I don't like being anxious, I wish there's an off button for my little brain ants that like to crawl around all the time.

But Spooks said it is ok to be anxious sometimes, she said it's important because fear tells you what you cannot yet control, reminds me that even if I'm an android, I have my limits.

I'm anxious because today, I meet the riflemen from the tall towers and one of them will be my new partner.

I hope I make a good impression.

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower #425 of the Mauer Wall

Spooks told me that the Mauer Wall runs along the border of the Sanctorium, cutting it from the dangers of the Bleak Lands beyond. The tox swarm, the shadow walkers, the Insurrectionists, the green blights.

She never told me about the snow-bound sky that's dark blue and grey and black to all my eyes, how the world inside the Mauer Wall is the same colour as the one outside if I look at it through my thermal lens. I wish I can taste the snow, I wish it tastes like velvet cake crumbs.

The Panopticon Towers are embedded into the Mauer Wall, each one separated by a few hundred kilometres of reinforced concrete. I think it's kind of like how the riflemen are embedded into the Panopticon Towers, each separated by a few dozen feet of stairs.

The insides of the Panopticon are a geometric mess of steel support beams and rickety cables, thankfully my insides are probably much more pleasant. I just wish the guardsmen out front we passed by wouldn't glare at me from behind their gas masks, but as soon as they see Spooks they stop giving me that weird look and immediately salute us.

"Long thrive the Nexus." I hear the two guardsmen say.

"Long thrive Sanctorium." Spooks replied.

"Have a pleasant circadian-loop."

We go in the lift. It is squeaky creaky. Delightful.

On the way we pass by several levels of outposts marked with diminishing oxygen percentage signs, and the higher up we go, the rustier the signs get. I gather they haven't been replaced or cleaned in quite a while.

The lift stops at the thermal chamber atop the tower, AC-regulated and pressurized to human comfort. Aside from the warmth it is a depressing sight of mouldy carpets (the blotches almost triggered my facial recognition program), bare steel walls, faded posters and pale fluorescent light. Spooks nudges aside the corpse of a cleaner drone with her foot.

"Sad to look at...this won't have to be you as long as you do your job properly, understand?"

I nod.

She keys in the valve door's code as aged machinery hisses in steel, arthritic pain. If there's a building that desperately needs a chiropractor, it's this one.

> Atmospheric pressure change detected: estimate 101 kPa → 85.60 kPa. Please alert your assigned human personnel.

Spooks knows!

> Heartbeat detected, please alert-

SO annoying!

> Please alert-

I GET IT ALREADY SHUT UP!

Bonk.

Someone's knocking on my noggin.

"Hey, what the hell is this thing?"

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower level 108

Why is everything black??!??

Oh, that's just someone's coat.

WHO IS THIS MAN WHERE DID HE COME FROM

I didn't realize it when the door first opened, because I was busy arguing with my brain, but the rifleman must've entered then and stood in front of me. His ridiculously oversized, standard-issue Thermatek® multi-terrain coat billows dramatically like the Nexus flags I saw earlier; snow clings to his shoulders and back in a way that reminds me of cake frostings, and the disruptive overwhite combat uniform underneath probably have never seen a scrubber drone.

His face is an unreadable dark void, different from Spooks in that he seems to lack all features. A few moments later my programs determine the M50 gas mask on his face is messing with my perception.

I watch him peel off ice that has frozen over the lenses and rest his rifle to the side. It's an old-looking thing, matches his pitch-black coat, menacing as hell...

> Hailstone M89, 7.62 x 51mm, bolt-action sniper rifle, Hailstone Ltd.

> Acquiring specifications...

> Mass: 6.10 kg. Length: 1,300 mm. Range: 1,500mm. Feed system: 5-round box magazine. In service since-

Alright alright! I didn't ask for all this info, ok?

Bonk. Another knock to my noggin. His gas mask communicates pure befuddlement as he raps his knuckles against my precious little head.

Does this guy think I'm a drum or something?!

Spooks swats his hands away before he could attempt it again, "Please don't. It's a very expensive prototype sent from Sector Beta."

The void behind his gas mask radiates contempt.

"What good is a recon android if it can't even handle a little bump?"

Is he calling me useless? I fold not one, not two, but all three pairs of my arms in disapproval. If I had eyebrows they'd be furrowed by now.

"I can handle lots." I speak up and the little startled jump he gives fills my machine heart with joy, "I'm designed to weather rain, sleet, extreme temperatures, anti-material rounds, strong corrosives, and emotional jabs."

"Huh, it talks."

Spooks swats his hand away again, "RFL-D-3901, this is MDRA-K1, Mobile Defense and Reconnaissance Android, model K-1. First generation and finest of Sector Beta..."

"...and this is RFL-D-3901, rifleman of Sector Sigma Panopticon. Although he insists on being called Renfield."

I refuse to call him that. From now on, he is...Gas Mask Dude (GMD).

GMD sounds wary of the whole ordeal, he's waving his arms around and flinging half-melted snow everywhere.

"What warranted this? The Nexus never gives me anything nice."

"I don't know. The command came down from Director Glamis himself. Figured every rifleman is getting one soon."

"I don't wanna be his guinea pig. My old survey drone works just fine."

(To prove this point, GMD gives a miserable-looking hovering little drone a kick. It beeps in futile protest.)

"That drone cannot respond to you." Spooks sounds annoyed, "MDRA-K1 is your partner. It's built for tactical purposes, not general environmental surveillance."

"I don't want a barometer that talks back to me."

"It won't. I programmed its psych-cores myself."

"It won't last two minutes out here."

"It can save your life."

That got GMD's interest. "How?"

"Thermal vision, heartbeat sensor, 360° visual field, and..." She leans in closer, as if divulging top secrets, "...a built-in EMP."

A built-in what she never told me hold on hold up hold on a second a built-in what??

AN ELECTROMAGNETIC PULSE GENERATOR???

Apparently that was enough to get GMD's genuine attention. Now he's sitting on some dusty crates and scratching his chin through the mask, I think he's weighing "accepting me" against "turning me into the cleaner drone outside", so I uncross my arms and look as cute and polite as possible.

Which isn't very hard because, well, I'm me. I'm always cute.

"Final offer." Spooks sighs, "Test trial for a circadian-loop. I'll come to collect the drone by curfew, and if you still want to keep the old one, I'll let you."

"You're leaving this thing with me? For a whole day?"

Without giving either of us room to debate, Spooks turns to leave. The last thing I hear through the squeaky creaky is "Don't touch the self-destruct button and you'll both be fine".

GMD puts his head in his hands and I do the same after a moment of deliberation.

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower, Outpost #108

I feel kind of bad for him. He's been sitting on that crate for ten minutes now. Occasionally he lets out a long, agonized groan like a building that needs a chiropractor.

Finally he turns to me, the void behind his mask practically leaking despair. "Fine. First things first, what do I call you? I can't say MDRA-K1 every time I want to get your attention."

OMG OMG OMG DO I GET A NAME NAME NOW

"I don't have any names aside from my official designation, though you can call me whatever you like." I give him the polite, official response that was implanted in my noggin.

"So...if I want to call you Wet Bread. You'd technically be Wet Bread."

What I wanted to say was "please don't", what I ended up saying is "yes".

"Second: do you have a gender? It feels weird to keep calling you 'it'. Unless, uh, that's what you want."

Huh, I didn't even think of that. I guess recon androids aren't exactly built with human appearances in mind, and what little human features I do have don't give any sort of indications at all. The excuse Spooks gave at the time was "gender takes up too much internal storage" and she never bothered to install it.

"I...I don't know."

GMD hesitates a little, "Ok...I'll let you decide on that later."

He goes back to scratching his chin.

"And last question: how much of what that woman just told me was a lie?"

Uhhh...brain, replay convo?

> Replaying...

"None of it." I tell GMD, "She wasn't lying at all."

He snorts through his mask, "Not as far as you know."

"What makes you doubt her credibility?"

"Her name is literally SPOOKS and she's the BIGGEST LIAR in Sector Sigma. She will take every chance to SCREW YOU OVER like the conniving, manipulative, BACKSTABBING bastard she is-"

He shuffles around in that oversized coat pocket - there's at least 50 shell casings bouncing around in there, and fishes out a broken husk of gunmetal cylinder.

"-She got me to buy this 'venturi cooled' barrel off her for 450 marks, said it will help keep my gun in shape. LOOK AT IT NOW. LOOK AT THIS JUNK."

Then he deflates back into his coat again.

"And now she sends me you."

My sympathy core lights up, I kind of get his reaction now. He thinks I'm another one of Spooks' swindles that will inevitably backfire on him. But if I don't change his mind before Spooks comes to take me, is it...back to the factory I go?

"I promise I'll do my best to be useful. I can scan for life signs, calculate angle compensation for weather conditions, and give estimations on ballistic performances. Whatever it takes to help you out, I'll do it!"

He tilts his head a little. It's a very difficult communication between an android whose face can't emote, and a human who is completely obscured by tactical gear and a gas mask. We've been giving each other the same looks for ten minutes.

"Anything?"

"Within reasonable expectations."

He ponders my response silently.

"If you want to be useful, go down to the first floor and grab me a bottle of Fizzy® Mint Blast from the vendor drone."

what

"What's the point of those damned limbs if you can't scuttle like a spider? Try not to screw up something this basic, and maybe I'll consider not scraping you for parts."

A wave from his hand lets me know that I am dismissed from his presence.

"Now go on, hurry up. You and that conjob already made me break my routine."

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower level 1

Well, I made it. I had to squeeze myself through the lift shaft and free-fall a few stories, but I made it.

I flag down a passing by vendor drone. Its user-friendly, bulbous body splits open to reveal a mini-fridge inside. I grab the one that looks blue and green and yellow.

"35 marks, please."

"Payment authorization goes through RFL-D-3901." I respond, "Please notify him of the transaction."

"For indirect transactions, please watch an ad to proceed."

Then a small holo-screen flips down from inside the fridge, and I sit watching people frolic with long-extinct animals while a voice in the background rattles off possible side effects. Vendor drone beeps in satisfaction as it waddles off to advertisement itself to passing guardsmen.

> System alert: incoming Nexus broadcast

What is it?

The lights overhead dim into ominous red, all around me the quiet chatter of radios, soldiers, and drones die down in an instant. TRISS's disembodied voice swells from every loudspeaker in the tower:

[All personnel, a tox storm has been sighted 1.2 km from Sector Sigma. Aggregate level: moderate. Please seek shelter immediately, please seek shelter immediately, please seek shelter-]

In the distance, I can see mechanical fragments of the Aegis Protocol rising above Ministry of Benevolence - a hand, a shield, a radially-patterned array of semi-organic needles that saturate the air with the scent of burning ozone. It emerges into the grey sky of Sector Sigma like a black morning sun, spitting out signal interference storms.

I see the anti-cognition grids lock into place and blanketing the sector. I run a quick calculation of the height of the dome from an estimated radius.

Renfield.

Aegis cannot cover the top of the Panopticon Tower.

I drop the Fizzy® Mint Blast and bolt for it.

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower level ???

The lift is disabled, I have no choice but to climb the cables all the way to the top.

The higher up I go, the more suffocating it becomes to push through the electromagnetic interference in the air. It's not just the Aegis Protocol that's trying to jam every single piece of signal flying through, it's the distant whisper of the swarm, the almost-human speech from far in the Bleak Lands like dissonant rain. Billions of little bio-feelers telepathically tickle my brain crevices, nibbling on my psych-core inhibitors.

By the time I got to level 92, the darkness overcast leaves only faint emergency lights to illuminate my path. Everyone has cleared out of the upper levels save for a lone vendor drone.

"...Bragels®̴ ̴a̵n̷d̵ ̷c̸h̶i̷p̸s̴,̵ ̵g̵o̴o̶d̶ ̶f̵o̷r̸ ̸b̶r̸a̸g̷g̸i̶n̷g̸,̵ ̵g̵o̷o̴d̸ ̶f̶o̵r̶ ̷s̸n̶a̶c̴k̵s̴.̶.̴.̸"

"Get to ground level," I shout at it, "The tox storm will suffocate your signals any minute now."

".̷.̴.̵m̵a̷k̶i̸n̷g̶ ̷f̵r̴e̵s̵h̶n̸e̸s̶s̴ ̷f̴r̸e̸s̴h̴e̸r̸.̴.̴.̴.̶"

It's hopeless.

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower level 108

I get to the top and a gust of cold air nearly blasts me off the tower. It's sirens blaring, red lights flashing, and TRISS's voice faintly echoing across Sector Sigma from every loudspeaker in range. Renfield wallows in his solitude as he looks down at the storm.

If I could, I would take a moment to gape at it too, it's astonishing alright - black talons and teeth explode forth from the cloud like chaos creation, trying to rip apart an invisible net cast over what looks to be such a tiny, fragile city beneath. It writhes, pounds, screams at oblivion.

I tug him on his coat, "We have to go."

He slowly turns around, (I bet he's narrowing his eyes behind that mask), "Where's my drink?"

"There's no time for that."

"I'm not going anywhere." He crosses his arms, slouching against the outpost guardrail.

"You'll be torn to pieces by the storm!"

"I don't care." He picks up his Hailstone M89, pointing off into the distance, "Hey, do you think I can make that shot at this distance?"

At first I don't understand what he's pointing at, then I zoom in on the swarm and notice what looks like a half-cannibalized survey drone being ripped open and harvested for parts. The swarm must've picked it up before the shield went up.

"I don't think you should." I'm in full-on pleading mode now, "Please, RFL-D-3901, retreat to the thermal chamber with me."

"And I told you I don't want a barometer that talks back! Did Spooks overcharge your argument core or what? You're a spotter, just do your job."

If it'll convince him how dangerous it is, then sure. I turn on all my sensors and direct them at the tox storm-

I̴T̷'̷S̴ ̷B̴U̶R̷N̵I̶N̶G̸ ̴M̸Y̵ ̵E̶Y̴E̵S̶ ̶I̶T̴ ̷H̸U̶R̵T̶S̵ ̶I̴T̶ ̶H̴U̶R̴T̷S̷

It's chaos I've never seen before. It bleeds a thousand colours on a spectrum I couldn't even imagine, my UV-ray vision is screaming for me to stop looking at it, but I'm locked in some kind of trance with this cosmic abomination. It burns red hot on my thermal eyes, a twisting supernova desperately trying to mould itself into a cogent shape with which to maul and kill. The worst part is that I think my facial recognition program flares sporadically at me, telling me it's picked up some kind of human face from within the darkness.

Renfield huffs and shoulders his rifle.

"I don't need you. I don't need any drone to do my job."

> Wind speed: 29 km/h northerly wind

> Acquiring target...

>Calculating angle adjustment...

Bang!

Renfield's already fired his shot. I was too concentrated on the distance measure to inform him. The first shot misses, I hear him curse under his breath then readjust his aim.

"Dial in 8.75 MOA from your 200 yard zero."

"Shut up." He grumbles.

"A slight left to right wind, dial in left 1 MOA."

"Hmph."

"Send it."

"Piss off." But he presses the trigger anyways.

We watch the bullet trail a little spiral through the air, then a few seconds later a brilliant shower of sparks from afar sends the swarm scattering.

"Center mass...? Hit. Good job." I tug his coat again, "We need to get inside."

BECAUSE THAT SHOT JUST GOT THE SWARM'S FULL ATTENTION YA MORON

That seems to be exactly what Renfield wanted, because next thing I know he hauls me up by my limbs, kicks open the thermal chamber door, and tosses me down the lift shaft. Before I can swing my rappel thingy up to catch myself, he slams the doors shut and bolts it from the other side.

I shout for him through the door, my voice modulator nearly fries itself. He doesn't hear me - he only hears the swarm whispering into his ears how it will tear him apart from the inside out. And it does. I don't manage to bust the door open until the swarm has receded like a falling tide.

Renfield lies dead on the floor. His chest caved in, the swarm took the pain to shatter every bit of his ribcage, blood wells up and trickles out of shattered lenses along with bits of brain matter. The only thing left completely unscathed is his precious rifle.

This is how my dear partner died on the first day of my job, and how he died every other time after this. I should have realized something about Renfield (GMD, whatever) from the moment I met him:

Between the two of us, my psych-cores are more intact than his.