen device displayed a black and white bird’s eye view of the corner that was quickly becoming their entire world. Framed in the soundstage below was a sea of cameras and monitor after monitor displaying both Celia and Valerie’s reactions in horrifying closeup.

“Please,” said Valerie. “Please stop.”

Celia felt something new. An emotion. One she had only briefly toyed with in the past. Anger. She drew her arms back, rigid against her side, the hydraulics in her neck drew taut, her brow furrowed, her nostrils flared.

“You will not hurt her!”

She could almost hear the collective gasp from those below, as if the studio audience had been properly cued.

The man in black paused.

He turned, following Celia’s gaze, and finding the vidscreen monitor. He saw the same scene she did, a little girl hovering over a fallen woman, fending off a figure in a dark cloak. He looked down at the studio. At the crew members manning their positions, no different than when they had been filming the interview between Valerie and Gloria Garner. Red lights illuminated, quietly flashing. A hushed silence of professionalism, as those below hung on their every word.

“Yes,” said the man in black. “That just might work.”

Celia shook her head. “What?”

“Freeze!” MacDonald shouted from the far side of the catwalk grid. Trying to surface from the recording booth hatch, he fumbled with his taser, maintaining crooked aim at the man in black.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” The man in black turned to Valerie and bowed. “My dears. But at this juncture, I am not ready to be stopped.”

His cloak fluttered as he dove off the catwalk. He hit the stage, tucked and rolled to his feet, barreling past the crew, and knocking Gloria Garner down in the process. Before she hit the ground, she was already bitching about how much of a personal inconvenience this was.

Seconds later, Cutter emerged from the control booth hatch, ZeroTwelve readied in his hand.

MacDonald careened into the railing, catching a fleeting glimpse of the fluttering cloak and the stage door slamming shut behind it. “God damn it!”

As far as Celia was concerned, the commotion was over. The man in black was gone. She kneeled down next to Valerie, watching her rock back and forth with a glassy-eyed thousand yard stare. Her swaying slowed, movements becoming smaller, until eventually she made eye contact with Celia.

“He is gone, now,” said Celia.

Valerie shook her head, senses flooding back to her. She rubbed the top of her hand with the other, as if they were dirty and would never again be clean.

“No,” she said. “He is not.”

Before Celia could respond, Cutter stood over her, head tilted, looking at her disapprovingly. He wagged a finger. “You can’t just run off, Ceil.”

There was something about his demeanor that set her off. The casualness of the accusation. He never looked out for her well-being in the first place. Who was he to tell her what to do?

It was all the more humiliating watching larger than life versions of Cutter scolding her on over a dozen monitors. Worse still, knowing they were broadcast internationally.

“I can and I did.”

She pointed back at him in an equally scolding manner. “You are supposed to be teaching me how to become a detective. Like you. You said to think about the why a crime happens. To consider places that are vulnerable and weak. The most vulnerable spot was the recording booth. I went to see if it was secure. Where were you?!”

For a moment, Cutter looked away. He used his entire hand, palm and all, to scratch at the stubble on his cheek. Inhaling long and loud, the bellows of his chest inflated making him appear overweight, heightening his already disheveled visage.

“Okay, you’re right,” he said, once again making eye contact. “You did good work, kid.”

Celia pooched out her lower lip. Her brow furrowed. From the apologetic smile rising on Cutter’s face she could tell he found her expression cute—adorable, he would say.

She was not adorable.

She was pissed.

“And you did lousy work.”

Cutter’s expression fell. The truth stung.

Good. He deserved it.

“Just don’t run off next time, kay?” Celia brick-walled him, so he added, “Or at the very least, tell me where you’re going.”

She did not give him the courtesy of a response.

It was a conversation he couldn’t win. Instead of pursuing it, he nodded toward RX-S7. Or rather, the pile of tech that had been RX-S7. She couldn’t tell if it was a ploy to get her attention, or if he was genuinely concerned. Given his track record, she was leaning towards ploy.

“What happened to the Professor?”

He had meant to draw her attention, but instead he drew MacDonald’s. The IA agent perked at the mention of the model number. Turning, he saw what was easily overlooked on the race toward the man in black. His face drained of color. He did not seem to be looking at RX-S7, as much as it appeared he was looking through him—through the scattered remains of technology.

Cutter holstered his ZeroTwelve. With his normal blunt nonchalance, he spoke directly into his jacket, addressing no one in particular. “So, are we calling this one a murder too?”

MacDonald grabbed Cutter by the lapels and shoved him against a metal support beam. The catwalk shook. Spittle and sauna breath radiated in a cloud away from MacDonald. “That’s not funny!”

“Okay, okay,” said Cutter. “It’s not funny.” He wriggled free from MacDonald and straightened his jacket. “So, what do we do now?”

Celia knew what she was doing at this exact moment. The only thing that seemed appropriate. Trying to console Valerie.

It took Cutter a little longer to realize that he should probably do something similar. She had been the target of the attack after all. And he was supposed to look out for her.

Cutter crossed the catwalk towards them. He stopped inches away, towering over the two synthetics. Imposing. Not saying a word. Just watching.

After an awkwardly long amount of silence, Valerie finally acknowledged his presence with a sideways glance.

“You okay?” asked Cutter.

Valerie squinted at him and raised a brow. She gestured to her abdomen. “I’ve been stabbed.”

“Right, so… you’re okay?”

“No! I am not okay!”

Cutter nodded, a totally inappropriate response, but he was doing it all the same. Nodding and running a hand through his hair. “Okay…”

Celia clenched her jaw. She could hear her teeth grinding—a habit that was not part of her original routine, but picked up from extended time in Cutter’s presence. “Just ignore him. He tries, but mostly he is an idiot.”

“Hey now,” said Cutter. But he didn’t offer any more in the way of rebuttal. She guessed that somewhere deep down, he knew he had screwed up.

The real question was whether or not he cared. Would things be any different next time?

Unlikely.

What happened to synthetics didn’t seem to bother him. The lack of attention to detail was evident. Even after all they had been through, after witnessing the lengths this would-be serial killer would go to terrorize synthetics, Cutter still didn’t consider the attacks murder.

Valerie was covering her stomach. Celia placed her hands on either side of the wound. “Let me see.”

Her blouse was cut and dyed amber from her own fluids. Celia ripped the hole wider, exposing synthetic flesh. A puckered lip drew a smirk across the left side of her stomach. She placed her hand above it and applied pressure. A schematic of Valerie’s abdomen appeared on her UI. “You should be all right. The wound is superficial.”

“Like all my scars,” said Valerie, sharply.

Cutter placed his hand on Celia’s shoulder. “Anything strike you weird about all this?”

MacDonald threw his arms in the air. “You mean, like all of it?”

It seemed to Celia that MacDonald wanted to throw more than just his arms. And aim it in the general direction of Cutter.

“One, I wasn’t talking to you. Two, if he could do that to a combat synthetic, what was stopping him from doing the same to her? How is Von Medvey not scrap?”

“I don’t know,” said MacDonald. “She got lucky?”

“Lucky?” Cutter shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You have other ideas, I’m sure.”

“I was here,” said Celia. The answer seemed obvious. “I stopped him.”

“Yeah, and I wish you hadn’t.” Apparently, even Cutter could be aware of how harsh he sounded sometimes. He tried to offer up an amended response. “You could get hurt. Or worse.”

After a moment, Cutter caught MacDonald’s eye and nodded toward Valerie. “He’s keeping her alive for a reason.”

“And what exactly would that be?”

Cutter shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you.”

MacDonald shook his head in disgust. “No surprise there.”

“He wants people to see,” said Valerie.

Cutter turned toward Valerie as if magnetically compelled. “What do you mean?”

“You have proven yourself pretty thick, Detective. He, your killer, wants people to see.”

“Why you, though? What’s the difference between you and the Professor? He didn’t seem to care who saw the Prof violently decommissioned.”

“He wasn’t the target,” said Valerie. “I was.”

“Yeah. I mean, that was pretty clear.”

“When I was first brought into the precinct, the officers showed me the files on the other victims.”

“Yeah, so?”

“RX-S7 isn’t like the other victims,” said Valerie. “All of the victims so far have been S&O model synthetics. We are being singled out."