No one can see the floating motes of dust when the curtain's drawn.

Harry was not ready to let his excitement for 'The Dismantler' extinguish the fire burning inside of him since last night. He sat resolutely before his Bureau boss, determined to see that Jorge's legacy did not become a mote of dust along the data cables of a government network.

"You know I read your work as soon as you bring it in." Timothy Ross's beady eyes bored holes into Harry after the young monitor hastily explained why he didn't leave the room.

"It is an unusual death ... I underlined the part about the fingers," Harry ventured.

"I noticed, Harry," Timothy spoke without moving his lips. "You know what I'm expecting from you this month."

"Of course, I'll start on it as soon as I'm out the door. It's just that those fingers ..."

"Do you know that a single study of science in any field rarely establishes anything? If you'd gone to college you'd know. It has to be repeated, the study, it's conditions, in different contexts, on different populations, with similar results to be accepted as veritable."

Harry nodded like a good student. "Of course, sir. It makes sense. It's more secure that way--"

"More reliable." The second eyebrow now joined forces with the first. Harry could get lost in the drama of Timothy's facial twitches, so he tightened his fingers wrapped around the armrests of his chair.

"It's just that the fingers seemed-"

"Nope."

"I did some research. I couldn't--"

"Nope."

Harry balled his hands into fists in frustration, safely out of Timothy's sight.

"Patience, boy. Observation. Replication. Meticulousness. All the hallmarks of objectivity. A wild river is not a safe ride to the ocean, boy."

What the hell is he saying? Then it clicked.

"So, without, um ...," Harry struggled trying to rephrase the philosophy talk into something he could grasp, "similar occurrences, similar posturing of hands found in other cases, this one-time occurrence is not worthy of our attention ..." He felt bitter admitting as much.

"Even if we deemed it worthy, it would lead us nowhere. You plot the first point on a graph. Where do you go from there?"

Ross relaxed back into his chair, his gaze hinged to the restlessness of Harry's eyes. His own eyes grew bemused the more he watched. "And yet, the Coroner's office is right up the next block." Ross once again leaned forward in the chair and clasped the fingers of his hands as he resumed. "Put your monitor ID to use if you are so eager to honor your departed." His eyes wrinkled pleasantly, preparing to dive into another preachy monologue: "It's called priming: Don't force your mind into premature theories. Be all ears to what the medical examiner says. And pick your questions like a surgeon's instruments. And don't believe in coincidence."

Harry removed his gaze before the smile of his boss could reach full bloom. But he felt pumped, refueled. His mind was buzzing with possibility.

"Thank you, sir."

"If the canoe leads to the ocean, you'd only have your gut to thank."

Suddenly, there was so much Harry needed to do. Trying to keep a cap on his excitement in place, Harry took his leave and went straight to the Information Room.

The idea of hooking up with Hackster didn't seem like a time-waster anymore. He could be useful on both the fronts Harry was now challenged on.

There were several neat rows of open desks in the spacious Information Room, each with a computer station. Every station was a complete unit, with a low frame supporting both a comfortable seat and a tube leading to a flexscreen. Continuous wooden desks had been constructed around the stations preventing theft.

The government had long stopped using detachable PCs where the three-in-one Graphene Memristor Motherboard could be unhinged off the back of the screen from its slot. The current gym-like workstations were not built with any usb or data loader ports and came with their own operating system that did not connect to v-spaces, thus preventing any misuse.

The clerks who worked here filed data collected by surveyors who discretely combed the townships beyond the scope of the Census Bureau. Reports and Records coming in from the monitors also ended up here after being analysed for usefulness. The PCs did feed into the database of the Census' regional headquarters in Atlanta, GI. Thus the Bureau of Population Research could be considered an extension of the Census Bureau with a more invasive outreach.

Several months ago, there were whispers that at least one monitor at the Fort Meyers office had reported on a shady person who turned out to be a terrorist-in-training masquerading as a homeless man. Nobody knew for sure who the monitor in question had been, including probably that monitor themselves.

Such incidences gave credence to the theory that FBI was among several other government agencies - Department of Health and Urban Planning to name a few - which were known to profit from the information surveillance provided by the Bureau.

Harry passed between two rows occupied by young geeky boys, girls with braces, glasses, or headbands, older men with bald patches, and older women who were probably more worried about drunk husbands waiting back home for more beer, rather than whoever schmuck they were keying in the system.

He looked at the screens as he passed, but couldn't see anything specific; they just appeared shadowed. One had to be sitting at level with a screen to see what was on. A few clerks were gathered around a larger tabletop screen, using their fingers to manipulate the information. They were the analysts who compiled daily reports of juicy bits that needed more tracking or some other response.

Harry spotted Hackster raise his head from a station and went to him first.

"I changed my mind," he spoke conspiratorially into the geek's ears leaning low. It was an unspoken truth among the young guys at the Bureau that Hackster could be needled into 'advanced' uses of his skill set but only by those he welcomed into his circle.

Hackster brightened into a toothy smile and offered Harry a stool which the latter waved away. Hackster breathed in a suppressed excitement: "Come any time at my place, 89 Webster Drive, Sutton Park. You know where that is, right?"

"I've been to that area." Harry nodded.

"Just push the bell for the basement. It would be loads of fun. My VR stuff is state of the arc. I've cousins in Orlando who sell their second hand stuff to me exclusively and then I upgrade." Hackster wiggled his brows in real pride.

He showed signs of continuing his whispered speech but Harry intervened. "I'll pay in my own way and time and you'll teach what I wanna learn. My terms or no deal."

He left the spot without waiting for an answer and made a beeline to the only bright sight in the whole room. Here was another person he needed to use for any chance of progressing with his 'special' assignment.

Noticing his approach, WonderGurl dramatically removed the sun-glasses embracing her exuberant, auburn volume of hair. She leaned back in her chair, as Harry walked over, languidly folding her arms, and stretching her legs until her broad heels made a gentle thunk against the wooden panel under her desk. All in one smooth, carefully synced motion as if photographers were moving about, capturing her beauty from every angle.

The cherry on top was the full, flashing, radiant smile of her cherry lips, inviting Harry's eyes to rest deliciously on the perfectly shaped black mole just above the left angle of her lips. For a second, he weighed the impulse to touch it with a finger just to see if it was real or not. It must be, as it was always on the same spot with exactly the same shape, but he still wanted to touch it.

There were several things occupying his mind today, however, so he removed his gaze, his impulses finding expression only in a second's blush.

"You have business with me, Mr. Horrendous?" WonderGurl's silvery tones almost gave his cheeks another rush of blood.

"Indeed, I do, Miss WonderGurl."

"I'm all ears." This with a pleasing wave of her head.

He found a stool under the desk and slid it out to seat himself. "I need a meeting with Len." He had spoken in a very low voice, almost without moving his lips.

She mimicked him in her reply. "Why?"

"A few things have come up. There's no one else for what I need to find out."

"You'll have to be very careful. They're trying their best to snare us. Any misstep could tighten the leash around our necks."

"I'll be very careful. Don't worry." His tone was placatory. WonderGurl wasn't aware of half the business he had already conducted, and benefitted from, with her jailed twin.

"When do you need to see her?"

"ASAP."

"Wait for my text then. You know she likes to know beforehand."

"I know."

As he got up he couldn't resist an affectionate kiss on top of her head where there would be a pair of sunglasses in a few seconds. This was one girl he had wished he could call his current flame, or even former, for that matter. But it had never been so and, he had a feeling, it never will be.

Hackster excitedly waved goodbye and painfully winked a few times as Harry went out the way he had come. Peeling the toothy image of his awkward colleague off his skin, Harry stepped out of the Information Room.

After a quick minute at his cubicle collecting his things, Harry's feet were arrested by one final obligation before he could take to the exit. A moment he had been unconsciously delaying until now.

He went back to the passway where Reading Room A was and went deeper. Stopping before a closed double-door labelled Recording Rooms, he drew in a breath and released it with a sigh. Best get to done with a duty even if it seems unpleasant.

Inside, he found himself in a small waiting area with chairs giving way to a narrow corridor with rows of closed doors on each side. The bulbs above all the doors were red. He grabbed a chair.

In a few minutes, the bulb on the third door on the left turned blue. The door opened and a middle-aged woman in a dark printed maxi came out carrying a folder. She adjusted the red-rimmed glasses on her nose, and smoothed her dress down as she came up.

"Henderson." The woman nodded noticing him.

"Mrs. Denver. How's your daughter doing?"

"Gah. I've stopped talking about her. I shout what everyone says to her face. Then she barks back and my ears hurt. I can't take it anymore." Mrs. Denver held up her hands and shrugged her shoulders.

"Better leave her to her affairs, huh?" Harry supplied helpfully.

"No more meddling with family. See ya around."

Harry got up and briskly walked up to the door with the blue bulb. It opened with a mechanic click in response to a quick knock. He slipped in.

The room was either a large closet space or a very tiny office, though it was bigger than that lapis lazuli Reading Room. It had a bare whitewashed ambience with a large desk, a swinging chair for the recording clerk sitting behind, one plastic chair for the visitor and a shelf full of files and folders of different sizes.

Harry took the chair with a friendly flick of the head to the Recorder. The latter was a well-built Jamaican of sharp Grecian features that would make him stand out in any crowd. A badge fixed to his shirt pocket read Owen Glieberman. Harry was still not used to accepting Owen's figure behind a recorder's desk. The guy looked like a charismatic sportsman or someone with a few movies to his name. He was an exceptional sketch artist though and seemed to love his job.

"No file, today?" Owen spoke in a deep Idris Elba register.

"I've been taking my reports directly to The Duke. I told you last time. His orders."

"A new observation then?"

"Yes."

Owen opened a drawer and took out a broad tablet encased in a grey faux leather cover. He turned it on to a blank paint-screen and slid a long epen out of it's holder on the side of the cover. He looked up at Harry in anticipation, epen poised above the screen, ready to go.

"Where?"

"Caleb's Imperial Street Theater, Dane Street, Flea Market Corner, Tatter Town."

"You meant Gateway," Owen said with a knowing smile as he scribbled on top of the screen in a deft calligraphic hand.

"What! They haven't officially renamed that end yet?"

Owen's smile widened at Harry's winkful retort.

"When?"

"Yesterday, that is, Wednesday, 22 September, 2050, between 7 and 8pm."

"Describe." Once again, the epen waited.

Harry cleared his throat. "Girl. Anywhere between ... 16 and 19. Curly, or rather, wavy hair, shoulder length. Rich almond complexion. Looks healthy. Agile. Middling height. Liquid eyes." He had spoken in a continuous, breathy stream, still in the grip of those eyes.

"Liquid? You know how to proceed, right?"

"Um, sorry. I'll try again."

With another deep breath, Harry restarted, proceeding systematically as he was coached: hair, shape of the head, focus on chin, eyes, nose, mouth, brows, ears, neck, complexion, eye color, other noticeable physical features. Finally, height, age and weight estimates, vocal qualities, attire, apparent ethnicity, and any noticeable attitudes, skills, activity, or conversation observed. The Recorder noted it all down in a paragraph form at the bottom of the large sketch page.

When Harry got up and shook the Jamaican’s hand fifteen minutes later, the colored-in sketch of the girl was turned towards him for a last okay. Those dull green eyes with orange rays spreading from the irises like topaz veins were alive. They seemed to complain at his betrayal and his heart beat a little faster. He rationalized his need to be a good, conscientious monitor. But the eyes arrested his heart all the same with a liquid emotion pulsing inside ...

Harry forced himself away from the magnetic image and walked out.