His first thought was of Celia.

Is she okay?

Was she the target?

Given the circumstances, the protest for synthetic rights beyond the doors of Sanders & Ollander, it was unlikely the firebomb was intended for her. There were higher priority targets as far as this crowd was concerned.

S&O headquarters.

Even the old man, Ollander himself.

But Cutter’s thoughts defaulted to Celia. To the cryptic threat written in cut-out magazine letters.

You’re next.

Pushing his weight onto his elbows, Cutter hoisted himself upright. He let out a groan. His ribs ached. He scanned the lobby. Dozens of businessmen and women that had been close to the epicenter weren’t lucky enough to escape with only minor bruises and burns.

One minute they were standing around, walking and talking. The next, they were on the floor, motionless, and would remain so until the coroner dragged them away in body bags.

Suddenly, hunger wasn’t the biggest concern of those trapped in the lobby. Shredded conservative attire fluttered, as exiting through the automated sliding glass doors became priority number one.

Outside S&O, the human wall of protestors that had been barricading employees inside withdrew as the explosion rocked the building. Those remaining did little to slow the ebb of panicked workers pushing through the doors, rushing away from the fiery epicenter as fast as they could.

In the midst of the chaos, the only people eerily static were the handful of reporters and their cameraman accessories that had snuck in prior to the explosion. They hovered over the corpses like vultures, picking through the gristle and fat to get to the juicy gory story. Normally, he’d tell them what he thought about their profession. In the brashest manner possible.

But his thoughts were on her.

He called out through the scrambling chaos. “Celia!”

He knew better.

Celia was a synth. She could take care of herself.

Still, under duress, the first spark crackling the biochemical gap in his brain was to protect her.

But he hadn’t needed to worry.

Celia was on the far side of the Japanese garden. The only entity to heed his warning. In a lobby writhing with humanity, the only biped that had moved was Celia.

Only she moved deeper into the lobby.

Towards the source of the explosion.

Celia was on her feet, lifting Ollander to his. Protecting him. Doing her job. Following the Black and White protocols. Cutter gave it a second thought and doubted her reaction had anything to do with the Black and White programming. Her actions were her own. Flesh or circuitry, her reaction to save others in the face of danger would have been the same.

One of the members of Ollander’s security detail, the one flanking his right side had half his body atomized from the explosion. The other half lay in a charred heap amongst a handful of executives that shared his fate.

Money well-spent, thought Cutter. Security you can trust with your life. Or someone else’s.

The remaining three bodyguards had tackled old man Ollander like he was the opposing team’s all-star quarterback. Cutter was surprised their actions had not done more harm than good.

A small fire was catching in one of the corridors. Residual effects of the blast. Plant life in the Japanese garden smoldered. Cutter hurdled several bodies and navigated the twists of the garden, and around empty koi ponds. The silt muck from the pond floor was exposed. Water was relocated in scattered puddles, making the marble slick. Koi fish flopped, gasping for breath. A wave of stragglers fled toward the exit, the opposite direction Cutter was heading. Were they the salmon swimming upstream? Or was he? Odds were, he was always the one going against the current. He lowered a shoulder and pushed his way through.

To Celia.

Despite evidence to the contrary, a part of him was convinced that she was in danger.

The main kiosk had been knocked off its foundation and sent spinning into the middle of the lobby. On its journey, it had taken out a handful of executives.

Celia was using it to prop Ollander into an upright and sitting position. His bodyguards used it for cover. They kept shooting quick glances over their shoulders, as if prepared for a follow up attack. Heads bobbing, eyes darting, scanning the crowd, searching for any conceivable angle of attack.

“Celia.” Cutter didn’t know what else to say. Are you okay? Are you alright? Were the first things to pop into his head, but it was clear from looking at her that she was doing fine on her own.

“We have to help them, Jack,” said Celia.

Cutter grabbed Ollander by the wrist. “What’s going on here, Ollie? What’s this all about?”

Before the old man could utter a response, Cutter was tackled, arms pinned wide in cruciform, jacket open, exposing his ZeroTwelve in its shoulder holster. An equally threatening looking weapon was shoved into his face.

“Secure him,” said a blonde man with a massive barrel chest. Hell, barrel chest was underselling it. He was practically all chest. Mounted left and right were two mounds of flesh some might call shoulders. From them hung bulging tree trunk arms. As large as his upper body was, his lower was its opposite. A giant man precariously balanced atop two twig legs. Cutter was taken aback, not simply by his sheer size, some three hundred pounds of rock hard muscle, but the man was un-modded, unusual for his line of work. Not a single cybernetic enhancement. One hundred percent pure grade meat.

“Relax, Jumbo!” said Cutter, throwing his body weight, trying to break the pin and expose the badge hanging from his neck. “LAPD. I’m here to help.”

Peering down his nose, Jumbo gave him the stink-eye. “Yeah, sure you are.” Jumbo nodded toward the bodyguard that was pinning his left arm. He reached for Cutter’s ZeroTwelve.

“Taking an officer’s weapon is a federal offense,” said Cutter.

The second bodyguard paused. “Is it?”

Jumbo rolled his eyes. “Move.”

He nudged the second bodyguard out of his way, and started patting Cutter all over. As far as gentle pat downs went, this felt more like an extremely aggressive Korean massage. In other words, painful. Jumbo’s thick hands manhandled parts of Cutter that hadn’t been touched in a longer time than he cared to mention.

“If this is the same kind of tender loving care you showed the old man during the explosion, it’s a surprise you didn’t kill him.”

Jumbo grunted.

“If your boys keep roughing up the old man like that you’re going to be out of a job.”

It took Jumbo a moment to register what Cutter was driving at. His two cohorts were positioning and prodding Ollander. Checking his body for injury, while his head limply flopped from side to side. Tossing the barely conscious old man around like a ragdoll.

“Hey!” snapped Jumbo. “Leave him be! Just keep your eyes peeled for anyone looking to finish the job!”

Cutter sat upright. Or tried to. Without taking his gaze off the old man, Jumbo pushed him flat on his back. Cutter was a little ego-bruised by how easily Jumbo was able to restrain him. It was a bit of momentary powerlessness that he wasn’t accustomed to.

Jumbo yanked the badge off its chain and inspected it. Cutter grimaced at the sharp pain.

“Apparently, he really is a cop.” Jumbo glared down at Cutter. “Surprising.”

“And I’m surprised you can read.”

Cutter went to sit up again, and paused, thinking better of it. Instead, he asked, “Can I get up now?”

Before Jumbo could respond, a loud crack echoed through the lobby. A resounding boom accompanied an explosion that blew out a door in the side corridor.

“Another bomb?” said Cutter.

Jumbo shook his head. “I don’t think so. Too small. Probably a secondary explosion. Fire catching something flammable in one of the closets. You know how fire is and all.”

“Detective,” said Cutter, pointing to his chest. “Not a fireman.”

A guy like Jumbo prided himself on professionalism. On his ability to keep clients safe. After all, that made for good business sense. Reputation was everything. During a threat, having all senses keenly honed in on any detail helped avoid the next potential threat, and that meant job security.

Despite that, Jumbo took an extended moment, turned his head, and glared at Cutter.

For a beat.

And then another.

Cutter called this look the Really, now? Which was the politer version of the You can’t possibly be this stupid?

A look Cutter knew by heart.

Shaking off the malaise, Jumbo said, “Just don’t get in our way.”

Cutter nodded and tentatively rose to his feet, taking time to make sure Jumbo was actually going to let him do so this time.

Celia hovered over the shoulders of the two bodyguards tending to Ollander. She was surprisingly close. Yet, neither seemed bothered by her presence. When Jumbo returned to Ollander’s side, he even walked around her instead of pushing her aside and manhandling her like he had done to him.

Cutter scoffed. “You give me the third degree, but let her get as close as she wants to Ollander. She could just as easily be as much of a threat as me.”

“She saved him,” said Jumbo.

“What?”

“And besides, I saw her on television the other day.”

“Go back to the first one. She saved Ollander?”

Jumbo nodded.

Cutter took a closer look at Celia. Noticed the plastic skin on the right side of her body was congealed, like rippling butter. Her right arm was also scuffed up and blackened in places. To get marks like that she had to have been somewhere between Ollander and his right flank bodyguard. Somewhere between alive and barbecue.

“What did you do?” asked Cutter.

“You yelled,” said Celia. “I saw the threat. I went to protect those closest to its source.”

Another series of explosions crackled from somewhere deeper in the building. Cutter pulled Celia behind him, out of harm’s way, and positioned himself in front of Ollander. On reflex, his ZeroTwelve was unholstered, held at the ready.

Were they still under attack?

Jumbo was probably right. These small pops and booms were likely chain reactions from the fires set by the original explosion. After all, if there were more bombs, odds were it would be a little more obvious. Something they’d feel more than hear.

Jumbo was giving Cutter the stink-eye again. His massive barrel chest heaved, deep breaths, nostrils flaring. All the tell-tale signs of physiology prepping for battle. The man was good at his job, loyal, Cutter had to give him that. At the sight of the ZeroTwelve pulled in the vicinity of his employer, it had taken all of Jumbo’s restraint not to tackle Cutter again, immediately disarming any potential threat to his employer. Be it warranted or not. The old man would remain safe.

The lobby was mostly empty, save those tending to the wounded, trying to usher those that could still be moved outside to safety.

And, of course, the reporters. You couldn’t go anywhere without stepping on one by accident. Or in Cutter’s case, on purpose.

Unfortunately, they had found their real scoop.

With so few left to interview in the lobby, and only so much B-roll of flames and explosions and people in various stages of dying that could be allotted in a half hour time slot, the reporters began to gather around the main attraction. Around Ollander—head, namesake, and CEO of Sanders & Ollander.

A blonde reporter crowded Ollander with a microphone. His bodyguards repeatedly forced her back. But during any small distraction, she managed to weasel her way to his side, prodding him for more information.

“Mr Ollander! Mr. Ollander!” said the blonde reporter. “Was this a targeted attack on Sanders and Ollander? Or was it an attempt on your life? Mr. Ollander, do you care to comment?"

“Comment?” said Cutter. “He’s barely conscious, let alone coherent.”

“Lady,” said Jumbo. “Back the hell up.”

While the main bulk of reporters were being rebuffed by Ollander’s security detail, a few noticed a bonus scoop. Extra! Extra! A little girl synthetic that had gone toe to toe with a madman dismantling synthetics in the city.

The blonde reporter turned her attentions toward Celia. “You’re Celia, aren’t you? The synthetic from the attack on KCAL 9.”

Others caught on. Too quickly for Cutter’s liking.

“I am!” Celia beamed.

“Are these two attacks related?” The reporter bent at the waist, trying to match Celia’s height to appear more approachable, but the squatting pose only made her look constipated. “Can you give our viewing public any information on what is happening here? Is this the same guy responsible for the attacks on Valerie Von Medvey? Is he attacking synthetics at their source, now? Does this have anything to do with the protest outside.”

“You are asking me?” said Celia, her eyes brimming with wonder.

“Of course.”

“Tell us what is going on here, Celia.”

“Well, we were visiting Herbert Ollander, CEO and namesake of Sanders—”

Cutter stepped in front of Celia, interrupting her.

“She can’t answer that. We’re working an active investigation.”

Without missing a beat, the reporter changed focus. A real pro.

“Would you care to comment, Detective?”

“Yeah, I got a comment for you. Fuck off.”

The blonde reporter reared back in faux disbelief. Her mouth hung open and her right hand shot up in defense like she was about to be struck, reacting as if she had never heard anyone swear before.

Cutter knew better. It was an act. An unconvincing one at that. When the cameras were off she’d be uttering worse insults to her cameraman, or about her cameraman, or about those she had portrayed as victims, or those she had made her career on. She’d make fun of them for their wardrobe, or the way they talked, or the way their face looked. The usual.

Cutter knew modern journalism all too well. There was no loyalty. The most important part of her business was to exploit every opportunity in the most sensational manner possible. The more extreme, the higher up the journalistic paygrade you climbed. It was important to be offended. To take offense. It meant controversy. And controversy translated into ratings and clicks and cash.

Prim and proper and occasionally shocked at a colorful offhand remark was her persona in front of the cameras. Off camera, she would do whatever the fuck she wanted. Her pseudo celebrity status gave her the pay and unearned credibility to get away with it.

He could see the vicious retort burning in her eyes. The piece of mind she was itching to give him. But she wouldn’t dare do it with the cameras rolling. It’d be instant career suicide.

“I could spell it out for you,” said Cutter, “but I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve heard it before.”

Cutter raised his badge high above his head. “I want everyone to take about thirty steps back. This is an active crime scene. If you want to be useful, tend to the wounded, and get them out of here. I don’t want to see anyone coming within twenty meters of this area, you got me?”

The reporters backed off, granting a cramped semi-circle of space without overtly acknowledging his request.

Cutter kneeled down next to Ollander.

“You’ve got some fans, Ollie.”

The old man floundered. He looked lost, visibly shaken, still in shock from the explosion. He slowly processed Cutter’s poorly timed joke made in bad-taste. A smirk twisted the corner of his mouth.

“The price of fame, I guess,” said Ollander.

“Good to see you still have your humor about you.”

“That is about all I have left.” Ollander pointed at something wedged under the corpse of his ex-bodyguard. “My cane, if you don’t mind, my son.”

Cutter retrieved it. “Is there some place you can go that’s safe? Some place controlled. Some place—not out there?” Cutter indicated toward the crowd of irate protesters outside the building. Even an explosion hadn’t been enough to rock their resolve and hatred for S&O.

“I can go back to my office. It’s a veritable fortress.” Ollander shook his head, correcting himself. “No. Not veritable. Literal. My office is a literal fortress.”

“Good. Do that. Celia and I have some clean-up to do down here.”

Cutter turned to Jumbo. He wasn’t sure if he was granting him respect, or was being nicer than normal simply because he didn’t want to be manhandled again. In the politest tone he could muster, Cutter said, “Take the old man upstairs. Lock him in his office and don’t come out until someone from the force contacts you. You boys are gonna make some overtime on this one.”

Though it was plain to see that Jumbo and his buddies didn’t like being told what to do, especially when it was concerning their client, Jumbo nodded. Ollander struggled to his feet. Instead of letting him finish, Jumbo picked him up and cradled him like a baby in his arms and headed for the elevators with his security detail in tow.

“One moment, my son,” said Ollander, tugging on Jumbo’s sleeve. He pointed at Celia. “Take me to her.”

Jumbo hesitated, surveying the scene, grimaced, and reluctantly carried the old man to Celia.

“Down,” said Ollander.

Jumbo rolled his eyes. Cutter smirked at the expression. Without protest, Jumbo lowered himself onto a knee, bringing Ollander eye-level with Celia.

Ollander reached out with a frail hand and touched her cheek. “Thank you, my child. Thank you, Celia. For saving my life. You have no idea how much your actions mean to me.”

Celia swelled with pride. Her face brightened. Cheeks blushed pink. She looked up at Cutter, as if silently asking for permission. Permission for what? Cutter had no clue. To bask in the compliment? She didn’t need his permission for that.

Jumbo and Co. carted Ollander off to the upper floors, to his office, to safety.

The fires were dying down and most of the business-types that were able to exit the lobby of their own cognizance had done so.

There was still one oversized problem looming.

Peaceful protest, my ass.

Just your friendly neighborhood firebomb.

Why did people always feel the need to make a point? And make it with violence?

The attack could have come from anyone. The protestors. The board. The psychopath gunning for synths.

“What do you make of this?” asked Cutter.

A thousand yard stare settled on her face, as she silently surveyed the scene. Her head swept back and forth, processing data. On Black and Whites, the expression always struck Cutter as inhuman. With Celia, it felt more organic. Like a child genuinely searching for answers to an impossible question.

Celia took a half step forward, breaking out of her processing trance.

“The firebomb was strategically placed in the center of the lobby. Whoever planted it was waiting for lunch hour to guarantee the highest possible foot traffic. They probably anticipated the protest would cause many more people than normal to be in the lobby during this time period. It seems inflicting the most harm possible with a single device had been the intention.”

“Does this seem like the same guy who attacked Mrs. Von Medvey to you?”

“It is difficult to ascertain,” said Celia. “Valerie Von Medvey pointed out that Sanders and Ollander Robotics, LLC, was the only consistency between the attacks. It would make sense that he would target their headquarters.”

“Something feels different.”

Celia looked up at him, quizzically. “How so?”

“The other attacks were face to face. One on one. They were personal. Each had a specific targeted victim. The attacks were drawn out, violent, and almost intimate affairs. But this, this is chicken-shit. Anyone could place a firebomb in the middle of the lobby and run away. It doesn’t feel the same.”

Celia was looking up at him. Only it wasn’t with a blank synthetic stare. There was childish wonder in there, pondering over his statements.

“Something else about the motive too,” said Cutter. “Our guy wasn’t shy about being seen. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. Enjoyed being in our face and getting away with it. Where is he on this attack?”

Celia shrugged. “There is one similarity.”

“What’s that?”

“There are reporters here. Like the attack on KCAL 9, it will be highly televised.”

Cutter hadn’t thought about it, but she was right. There was no shortage of reporters. It didn’t seem like a link, though. More or less a coincidence. Of course there would be reporters in a news station like KCAL 9. And there would be reporters covering a protest involving the fight for synthetic rights outside the headquarters of one of the biggest manufacturers of synthetics on the planet.

“What was it that Valerie said?”

“You need to be more specific,” said Celia. “Valerie Von Medvey said a lot of different things.”

“He wants them to see. That’s what Valerie said, wasn’t it?”

Celia nodded.

“So what’s someone see from an attack like this? What would he want people to see by attacking a lobby filled with people? It’s different. Attacking the first legal marriage between synthetic and human—there’s some twisted logic in that. A point he’s making about synthetic and human relations that people pick up on. Singling out synthetics, there’s some fetish-crime going on that I can’t quite put my finger on. But this—it seems so senseless.

“This attack left humans dead. The assailant from KCAL 9 went out of his way to preserve human life. He drugged those two operators in the control booth and stashed them in a supply closet relatively unharmed, but had no qualms about dismantling RX-S7 or torturing Mrs. Von Medvey.

“I’d hate to think this is all a coincidence. Seems unlikely that we just happen to be here investigating a string of attacks on S&O synths when the lobby blows up. That’s one hell of a coincidence. If you ask me, someone has one hell of a beef against S&O and wants people to know it. But this doesn’t have the same feel to it as the previous attacks.”

“If it’s not the same guy, then who is it?” asked Celia.

“Not sure,” said Cutter. “All I know is it feels different.”