In many places they still called them refueling stations. Some even referred to them as gas stations, though nothing dispensed was in a remotely gaseous state. A more appropriate name would have been recharging stations, but like so many things involving humans, tradition tended to trump logic.

Celia slid her hand along the cable jacked into the back of the cruiser. She gave it a small tug. It was secured, safety protocol during charging. The digital display on the machine towering over her rapidly incremented a credit amount as a timer ticked down.

Her attentions wandered from the refueling station pumps to the convenience store. Cutter was negotiating with the clerk over a pack of cigarettes. No doubt, trying to finagle a cheaper price, pointing out various brands in an effort to disguise his intended purchase. He was not fooling anyone. He always bought the same brand. American Spirit. There was something about the soft packs he liked. Something about tradition. About the comfort of familiarity.

She could understand. There was something about his routine, about his predictableness that she also appreciated, though it seemed no one else did.

Celia felt a soft caress brush her shoulder. Sharply, she turned toward it, body tightening. A small breath escaped when she came face to face with a photo journalist hidden behind an oversized lens. Three cambots buzzed around his head. For some reason, her UI flashed pictures of flies on manure.

“Celia? You’re Celia, right?” said the man. His hygiene was questionable at best. From the looks of him, Celia calculated that every third morning he wrestled with the idea of running a comb through his hair.

“I’m so glad I caught up with you. What were you doing at Christian Von Medvey’s place? Does this have something to do with the bombing at Sanders and Ollander today?”

Confusion wasn’t the reason she hesitated.

She could answer all of his questions with ease.

What perplexed her was why he was asking her these questions. He could find the information he was seeking from the station if he really wanted to. Steal the information out of thin air from any of the numerous police scanners on the market. Instead, he was here with his camera and circling cambots asking for her opinion on easily attainable facts.

The rapid click-psh of the faux camera shutter drew her attention like machine gun fire.

This man’s presence was pricking up the same sort of sensibilities she witnessed Cutter display toward members of the news media. Only months ago, she would have happily chirped along to their song and dance in blind naiveté. But now, she was finding it difficult to respond with anything other than cynicism.

Even more bothersome, this man had tracked her down. Somehow, he had been following her movements, attaining perverse delight in his practiced expertise at doing so.

The older version of her would have delighted in the attention.

Childish, she thought.

But you are a child, Celia.

There was the voice again. She had wondered if Costas’s presence in her thoughts had been an isolated event, triggered by the high stress at the television studio that so mirrored events of her past.

“I am more than that,” she said.

The rapid fire camera silenced. The man peeked from behind the lens, looking at his subject with his own eyes. Probably a first for him.

You’re not even a real child, Celia. Just a facsimile. A poor man’s replacement for biology. A surrogate for couples that couldn’t create their own. You are a slave to the programming in your head. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“I am changing.”

You are incapable of change. My presence is proof of that. You will remain trapped in the same plastic body, cut out and shaped to look like a six year old girl forever.

Celia clenched her jaw. “We will see about that.”

“Are… are… are…” stammered the photo journalist. It was his turn to hesitate. He had heard the stories about her, no doubt. Her notoriety, the novelty of a six year old girl solving grisly crimes alongside LAPD. Fighting with the baddies. That was the only reason he was here. He knew about the other stuff, the rumors, but gladly pushed them out of his mind in pursuit of a hot scoop. Ignoring the things about her that humans might refer to as a ‘screw loose,’ but nuts and bolts had nothing to do with what was going on with her inner mechanisms.

Soft and small, calling it a whisper would be an insult to the subtly of a whisper, he meekly rasped, “Are you talking to me?”

“Are you following me?” Celia demanded.

Cambots jockeyed for position to capture the perfect angle over the head of this one man circus of annoyance.

“No.” His voice squeaked and a smirk caught his lip. He half-chuckled at the notion. “Of course not.”

His words were ripe with irony, as if some egotistical part wanted to answer truthfully—yes, that was exactly what he had done. He wanted Celia, and really anyone, to know he took pride in his work. In his deception. Wanted accolades despite the cognitive dissonance one must possess to stalk and pursue a six year old girl and call it a profession.

Sadly, he wasn’t alone in his perverse professional interest.

He was simply the first.

Other photo journalists were arriving, cameras slung around their necks, unholstered, ready to point and shoot. The faint buzz of cambots trailed behind them, an approaching swarm of technological locusts, growing in decibel with the increasing size of the crowd forming around her.

A broken down Cadillac screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, blocking the suicide lane. The door practically fell off its hinges and a disheveled man carrying a camera stumbled out of the vehicle. He charged toward the gas station without checking before crossing the street to the dismay and horn blasts of angry drivers.

The mob encircled her, surrounding her like fingers on a closing fist. She took a step backward, bumping into the refueling meter, but the circle kept tightening, faces hidden, cameras flashing. Their intent seemed of singular desire, but their voices were many, mixed together in a vocal chaos that she was having difficulty deciphering.

In that instant, she wondered what Jack would do, and immediately recanted the thought.

She knew what Jack would do. She knew how much he despised the paparazzi. If it were up to Jack, somebody would be leaving with a black eye and broken equipment.

Haven’t I taught you anything?

She held out her hands, trying to fend them off, trying to keep a bubble of personal space. “Back up, please.”

But the crowd only grew larger, writhing and pulsing, as if possessing a singular goal. A many eyed monster staring into her with surgical precision, peering through her as if she were turned inside out, flashes dissecting her, noises hammering her nerves, attempting to determine the location of her soul—or if she even possessed one in the first place.

“Stop!”

But her pleas only provided evidence that she was able to engage. Instead of taming the beast, it grew more aggressive. Louder. Microphones were thrust under her chin like tendrils primed to extract her inner thoughts, dripping out of her like syrup from a tapped maple.

There’s an easier way.

“No,” said Celia.

Just kill them.

Cutter exited the convenience store, hands cupped, lighting a fresh cigarette. Over the top of his hands, he caught a glimpse of the mob surrounding Celia. The cigarette fell from his lips, as he sprinted toward the crowd.

“What the hell is this? She’s an officer of the law.” Cutter pushed the nearest paparazzo out of his way. “I’d suggest you give her some space. Now!”

His reaction was on point. His presence welcomed. What she once classified as brash and impulsive, now seemed the only way to handle these people—no they were less than people. Monsters threatening her very existence with a desire for some piece of her she didn’t know how to give.

Even with Cutter present, aiding her, providing a buffer of space, panic rushed through her. Her body vibrated with anxiety. Every sound heightened. The shifting heels on pavement shredded her nerves.

“Stop!”

They will keep coming, Celia. You are an oddity to them. A spectacle to be examined and studied.

The force of her voice acted as a miniature concussive wave; the approaching crowd momentarily staggered. “Leave me alone!” she screamed.

“You heard her.” Cutter stood in front of her, pushing back the front row of overzealous photographers. “Leave her alone.”

They seemed to obey. To ebb and flow with his movements. They respected Cutter’s hostility towards them, if for no other reason than self-preservation. But the crowd as a whole had no intentions of leaving. Instead, they flowed like gelatinous ooze, reforming and reshaping around Cutter’s movements, maintaining the overall integrity of their form.

Cutter pointed at the nearest photographer. “Make a lane.”

Most didn’t look at him, pretending they hadn’t heard his command, clicking away behind their cameras, focus locked on Celia.

Those that had, looked at him with puzzled expressions, as if he was speaking a language they were incapable of understanding.

“That wasn’t a question,” said Cutter. “Do it, or I’ll haul you all in for disorderly conduct.”

Celia held her arms to her chest. She scanned the crowd, looking for any indication that they were going to obey Cutter. Their attentions were still locked on her, still focused on capturing her with their cameras, still berating her with questions. A sea of expressionless faces glared at her unblinking.

Slowly, the crowd parted, revealing a thin path toward the cruiser.

Cutter casually shoulder-checked the first photographer creating a larger aisle for them to walk down. He turned toward Celia, leaning his back into the crowd and extended a hand offering her passage. She took it and he guided her between walls of flesh.

Celia fixed her gaze on her destination, on the cruiser at the end of the faux red-carpet walk, ignoring the tunnel of sweaty unkempt flesh surrounding her on either side. The photographers panted, taking heavy excited breaths with every click-psh of the camera shutter. They stunk with the distinct acrid aroma of body odor. Their status as a whole went well beyond lazy hygiene.

Apparently many had developed an allergy to deodorant, as well.

Despite it being broad day in the middle of the city, somehow Celia felt as if she were in the middle of one of the seedier jack-op distilleries in the red light district. Places ripe with debauchery, incubation tanks for criminal activity.

She closed her eyes and focused on Cutter’s hand holding hers. Focused on his touch. Focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Step after step. On just making it back to the cruiser, safe and sound.

She became acutely aware that she had been wrong.

At S&O headquarters, she enjoyed the momentary glimpse of the spotlight. Being the center of attention fascinated her. It was a new thrill to be recognized and examined as special, a feeling that she had longed for.

But now, with the rising onslaught of popularity, the rushing flood of attention became a waking nightmare.

She didn’t know who these people were. Or what they expected or wanted from her.

And worse. As much as she hated to admit it, Costas was right. Their interest seemed to have nothing to do with her. With who she was. What she did. Her beliefs or thoughts.

Their interest piqued on what she was.

The anomaly.

The outward appearance of a six year old girl.

Solving crimes with LAPD.

Standing up to the monsters of the world.

And in her last outing, doing so in front of television cameras broadcasting live to hundreds of millions.

She finally understood what Valerie had been afraid of. Why the cameras capturing her every move down to the most minute of facial expressions had terrified her so. Valerie had already experienced it. As the first synthetic married to flesh and blood, she too was an anomaly. Like her, she had caught the public’s eye, and they wanted more, demanded more, for all the wrong reasons.

The center of attention, the spotlight tipped at her, it was not what she thought it would be.

They were almost to the cruiser when she felt it. The touch of flesh against her skin. She barely remembered reacting to it, but the squeal—loud, high pitched—was something she could never forget.

The photo journalist, the first one that had arrived on the scene, the one acting like the chronological order of his presence was enough to stake a claim on her, on her thoughts, had grabbed her wrist. He halted her from leaving, spinning her towards him, a desperate last ditch effort pleading for her response to questions he already knew the answers to.

And in that split second, she responded in kind.

She grabbed his wrist and twisted. The sound of a large tree branch cracking under the pressure of an unimaginable force was followed by an inhuman high-pitched trill.

The photo journalist fell to his knee, cradling his wounded arm. A shard of bone protruded through the skin. His camera hit the pavement. Glass rained in a thousand shards, scattering the shattered lens across asphalt.

“You can’t do this!” Tears formed in his eyes from the pain. His face red, body fighting inflammation. Mind racing for the words to a situation he had not seen coming. “You… You are a monster!”

Very good, Celia.

“Shut up!” screamed Celia.

The photo journalist cowered, absent-mindedly gathering the remnants of his broken camera between his knees. “You can’t do this,” he began muttering to himself. “I’ll sue.” His head shook, big sweeps back and forth, as he collected the shattered pieces of his camera. “Every penny.” He held the pieces up to Celia, presenting them for her to see. Tears welled. He blubbered as if his best friend had been taken from him. Rhythmically pouting, his voice was soft. Broken. Defeated. “I’ll sue, I’ll sue, I’ll sue…”

“You heard the girl,” said Cutter. “Shut up.”

Her body sung with the high from the syntheniline pumping through her fusion core, issuing an immediate fight or flight response. Her senses were still sharpened to a razor’s edge, as the lingering effect of the stimulant began to subside, effectively cutting out the crowd noise and hysteria. Or maybe the crowd had gone silent in response to her actions.

She didn’t bother to determine which was true.

Her focus was on the weeping photo journalist. The broken camera. On her chest, heaving in simulated breath. Slowing to a normalized pattern.

Her UI popped up, scanning the scene with a cold detachment from emotion. Yellow and green grid scans were superimposed over her view. The arm was replicated in wireframe, showing a depiction under the skin, revealing multiple fractures, as well as a large portion of forearm that was nothing more than dust. Her UI began listing numerous contusions and lacerations, all of which she caused. Her onboard UI did not say that, of course. But the implication was there. In her head.

She was at a loss.

She had never attacked an innocent before.

Not of her own free will.

She had rationalized that the previous attacks, the ones people had forgotten about, those were because of Costas. Because he had taken control.

She would never do something like that of her own free will.

She watched the man cry, his tears glinting and mixing with the shattered glass strewn against the pavement. He limply held his arm to his body, an arm that would never be able to hold a camera again. Despite her shock and feelings of guilt over what she had done, she felt one thing for certain.

He deserved it.

It was his fault.

She turned to Cutter, searching for relief from her temporary paralysis and discovered something she hadn’t been expecting.

Despite his unwavering efforts to keep her protected from the crowd, when their eyes met, locked in a gaze held for milliseconds too long, she saw its presence, the same thing she saw in the eyes of the crowd gazing upon her.

Fear.

Directed at her.

About what she had done.

About what she could do.

“Jack?”

Cutter held out his hand to her. “C’mon Ceil. We’re getting out of here.” He nodded toward the passenger’s side. “Get in the cruiser.”

“But—”

“Car. Now.”

Celia nodded and took his hand.

“For the rest of you, back off! Find a story somewhere else.”