Warchild rolled off his couch with a splitting headache. He fumbled toward the kitchen to pour himself coffee already brewed by the auto-maid. He had moved to the sofa for one reason -- to give Lisa her space.

Upstairs, there had been no sound from his wife getting out of bed. She was usually up by now.

Instead, the lock clicked back, and the front door hissed open, jolting him. Footsteps coming from the alcove grew louder until she stood there facing him, arms crossed in a glowering gesture. She was in her clothes from the previous night.

"Well, last night was fun," she said.

"I thought you were asleep upstairs. Where you been?"

"I was out," she said with a careless shrug.

"Until now? Where did you sleep last night?"

"You care?" She mocked being startled from his concern.

"Stop it."

"I didn't sleep, that's all I got to say." She eyed him, looking for a fight. He reined in his temper, letting the anger wash over him.

"Whatever."

That singed her. She persisted. "Don't you want to know where I was?"

"With friends. On second thought, no, I don't."

"I like you better when you were away on one of your classified killing tours. Now you're here on the couch. No job, no prospect."

"I can't show my face out there. Not yet." The TV had cornered him, his face appearing on the screen every fifteen minutes. His instant celebrity was quicksand, pulling him under.

"The entire world blames you. They hate you. And you wonder why. You make me sick."

"That was my job. You understood."

"No, I stomached it, because I had to, and it sickened me every damn day."

"Don't bust my balls, Lisa."

"Balls, that's a laugh."

"You're itching for a fight, I see."

"Better than a rotting silence," Lisa said. "You've worn me down, Ken. You made me into someone who just don't care anymore, and I'm no longer your little minute maid."

"We'll work through this. I'll find a job," he said, lukewarm.

"No need." Her face wrinkled in a cruel sneer.

"Huh? What's so funny?"

"I want a divorce. This time for real."

She faced him, bearing no emotion, no love, no hate, just indifference.

"I'll change, baby."

"Don't call me baby." Her face twisted in a bitter grimace.

"Well, I'm not giving you a divorce." He looked away, shaking his head. "We'll see marriage counselors, whatever you want. But we work it out -- 'til death do us part."

And his dismissive response served only to infuriate her more.

"We've become strangers, you and me." She shook her head, and for a split second, he saw regret.

"That can change," he said. "You want kids? We can try again with in vitro."

She snapped, "No way I'm raising kids with you."

"What are you saying?

"You don't get it, Ken, I'm already gone." She stood there with hands on her hips, enjoying the moment. "I met someone else, someone who cares about me."

There it was -- the gauntlet thrown at his feet. Don't pick it up, he heard himself say.

He bit down, his anger roiling so much he could only manage, "Who?"

She gave him a punishing scorn. "Yes, Ken, I've been having a hot sweaty affair, right under your nose."

"Who is he?" His fingers gripped the mug tighter.

She chuckled. "I'll make it easy for you. Larry fucked me all night. I enjoyed every second. I came twice. He's going someplace, an Affiliate candidate, unlike you on the couch."

"How long behind my back?" He growled, coming toward her.

"A year maybe more. Time flies when you're having fun." Her vicious sneer beckoned his suffering, his eyes wet with fury.

But she didn't relent. "You're a pathetic man." Her eyes narrowed in tune with her cruel laughter. "He's twice the man you ever were, Ken. He's attentive, caring, and an Affiliate. You're none of that. You're an empty bed, an absentee husband, a loser."

"Enough!" He screamed, doubling over from her cutting words.

"That's right, yell." She pressed the attack. "Every time you're gone away on your missions, he'd visit. We did it upstairs, on the staircase, on this kitchen counter here." She laughed.

His head spun from her taunts, finding it hard to breathe. "Who the hell are you?" This wasn't the woman who swore I do at the altar.

"Funny, I wondered the same about you. Now we're even."

His mind lashed out. He lunged and grabbed her arm with a free hand. She jerked back her arm, stepped in and slapped him, the blow turning his head. In blinding rage, he lifted his hand to strike her.

"Go ahead, do it." She grimaced in defiance, steeling herself for the blow. "It would make things so easy."

Instead, he flung the coffee mug against the wall, shattering it. An inky Rorschach stain splashed against the white drywall as dark rivulets dripped to the floor.

Warchild stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

In the dressing area reserved for Team Cerberus, Alex began to place personal items in a box: awards, memorabilia, an animated photo album of her and the boys in group and individual poses, from their selection into the Program to their graduation. How proud they all were; she noticed the broad smiles, the tightness of pride, the crisp uniforms. At that time, she'd thought nothing could ever chip away this iron bond they shared. Not so. Iron did rust and under certain pressure was as brittle as blue cheese.

She pulled out her spare BDUs and folded them. A second pair of combat boots went into the box too. Deeper in the locker were the firearms and equipment deemed unsuitable to circulate in public. She would need to return the assault gear, battery and ammo packs to the gun cage.

A private appeared and got her attention, "Chief Marlboro, you're wanted in Captain Lang's office, ma'am."

"Let's go." She sighed, looking at her box with sadness. "This crap ain't going anywhere."

She went to Lang's office and knocked.

"Come," Lang said, putting away his terminal. "Marlboro."

"You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down."

"I'd rather stand, sir."

"Suit yourself. So, you decided out."

"A lingering death is worse."

"Most agreed with you, it seems. Only five took the transfer. The rest chose to walk. I don't blame them."

"Good for you," Alex said, wanting to move along.

"I got your discharge papers," Lang said, passing her the hand terminal. "Needs your thumbprint and it's official."

"And our meds?"

"What of it?"

"I'm down to one month's supply. Does my discharge include refills?"

"Sure, it does."

She took the digital pad.

Lang interrupted her, "Oh, by the way, pay close attention to the nondisclosure paragraph."

A painful smirk appeared on her face as she perused the legal document. "On pain of incarceration . . . Why am I not surprised?" She grimaced with disgust, stamped her thumb on the acceptance box, and slid the device to Lang.

"Tough breaks, Marlboro."

"Sure, if you say so," she said with freon chill.

"Don't think I wanted this, Alex."

"No? You put up no defense on our behalf. We've been found guilty in the court of public opinion, and now told to get lost. As our CO, you left us out to dry -- sir."

"You think I didn't step up? I got slapped down and gagged!" He hesitated to say more. "This morning, I received my transfer papers. Look here -- a posting to Diego Garcia to oversee base security." He snarled at the order. "Nothing but hot rocks, jet fumes, and seagulls. I leave in two weeks."

She frowned. "How?"

"You're asking the wrong questions, Chief. This didn't come but way above the colonel. I get to keep my rank and pay but the message is clear: Comply or suffer."

"You had nothing to do with this."

"As you said, I'm your CO. I know too much."

"They can't do this."

"Power can do what it likes and right now, it is staring down at all of us. Don't give it a reason to react," Lang said. "Let it go, Alex. This is a warning: you go loud, they turn up the heat or worse. So, keep your head down and disappear. Look on the bright side, you get to start a new life."

"If they let me."

Alex pursed her lips and nodded her disappointment.

"Another thing," he said offhand. "The commissary said routing for your final pay period was interrupted -- something wrong with your Atlas."

"What?"

"It's inert. Payroll can't pay without a working Atlas. Better fix it right away if I were you."

"And how do I do that?" Alex glanced at her forearm.

"Go to Homeland, Social Identification Division. There's an office downtown. They issue RFID chips there. Maybe they can fix yours or give you a replacement. But do it quick. That should be your number one priority." An ominous expression he didn't intend spooked Alex. "I hope it's nothing more than a glitch."

"What do you mean by that?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Good luck, Marlboro."

Alex thanked him, shook his hand and left the office feeling strapped. Their conversation troubled her as she returned to her locker.

They slapped him down -- transferred Lang to the Indian Ocean -- and he wasn't even there. What would they do to us, the ones pulling the triggers, caught bloody-handed? A sensation told her something awful was waiting to come their way. It had begun.

Atlas chips don't just go bad, she told herself. If it's inert it's because someone wanted it that way. Someone turned me off. If this were true, her problems just compounded. Lang knew more than he let on.

The chip governed life. How she bought food, how she accessed electronics and machinery, basic existence depended on the chip. Her entire history was stored in its memory, her CV, permits, license, financial data, credit score, purchasing pattern, her consuming preferences, and dislikes. Once her Atlas went dark, she became a nonentity outside civilization with no hope of surviving another day. Thank God she had Camila as a fallback.

She slipped into the locker room to get her boxes.

The monitor in the assembly area was replaying the pictures of the three individuals involved in the Caracas massacre.

"Mounting international pressure aimed at White House to produce the Caracas trio for questioning has gone unanswered as the two men and one woman remained at large. Washington refuses their handover, and by extension deny its involvement in Caracas . . ."

She looked up and saw her profile. Sick to her stomach, she put on a cap and pulled it over her eyes. Just as she was about to leave, the rest of the broadcast followed:

"On local news -- a three-alarm fire on the Landmark 15 Tower has claimed the life of one Ian Moreau, a prominent technology director with fifteen years with TexPax-Yokohama Biotech Division. Investigations are being held to determine the cause of the gas explosion thought to have caused the conflagration. Authorities suspected it may be old corroded pipes leaking gas . . . "

Alex's chest tightened and she found it hard to breathe, the hairs on her nape standing up as a sense of dread closed in.

"This can't be," she mumbled from shock. Now, what do I do?

A banging of a nearby locker door made her jump.

"Leaving for the day?" A female soldier she hadn't seen before said, smiling. The girl was hot, had a bird tattoo on her neck, and was in the wrong place. This facility was reserved for Team Cerberus and she wasn't one. Hell, Cerberus is dead.

"Yeah, going home."

"Things are so precarious these days, one day you're on top of the world, the next you're dumpster diving."

Something in her eyes tripped Alex up. Something artificial and contrived. "What?"

"Oh, nothing -- you know the saying about empty promises -- the check's in the mail, and I won't blow in your mouth, hehe." The girl gave a toothy laugh. "You take care."

Everything felt wrong all at once. Alex's skin tingled. A claustrophobic unease crept in. She had to get out of there fast.

Outside the facility, she faced her first obstacle -- the technological world won't recognize her without a working chip. She couldn't even hail an auto-cab to go downtown and have the blasted thing fixed.

She tried calling Camila.

No chip, no signal either.

The nearest Metro line was five miles away.

She left the base and jogged on foot. The run was good to shed all this dark karma off her.

A few minutes later, she found the underground entrance and descended into the subway station. Luckily, the revolving gates were only up to her waist.

She watched for any Metro cops nearby and waited for people to mass and queue before the barrier. When it got crowded enough, she ran and hopped over the turnstiles to the commuters' gasps and shouts, her face hidden from the cameras. It was a snap. For the first time in a while, she felt like a rogue again.