She doesn't need to know what he does in his spare time.

Or so Renfield thought. But it's getting boring here without Madaraki's constant nagging.

The other riflemen part way for him when he strides through Panopticon's sublevel hallways, a solitary dot of black trailed by a mumbling sea. Nobody is happy to see him.

Not all riflemen come back from their shifts. Immortality is coveted as much as it is despised in their line of work.

He knows the procedure well. An aging rifleman waits for him by the end of the hallway. Pale eyes downcast in pale fluorescent lights flickering from pale, peeling walls. His Nexus-issued cap sitting slanted on his head. The rest of him is as leathery and weather-worn as his sagging skin.

Tugun knows him by the footsteps. They skip the greetings because TRISS might be listening in on any keywords, Renfield shoulder-checks him on his way past and slips a pack of Marlboro tabak into his coat pocket, other hand snatching the taped-shut box readily waiting. Tugun only lets out a shaky breath when he feels the wind trailing behind Renfield has died down.

The fact that his head is still on his shoulders means Renfield considers this a successful transaction.

Someone's shouting. He turns to look and it's the new transfer from the Nexus Alliance Troops trying to pick a fight with Renfield. The kid is barely dry behind the ears but is already gearing up to prove something to the men around him. Tugun wonders why nobody told him military logic doesn't fly in the riflemen division - they are not soldiers, after all. They're overspecialized watchmen.

"You're one of Irkalla's immortal boys, aren't you?" Crew Cut kid gets all up in the gas mask's black void, "Silver shovel crammed up your ass and all that, military family?"

It's been a while since someone got close enough to Renfield that their breath fogged up his lenses. He taps on the young man's shoulders to tell him fuck off, then tries to push him out of the way, then tries to squeeze through the human blockade. The kid doesn't budge.

Renfield points at the wall-chimer in a very clear gesture of I'm in a hurry, I have places to be.

"Our pay's gettin' slashed, the survey drones don't do jack shit, now Glamis wants us to shoot whoever he tells us to. What makes the Nexus say you get to live and I get to go fuck myself?"

There are eyes on both of them now. Riflemen watching, waiting, holding their breath. The kid stiffens up when Renfield pats him lightly on the shoulder, almost sympathetic, then a reassuring squeeze as if he's trying to cheer him up.

Then he feels Renfield's gloved fingers dig into the back of his collar and slam his head into the concrete wall. Over and over. And over. And over. On the fifth count he gets dropped like a sack of wet cement before muddy boots step over his body, echoing hard footfalls down the long hallway.

Sector Sigma, Panopticon Tower level 108

He's wondering why his hands are shaking as he pulls the trigger.

Renfield doesn't miss, of course. There's a boom and a crack and distant blood suspended in motion by a broken windshield. The Insurrectionist convoy halts when the leading jeep swerves off its course, its headless driver now slouched over the steering wheel.

The weight of that rookie's skull against concrete still rests in his palms. Normally at this hour he's thinking about lunch and pet isopod, but now he's thinking if Spooks was right about him after all.

You can't even get used to the idea of working with something that's designed to like you, to tolerate you. Because you know if it's smart enough to understand you, it's smart enough to know it should hate you-

This morning he walked past a group from the recon division - scouts with standard NAT T-89 slung over their shoulders, laughing, joking, mimicking exploding heads with their hands. He overheard pieces about how far the head flew from the body, how much blood gushed out, such and such.

(There used to be a little voice in the back of his head that congratulates him whenever he lands a shot. It's gone now.)

There are riflemen in the Panopticon that will throw down their rifles and cheer whenever they land a shot. Renfield doesn't make a habit of celebrating, and maybe that earned him a reputation as a stuck-up. Tugun used to scold them, but even he's getting too old for that.

Most of those cheering are new recruits anyways. Renfield's far more familiar with the tired look in Tugun and many others' eyes.

He doesn't know if he's glad or frightened that Madaraki's face is incapable of ever displaying the same look.

2:32 pm

The tox storm screams its discordant tune over the Aegis shield once again. Renfield finds himself not putting up a fuss when Madaraki asks him to hide inside with her.

They fill up the kettle, turn on the radio, and take turns grumbling at each other about tales from long ago. Madaraki watches him chug vodka to the background tune of the other Madaraki Ishiko, she doesn't say a word.

She seems fine with his little stash of contraband goods, so he fishes out a yellowed picture book and tosses it over to her. That ought to keep her occupied for the next hour or so.

Madaraki flips through it, "I can't read this."

"Oh." He spares a glance, "It's in Russian."

"What's 'Russian'?"

"It's the language of the place where your golden cock and astrologist came from." He replies, not lifting his head from the makeshift crate-pillow.

She flips through a few more pages of faded illustrations.

"These seem highly implausible." Madaraki concludes, "Did all pre-Annihilation era houses have jungle fowl legs underneath them?"

Something tugs at his insides when Madaraki launches into another barrage of questions: why is the old fish-catcher talking with a golden fish? Fish can't talk. What is that curved piece of wood and string the hero carries, some sort of primitive rifle prototype? Why are there bones in the tall grass? Why is the woman in the golden dress crying? Were these people real?

He's eating away at the edges of a vague, floating memory in a vague, floating sea of mush-thoughts. There's the almost tangible outline of nostalgia in the back of his mind, yet he's reaching out to touch it through stretchy latex. Behind Madaraki's rubber film of questions lies an elusive silhouette, something he can't quite feel save for the static shock of familiarity.

Renfield retreats his hand away from the rubber, and his heart itches with frustration.

[HIPPOCAMPAL NEUROfragment #10832]

The Consortia is not happy.

Glamis had drawn a schism between Sector Sigma and the rest of Sanctorium, fanning the flames of war from both within and without. The Bleak Lands will not take kindly to his swarm of killshot drones, and Sanctorium's pride forbids Director Six from standing idly by.

If only she wasn't quite alone.

Of the twenty-four directors, Director Solstice opposes Glamis on grounds of stagnation, Director Seraph finds isolation distasteful, and Director Calliope wants him off the Consortia as soon as possible.

The others found war an incentivizing, expedient vehicle for progress. War spurs production, Director Hillock of Sector Omicron had said, hoping to distract the Consortia from the fact that his sector is being overrun with Insurrectionists.

War is necessary for peace, Director Neamhain - Sector Chi insisted, how can there be halcyon without sacrifice?

What better banner to rally the people of Sanctorium under than the fear of a common enemy, Sector Psi's very own Director Loom points out, and what better fear than the one bubbling from within?

...

...

So as TRISS runs the numbers and simulations over and over, the directors pace their obsidian meeting hall in varying states of distress, a vendor drone diligently weaves through palpable tension with freshly brewed tea, no one stops to think about the ones they are sending off to die.