RFL-D-3901 is a man of routine.

At 5:30 am he wakes up on the dusty couch that has been his bed for the past four years. Then he throws empty bullet casings at the wall-chimer until it shuts up.

At 6:00 am Renfield finds himself barely dressed and cleaned, his room still as he'd left it yesterday, and the chia pet starting to look a little saggy. He waters it with the remaining Mint Blast in his cup.

Roko, his loyal isopod, scuttles from its hiding place to nibble happily on a Fruitple® slice.

"You have it so easy," Renfield can't help but grumble at the thing, "I'd like to how well you fare with real people."

At 6:45 am Renfield just barely makes it to the Panopticon. The synthetic snow melts before it could land on his gas mask, and Renfield skips the conversation with the guardsmen altogether. He's thinking about what food he'll pick up once he dies and wakes up in the Vivarium again.

At 7:00 am he finishes cleaning and assembling his rifle, at 7:05 am he finishes the other half of his Bragels®, and at 7:18 am Renfield arrives at the top of the Panopticon, 3 minutes late. The command drone is already waiting for him.

"150 marks will be deducted from your account, 50 mark per minute tardy." It chimes brightly before flying away.

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower level 108

I'm gazing over the iron railings of the outpost when he smacked me lightly on my noggin again.

"Hey, you." GMD huffs - he only has two ways of speaking: shouting or grumbling, "What are you still doing here? I thought you'd be back to Sector Beta by now."

"Why do you want me dismantled so badly?"

He kicks open the thermal chamber door, grabs me by my arms, and tries to stuff me back inside the lift shaft again. I've learned from my past mistakes, so I cling onto his waist with all six arms.

"Spooks sent me here," I manage to say before he yanks me off, "She said if I go back to Sector Beta, the Nexus won't dismantle me - they'll strip me down to my bare consciousness and run me as a TRISS subroutine."

"The hell does that mean?"

"I don't know. She said you'd know, she said it's the same thing that happened to Roko."

He freezes. My sensor tells me his heart rate and blood pressure both just shot up, 130/79. I watch him stroll over to where his old survey drone lies motionless, tame, loyal to the very end, and he starts kicking the lights out of it - literally. Its poor single camera pops out of the socket, and GMD brings down his rubber-heeled boots on it, hard. The survey drone chimes out a dying plea before powering off completely.

It's like a massacre to me.

"There, happy?" He's panting like an angry, extinct land animal.

I guess this means I can stay?

"I'm grateful that you've allowed me to work with you, but I'm worried about your outburst. Is there a particular reason for destroying your old drone?"

The response is surprisingly calm. "No, just a swift retirement."

With that, he kicks its carcass off the Panopticon, and turns to set up his rifle without even listening for the telltale thud below.

7:30 am

Synthetic snow falls in slow, controlled bursts from above, and it's always on time. I watch the little white frosting gather on GMD's uniform like frosting on a cake.

Cake...cafeteria...velvet cake...

"RFL-D-3901."

A gruff response from him, his face glued to the gun stock and ice creeping up his mask, "Whaddya want?"

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

"Shut up." Then he's back to the scope again.

"I can pick up some more Fizzy® products if you'd like, or a food-pac?" I don't get a response for a few seconds, "Tap your finger on the firing bolt if the answer is yes."

I don't hear a tap, instead it's a clear ping! that ricochets off the thermal valve door behind us. I don't even need to check the size of the dent to know it's from a .50 cal, and GMD figured that out too. We both drop behind cover.

"Where did that shot come from?" He practically snarls at me.

"Bleak Lands, Old Świnoujście Train Station, rooftop above second to the left window."

"Hmm."

"Range 750."

GMD makes an annoyed "tsk" sound.

"Dial in 6.5 MOA."

Another irritated tongue click followed by a reluctant grumble of acknowledgement.

"0.4 left."

"Ready."

"Fire."

The air cracks open with a deafening boom, a few seconds later my sensors pick up a small cloud of debris on the roof of the abandoned train station, followed by a brilliant spray of blood.

"Hit." I confirm for him, but he's already fixated on the bullet. I try to run a scan analysis from the striation marks.

> Generating internal query...

> Hailstone SSD-9, .50 HMG, recoil-operated, anti-material, semi-automatic sniper rifle, Hailstone Ltd.

Looks like GMD already came to the same conclusion at me.

"...Insurrectionist snipers." His voice is no more than a low hiss from behind the gas mask, "Hailstone is selling weapons to both sides of the Mauer Wall, so no matter who wins they'll be the ones to come out on top..."

My psych-cores tell me GMD should be feeling bitter, his words indicate as much. But his voice stays completely neutral, as if he's reading off the cafeteria menu for lunch. I wonder if it's because he thinks TRISS can hear him, I wonder if he talks about everything in this voice so he doesn't get fined again. I wonder if I'd be bitter too, if I get brought back to life over and over again just to sit out my days atop a steel needle. The Panopticon, from a distance, looks like a failed attempt to inject the Bleak Lands with a Sanctorium antidote.

Maybe he's been doing this job for so long, he shut down whatever the squishy human equivalent of his psych-core is. And honestly, if I've been up here for as long as he has, I'd want to shut down mine too.