Rapid the flying stream flows between the silver towers, diverging on different blocks but still with a consistent width that never dries out. Sure the central stream isn’t particularly narrow, fair enough to allow a moving wall to course between the silver blades, but the true content of the river is not from above but rather the third dimension of height, as deep the water runs, so much that from outside it’s chaotic nature makes it seem nearly untraversable, a truth for many novice drivers as the streets of the metropolis requires a degree of precision.

Every few seconds another intersection is passed, and at every intersection a few canals pour in from both sides with the left side being pushed upstream and the right side moved downstream. Simultaneously in a prevention of overflow there is discharge into those very canals from the main course itself, resulting in a net zero change ultimately although after an event that is anything but negligible.

The river never even seems to slow down or stop, a momentum that doesn’t particularly accelerate but doesn’t make exceptions for those tired, instead requiring movement at all times when racing through the open pipes. A system that pushes the very entities that push each other, the entities all of diverse coloration from vibrant reds and blues to more toned down blacks and grays, shaped and sized differently with huge trucks and stubby bikes to more familiar sizes of vans and sedans.

Unperceivable from the outside due to the sheer unfollowable entropy, one of those very entities by the center both vertically and horizontally is a dark gray sedan with rounded smooth edges, a metallic hull without dent or dulled paint yet ironically ends up being naturally dull with its incredibly ordinary form, no extraordinary features to distinguish itself from any others around it, just another pod on the road and just as trifling.

Even within the vehicle itself the sole occupant, the driver, is exceptionally average, a middle-aged adult man in a gray dress suit with a white shirt underneath the blazer, a typical professional uniform for the common populace of the city: workers. He has a man bun atop his head, which is somewhat distinguishable, but otherwise isn’t too conspicuous, for the only attributes remotely unique are the color of his irises: crimson like the tie against his white shirt. Although in a city with a long cast of immigrants from histories so vastly different that their entire evolutionary states differ from not only tones but anatomies along with beings of supernatural bodies capable of transmutation into appearances only defined as alien, simple red eyes still resides at the top of the iceberg despite the strangely entrancing radiance of the starry imprints.

The man rests on a gray leather seat, the same seat beside him in the front passenger side, the same material and color composing the bench in the back of the short interior. The rest of the interior also has that same dull gray tone, the walls framing the window screens that exhibit an intimate sight of the traffic stream with many pods sized as SUVs, larger, and smaller passing or being passed. There is no additional lighting to the pod’s interior either, as the bright blue sky empowered by the distant cyan supersun is more than adequate for such a job, that blue absorbed on the right side of the man’s face and shoulder.

Like the pod and attire the man has a bland expression on his Latino face, wearing a subtle natural frown not in misery but rather in a monotonously default state. His eyes are open just as much as they need to be to focus on the traffic, although not wide with expression, his face relaxed with no visible tension in his cheeks or stressed wrinkling in the forehead.

In front of the man is the main windshield screen, displaying the stream forth with the many pods in all directions ahead, up down left and right. Along the edges of the screen is an interface with widgets for a speedometer and three dimensional compass among other standard dashboard pieces. Overhead at the top are also three different displays depicting footage of different angles, the central showing the view from the back of the pod as a rearview mirror and the two beside it showing angles of the side with the left and right respectively.

Also being cast on the windshield are all of the huge silver towers, although one of them is focused on by the man, that being one made in a double helix, one that can only be seen through the dense forest of pods in his way, but one that is clearly being approached ever nearer to the man’s left.

Next the man diverts his focus to the upper left mirror screen on the windshield, finding that there are currently no pods right beside him, and upon confirming the space an icon of an arrow pointing to the left appears in a constant blinking manner on the left side of the windshield along with the sound of ticking like that of a metronome before the pod begins to shift to the left before slotting into that next lane. The blinking arrow vanishes along with the ticking as he glances forward before back to the left mirror screen to find a pod zoom right past him at remarkable speeds, almost startling him before he calms again and with that being the only pod immediately on the left side he again activates the blinking arrow and ticking before he shifts into that next lane and relinquishes the blinker.

Only one more lane to the left remains, and after another glance at the mirror it’s found that there is one red SUV pod lingering by the man’s side, just a bit ahead of the tail but still clearly next to the vehicle. Even after the left turn blinker activates with the flashing arrow and ticking, the pod also doesn’t show any meaningful acceleration, as to the man it stays in relative position at his side, a position that doesn’t allow for a turn. Worse is that not too far ahead, only about the length of two to three pods forth is another vehicle in the same lane, limiting the space for acceleration.

Perplexed but to a greater extent irritated by the lack of differing motion of the neighbor, the driver’s forehead wrinkles as he nudges his head to the side as though attempting to signal to the other pod.

Yet of course the signal does not affect the other pod, as it remains by the gray sedan’s side, prohibiting it from turning despite being signaled by the blinker.

From slight annoyance to greater anger, the man’s teeth are revealed gritting, and the pod just barely shifts to the side in hopes of alerting the pod beside him, yet with no reaction the man suspends his turn in avoidance of a crash especially at such speed, marooning him stuck in his lane.

He shakes his head and raises it up, giving up on the agitatedly stubborn neighboring driver and hoping to find another way to make meaningful movement to the edge.

With no pods right above the windshield screen, the man activates another blinking arrow paired with ticking, yet this time instead of pointing to the left it instead points upwards and sits at the top center of the screen rather than leaning to the left.

Quick to take advantage of the temporary free space the pod rises up several feet until it’s beside the other pods in the upper lane, able to without much concern. In fact there’s only one lane above too, yet that lane is busy with a constant stream of pods passing over, faster than the sedan but being replaced with another behind, leaving no space to slip in.

Now unable to move up, the man grunts before turning to his left mirror whilst activating the left blinker just to find that same red SUV pod ascend up beside him, still exactly on his tail, still maintaining the same speed thus lacking any change to relative position.

Instantly the man returns his gaze up to the double helix skyscraper which is now much closer, only a few blocks ahead in fact, the destination that’s still beyond reach due to the pod next to him which the driver focuses back on.

The hum of the engine starts to intensity, growling louder and rougher as the pod starts to pull ahead, yet in reaction the red pod accelerates too, catching up with the man and remaining by his side, matching the same speed.

Again the engine snarls louder to pull ahead, and again the red SUV speeds up, causing the driver himself to growl from the utter stupidity of the neighbor, the driver’s crimson irises beginning to flare as they contract to a glare.

That glare is dropped in a worried gaze that is moved straight and up, up to the double helix tower so close it’s nearly looming over, over him and the constant belt of pods racing above with no room to move into.

Now in heightened anxiety the man glances to his side at the red SUV, then back up at the line of pods, and with gritted teeth he leans forward as the engine’s hum grows nearly into a roar, accelerating such that even the red SUV can’t keep up as finally the red racer falls back, and at the exact same time above the man there’s a narrow slot in the upper left lane where the pods are spaced out by about three lengths of space.

Without the luxury of hesitation the man commands the pod to shift to the left then swiftly rise to the upper lane, able to slide to the left upper corner of the stream but a roar of beeping from behind that blare even louder than the engine’s cry, startling the man again but only for an instant before he recomposes himself to rise again, no longer to another lane but instead above the traffic itself, with now the only immediate destination being the helix tower.

So close to the skyscraper that the silver body casts a heavy shadow onto the pod, the man’s teeth remains clenched as the entire pod begins to sharply angle upwards like a rocket, his back being pressed against the seat as the engine doesn’t get a break but instead needs to push harder at a sharp incline.

For outside the gray sedan pod ascends up along the colossal double helix skyscraper, a building silver and curved so elegantly, designed so abstractly that it doesn’t appear befitting for an urban tower but rather a piece for an art museum. So small the pod is in comparison, both to the tower and the river it diverges from that continues running below.

Nonetheless the pod rises speedily towards the top of the tower, passing about three quarters to the top before then slipping through the helix into the center.

In between each of the huge bridges that run along the helix the gray pod soars up the tower, moving purely latitudinally.

Some of the bridges are not entirely closed off, but rather have grand open spaces populated by a grid of pods as smaller parking lots spaced out across the tower. The lots inhabit the center of the bridges rather than its entirety, and while the center is open-faced the beams beyond are closed off.

Higher up the gray sedan mounts before alas it sharply tilts upright instantly after passing another bridge, and that very bridge the pod approaches now much slower, decelerating and descending.

Cautiously the gray sedan lowers itself to the central parking lot in the bridge, this one not occupied by too many pods but instead given many open spaces in the array. Although strangely the pod chooses to descend to a slot right beside another pod, an SUV model with a strong blue shine which sits inconspicuously in the center of the majorly open lot.

Nonetheless the gray sedan dips just about a foot off the black surface of the lot before coming to a stop, the engine’s hum now a gentle whisper that next silences absolutely. A few seconds after the silence follows the whoosh of dematerialization from the driver’s door, bursting out in a cloud that the man hastily thrusts himself out of, nearly stumbling before he turns around and immediately starts walking as the open door is closed by the rematerialization of the shell yet again.

In movements attempting to marry a confident stride with a cursory jog but resulting in an awkward shuffle the man approaches one of the lot’s ends, where past a slim silver frame is a white corridor well lit up, or at least that is the appearance given when faced head on.

It is when the man steps up to the frame that it is revealed the sight of the corridor is nothing more than an illusionary projective screen that was casted onto the solid silver wall, for in order to allow passage the wall has to disintegrate an entryway for the man, one that is taken without slowing and one that does indeed allow the man into the true white hallway that he continues his odd shuffle down.

Every footstep reverberating down the seemingly vacant hall, the man lowers his head as a holographic screen projects in his sight, one in the same proportions and coloration of the digital clock and with the same format of information too, although the reading from this clock is: ‘7:58 A.M.’

Under his breath the man curses while relinquishing the projection and returning his gaze ahead, loosening his walk more into a jog, swinging his arms at the border of a sprint.

Not too far ahead now is the end of the hallway which attaches to a longer one running normal, but what is more important is that against the white wall a door dissipates into a cloud to reveal a narrow shaft that a cluster of adults dressed in white coats are in, some of them stepping outside and turning down that very hallway.

Upon immediate recognition the gray man raises his hand and exclaims, “Wait!” before devolving his jog more like a walk but one even more visibly uncomfortable as he tries to take longer strides.

All of the adults in the elevator glance at the man including the ones walking out, although they lose interest and continue onward while those in the elevator remain attentive, some of them shuffling to the side to give space to the troubled guest.

Ultimately the gray man enters the shaft, stepping on the elevation pad and causing the surrounding adults to shuffle to the edges even more.

Finding comfort by the door, the man with the crimson tie raises his hand up to summon an elevator panel screen which he swiftly taps a button on, one that is closer to the top. After doing so he lowers his hand, letting the screen vanish and the opening to be closed by the reemergence of the cloud that then hardens.

From the pod’s hum to the elevation pad’s, the ride continues up as the men in the white suits stand around the one in gray, all of them silent at first in the somewhat awkward ride, all left to their own thoughts.

While the man in gray stares ahead at the door, quietly ventilating to calm himself of shortened breath, one of the men behind him with short brown hair turns to face a woman with a black bowl cut and mentions, “Hey Emma, have you seen those images of the blue comet circulating around recently?”

Curious to the interesting mention, the woman with short black hair tilts her head with a raised eyebrow before admitting, “Can’t say I have, what about it?”

The man gleams with a smile before explaining, “There’ve been these images on the orbits of a blue streak, some of them out in space and others even in the sky of this very Earth. People are saying the streak looks just like Meditat’s! Saying this might be the first actual sight of him since…yeah!”

“Well I mean didn’t he already reveal himself to be alive a while ago? What’s so shocking about this?” inquires Emma, although not in a way intentionally aggressive, but rather pure and intrigued.

Silent the gray man stays as another adult, a woman blonde although tied in a ponytail, joins in to answer: “Yes he apparently did, but it was nothing more than just those two terrorists saying it before turning themselves in, and some people have started to doubt them since there’s been no sight of Meditat ever since. Some think they went crazy, my mom believes it all to have been a conspiracy planned from the start but she also still thinks Earth 7 is a giant space station so…yeah.”

“Well you said it was just a streak, can’t anyone replicate that?” queries Emma yet again, still unconvinced, to which the first man to speak admits: “Maybe so, but it’s still something, and besides sure it can be replicated but it’s pretty distinguishable. If it was faked it’d have to be intentional…and hopefully it isn’t.”

In front of them the man with the crimson tie winces with gritted teeth, not with the same irritation to the traffic outside but something else, almost a resistance to a deeper anger boiling within.

“But imagine just for a second that it actually is him! I mean that’d be the first time we actually see him, I don’t know why he’s been so elusive all this time but to think he’s still out there protecting us, it makes it easier to believe we’re safe!” cheerily exclaims the other woman who had joined in prior.

More tightly the man’s face tenses, clenching his teeth as his starry irises pulsate in a soft luminescence like a heartbeat, one of a monster starting to awaken, his world through his eyes reddening into its hell, thumping every step fallen.

All the sudden a beam of white light blasts onto the man from ahead, one through the whooshing cloud of the door. With the whoosh comes an explosion of sound from voices all down the white hallway forth, one that eases the man’s face as his lips come close.

He releases a gentle sigh before then stepping forward off the elevation pad, and behind him the door reemerges closed, presumably to let the pad continue its path and for the conversation to continue off without a known end.

Trying not to focus on such hypotheticals, the gray man just turns to the right and keeps onward down the hallway, passing other adults, most of them dressed now in more traditional formal wear of suits with black blazers or dresses, many of them occupied with their own holographic displays or with each other.

Down the center of the corridor the man paces back into that awkward shuffle, slowed now that he’s in the middle of an occupied space but with strides that make him almost spring forward in light jumps.

He takes another turn to the left and continues down, gripping his blazer from the sides and tugging to straighten them for any creases, padding himself briefly before then grabbing his cuffs and pulling them too, doing any minor checks just to justify the course of time.

Some of the adults in the hall glance at him due to the impetuous nature he exudes, the walk lacking true grace, his footsteps harsh and weighted as if stomping lightly.

One of those adults is a middle aged woman of African descent with black hair tied up neatly in a tail, dressed with a navy blue blazer the same color as her pencil skirt with a white collared shirt underneath. Standing about a whole foot shorter than the hasty gray man, she wears a pair of highly thin glasses with lenses of a blue hue, glasses she uses to glance at that very man while her back leans against the white wall. While the man passes her onwards panting, her eyes peer before she calls out, “Wait, Dexter?!” to which the man immediately freezes with eyes shot wide.

He then steps backwards a few before turning around to the woman who called to him, fixating on her before realizing, “Rica?”

The woman identified as Rica throws her hands in the air before demanding, “Where were you, I thought you were going to bail on me,” as the man with the crimson tie identified as Dexter tugs on his blazer one last time and walks up to Rica, although more specifically to the door that combusts right beside her nearly causing her to startle as he offhandedly assures, “Of course not, we’re just on time,” to which she jumps before throwing herself around the frame and in through the door behind him, caught off guard by his immediate spring to action.

The two of them step into a wide room with white walls although with an odd wood aesthetic as the far back wall is wooden. By that far wall is a long wooden table where one man sits at the very center alone elevated on a low stage, but along the right side there is another long table that is occupied by a row of other adults, some men, others women, although most of them are around the same age group of seniors, faces wrinkled and hair grayed.

By the entrance to the room are two shorter tables facing forward, each of them paired with two black Executive chairs, and further down in front of the central table is a podium also made of what resembles wood. The room’s lighting primarily emits from the end with the table, reaching to the entrance although with a clear sense of direction in power.

All of the adults upon the entrance of the two guests turn and stare in silence as does the one at the head table, glaring as the two just slowly pace forwards, almost unsure of their invitation.

At the head of the room the man at the table glares, dressed in a suit completely white more akin to a robe yet tailored keenly, not baggy by any means but certainly not skintight, instead conducting respect with a distinctive black collar around the wrinkled neck.

Narrow are his yellow eyes, his white hair pulled back on its way out, and yet there’s no question to his authoritarian demeanor, not whilst he maintains the nearly hostile expression.

Before the man at the table approaches both Dexter and Rica, both of them in their own more traditional suits, blazers gray and blue, still professional although compared to the almost comically wizardly attire of those surrounding them they in comparison are dressed underpowered.

Nonetheless Dexter faces forward and takes a stride before introducing, “Hello, my name is-.”

“Yes we know, we know who you are and who you are representing,” interrupts the robed man with a stern tone, his glare cold as he follows with: “I appreciate your timely entrance and I would further appreciate a timely meeting, we have much work today.”

Shut down upon startup, it’s natural for Dexter to be taken aback with slightly visible shame, lowering his head to the demands made before he could even get a sentence in.

Staring down at the floor with eyes now wide awake unlike those of drowsiness prior, Dexter contemplates in silence as beside him Rica stares concernedly, waiting clearly unsure of how to react either to such an attitude.

But with a sharpening of the gaze and overall bolster of confidence, luckily there is no need as Dexter raises his head back up.

“Then let me skip the introductions, and a timely meeting would be most pleasant for both parties I’d have to assume,” accepts Dexter with a voice reinforced, standing tall and taking another step forward.

At the center of attention from the watchers along the side who’re also dressed in the same white robes Dexter pronounces, “As you know, me and my colleague here represent Worldgate, and as you also know we specialize in security and defense contracts issued by the Earth 50 planetary government.”

“And as you know, we here at GeHome don’t particularly focus on that branch of the government,” again interjects the head of the table, placing his elbows on the wooden top and holding his right fist with his left hand during the extension: “Our focus is more on research than it is on application, and even in application we tend to seek ones focused purely humanitarian.”

“Yes I am well aware,” admits Dexter who takes another step forward and extends his arms both directions, “But I am sure you are also aware of the long chain of skirmishes between the two terrorist organizations of the Watchdogs and Generation S, ones that damaged not only the lives of those participating in said organizations but those stuck as collateral.”

A bloom of intrigue washes over the aggression in the man’s seat, causing him to lean forwards with keen eyes though ones more curious than hostile, remaining silent but clearly attentive.

Onwards by the goahead Dexter explains while shuffling his hands, “For many years the conflict persisted and yet never was there a definitive intervention on any official level. The most we did was send relief to any affected neighborhoods or establishments caught in the crossfire but there was nothing we did to put an end to the turmoil. And of many revelations one it revealed was that this Earth is still not truly capable of withstanding a united hostile force of Exhumans…,” as Rica frowns and lowers her head, “...or otherwise. Independent attacks and smaller organizations have been dismantled effectively in recent years but there is a clear limit to how much can be handled, and when that limit is surpassed we are once again helpless to make a difference.”

A hint of irritation flashes in the man, overtaking the intrigue as he mentions argumentatively, “I am not here for political discourse, I am afraid if that’s what you seek you’ll need a different audience. But there is no nuance that a large-scale retaliation would never work, not for a force that is always living among the people. What do you expect, a bombing of 2,500th Street when a fight breaks out? Turn a small gang skirmish with a few casualties into a flattening of whole blocks? Either way, I don’t see what relevance this has to us.”

Yet at the height of the man’s demurral is when Dexter extends his arms to him and proposes, “Now consider this: What if we had a way to neutralize a great abundance of aggressors in a space crowded with innocents? What if we could precisely put them down and leave all the civilians untouched? What if we could put down a riot without needing to even clear out the area?”

Forward leaning with an uncertain glare the man contends, “Precision drones exist, but they’re unreliable at a certain density threshold, and furthermore it’s common knowledge that the reason it was so difficult to dampen the Exhuman terrorism problem for so long is that even with Anti-Exmatter weaponry different Exhumans require different intensities for proper inhibition. You still have not answered my question, and I don’t mean to be rude but I do have other matters to tend to if you simply seek to discuss such elementary politics.”

Alas Dexter points to the one at the table and presents the proposition: “But what if we could equip precision drones with the right identification technology for scanning targets in highly density fields more effectively, and additionally conjecture the most effective strike, not just in terms of different round types on armors but even intensities of Anti-Exmatter energy shots? You have a great reputation for incredible Exhuman analysis both unchallenged in distance and calculation speed, sure a product like this seems unrealistic in most cases but we believe that with a partnership of one of your teams it would be a project well within possibility. We only would need aid in the identification systems, the sensors and software for analyzing targets and the information that could then be transferred to the weapons systems that you won’t need to worry about.”

Stepping forward and throwing his hands up, he exclaims almost enthusiastically yet still maturely tempered, “This could be the one project that finally extinguishes the threat of mass terrorist group strikes, the one event that has been the most difficult for VCPD. We could prevent another one of these civil wars again, and it might be one of the final steps to ensuring peace in this city that for centuries has had a history riddled with casualties.”

At the climax of the meeting where the full invitation has finally been presented in its entirety, the man at the table isn’t quick to argue but instead leans back against his chair, his agitated expression shifting to perplexion, placing his chin on his hand as he ponders before taking a glance to the side of the room.

That side of the room the robed man faces is the long table occupied by the row of other witnesses, all of whom glance at each other and then to him, equally as contemplative, and just as equally unsure of how to respond.

Finally without such immediate resistance a smile comes across Dexter’s face in accomplishment, and beside him too smiles Rica with a sense of pride, for it seems their point has finally come across the apprehensive group, for there was a great deal of weight on them to ensure partnership on this specific project.

In the center of the meeting room Dexter turns around to face Rica, the two smiling at each other in content, Dexter almost about to start panting but able to maintain his elegance. They gaze at the other for a solid several seconds before the voice speaks again from up front: “Just one question, if I may,” to which Dexter immediately turns forward to the man who now is leaning against the table again.

“What’s the purpose of this?”

At first stumped still stuck with the relieved smile, Dexter’s expression morphs into that of being flabbergasted, his jaw lowering and eyebrow raising from what seemingly is a request at a full retread of everything he just said, an illogical question that had him speechless after finally being presented what first appeared to be a normal question free of attitude.

Even after several seconds a solid interpretation could not be analyzed, and thus Dexter could only ask in a more apprehensive tone, “Excuse me?”

“Well I understand your proposal now and it is quite interesting I must admit,” first praises the robed man upon the raised table, only for him to then query with a glare: “But the civil war you keep referencing as your one justification for this project–that no doubt will be costly and require a great deal of our resources– has long been resolved in peace. That was one of the few situations where retaliation was difficult, but that situation has already concluded. So I ask, what is the point of this project now?”

These words now come with more attitude than the former, his closed fist sitting on the wooden tabletop.

Despite the clarification there is still great perplexion stricken on Dexter’s face, and before speaking he takes a moment to glance at Rica to his side and then to his other side the row of other listeners all of whom have the same doubtful gaze, all directed straight to him.

Lips parted dumbfounded, his arms now down at his side, Dexter turns back ahead with a slight upward tilt to the head, his eyebrows still raised and forehead wrinkled in bewilderment.

Two times he blinks before he then finally asks, “Well…I mean sure that conflict has ended, but what’s stopping there from being another later in the future? I mean sure there has been a period of peace for quite some time before, but that war should be a clear indicator that we can’t just simply assume perdurable rest.”

Only slightly does Dexter’s hands move, and now more in diffidence as he lacks the same prior animations when he vindicates before the glares, “We need to make sure that we’re not only safe now but we will be safe for the future, I mean isn’t our relaxation what made that civil war so abrupt and mishandled?”

Without another long pause but instead instantly the man at the table asks with a strong mistrust in his voice: “Thus we should hand you a sizable team of ours to make this one little weapon so you can feel safer? You may have overestimated our abilities, sure this proposition is within reality but it cannot be done quickly with just a few interns. Our primary field of applications is medicalware, and even though that does require thorough interpretation technologies we are not constrained too much by distance and speed, most of our devices are nearly within touch of the client and while greater efficiency is what we strive towards we are not particularly accounting for needing to determine full examinations from potential thousands of individuals during an attack where they’re all in danger, and so may be the contraption the sensors are sitting on.”

“Simply put I see no necessity for a project of such ambition,” waves away the robed man before placing his elbow back on his table and determining, “Your proposition is built on mere anxiety, and anxiety is no justification of an endeavor of this magnitude.”

That could have been the conclusion to his decision, but in the wide and mushy movements of the senile man’s mouth–whose lips are horribly chapped and skin aridly wrinkled– the words are uttered: “Especially when Meditat is among us.”

Slightest of shifts his eyes widen, his face transformed from insecure to what can be mistaken as deadpan, as the mouth is flat and the face is mostly relaxed. Yet there is an unnerving quality of the face’s contortion, a silent rage chained beneath the tied bun of the man who mutters almost in a whisper, “...What?”

Straight forth the head faces at the man in white seated on the wooden table, the man who raises his hand up and reminds in a pretentious tone, “Well one of the major reasons the civil war raged for so long was the lack of interception, you are right in that a conflict like that was beyond the scope of what any official defense could do. But as you know, it concluded by the aid of Meditat, and with him around I don’t believe we need to concern over potential future conflicts.”

“I mean so swiftly did he bring resolution to those two terrorist leaders, I don’t think anyone thought they’d so willingly call for a ceasefire but even further turn themselves in,” continues the voice as forward the man with the crimson tie stares, the stars of his irises flaring as again his world reddens, his mind distorting as his own self perception begins to bleed, glitches of his own silhouette shifting from the edges of his shape.

“And after that, they haven’t made one word,” the voice notes, a note that immediately begins flashing images in the gray man’s head, images of the steel floors reflecting red hues, yet not as dark as the crimson thick liquid splattered over.

Followed by the flash of that same crimson liquid dripping off the dark crimson metal viking axe blade pulsating gently.

Followed by the flash of that same crimson liquid pouring out of the gap at the bottom of the human neck, the skin and flesh torn clean off.

Followed by the flash of that same crimson liquid covering the similarly colored scaled hide of the body, bright red streaks coursing down.

“I do admit that there was skepticism to the validity of his return from the lack of sightings following the ceasefire, but there have been recent evidence to prove he is truly here, and with that being the case even if there were to be another uprising which I doubt, he could just as easily stop it,” speaks the man in white on the table, the robe distorting with the collar, flashes covering the room twisting the attire into a blazer.

“But…wait…think about this,” mutters the voice of the man with the crimson tie, his body through his own mind glitching red, distortions shifting out of his body as though something was trying to crawl out, something with a mind of its own.

“Especially given that as I keep reiterating, we are not a weapons manufacturing company, that is not our field of interest, I see little reason to push our morals when there’s no need to take up projects in that area. My own politics aside, the company’s history has been one with very few records of weapon projects, the closest we’ve worked with them has been for medical equipment whether it be portable supplies or setting tents,” repeats the voice before he then offers with that same arrogance: “I do believe X-Prints is a company that has much more experience with weapon projects, if I am correct they were the ones who pioneered the development of Anti-Exmatter as a whole. You may have better luck seeking them out for help.”

Yet that advice only further reddens the gray man’s world, whose glitches more resemble the crimson flames.

Those same crimson flames that ravaged the gentle white fur carpets, incinerating every individual fur strand.

“But, wait, listen.”

Those same crimson flames that devoured the tall white cake embellished with golden streaks similar to the distant faded walls also being consumed in blaze.

“This is important.”

Those same crimson flames that crawled up the soft white dress adorned with the decals of flowery stems and petals both pink, the dress worn by the woman with a fair-skinned neck although one soaked in crimson liquid also soaking the long vivid brown hair.

“Just listen.”

Those same crimson flames that the young teenage boy dressed in white shorts and shirt stood over, the one who stared straight back with a face darkened, obscured, features hidden other than the flaring blue beams emitted from the eyes, the ones glaring straight back, judging straight back.

That boy’s body started flashing and glitching into the sitting position of the man in the white blazer behind the counter whose long brown hair sat behind the obscured face, again the only features being the beams for the eyes but these being pure brighter white.

Frozen in place the gray man stands, his head low in shame, entrapped, his body glitching red bleeding in all directions until the glitches then begin to centralize in the front of his body, his figure flashing between gray and red.

Beside him sat the jury by the table, every one of them the man in the white blazer with the same long brown hair and white eyes through an eclipsed face.

“If I may,” speaks the familiar feminine voice soft yet assertive which instantly flashes the whole world back into its natural tones, foregoing the red glitches and hues and freeing the man back to his own body standing in the wooden room, the man who raises his head up in intrigue before turning to the side.

Stepping forth is none other than Rica, smiling softly before she continues: “While it might be true that Meditat is among us, a reliance on him for any major threats just isn’t safe. He may be here now but he wasn’t for all those years, and we don’t know if that’ll happen again but we can’t just assume it won’t.”

Before the drawn robed man Rica steps forward again, moving her hands in her explanation: “And either way, we aren’t helpless citizens, we have the tools to protect ourselves, shouldn’t we do something with that? X-Prints may have experience in this field but they don’t have the biological analysis experience you do, and that’s what we’re seeking here.”

In front of Dexter Rica stands, a smile on her face as she proposes cheerily, “You are indeed correct that the project will be resource intensive, but the end result could bring about a whole new era of ensured peace, one that doesn’t rely on one single being. And as we explained before, we’re not asking you to make the weapons, just the identification systems, and it will be saving people.”

“We don’t know how long we have in this home of ours,” admits Rica before raising her head up and proclaiming right behind the podium, “But we need to protect it as long as it protects us. Maybe there won’t be a war next week, but maybe there’ll be another attack in a few years, in a decade, maybe after we’re gone, but when it happens there needs to be something to protect the people in the crossfire. And that’s what we’re proposing here.”

Slowly above the table the man’s eyes begin to expand, not in shock of horror but astonishment, his mouth opening up although with no words to provide, yet his expression alone proved he was riveted.

Along the side of the room a few of the adults glance from Rica to the one at the head, and one of the men shrugs his shoulders and comments, “I mean we still have Margaret’s team who aren’t doing much at the moment, I think they’d be equipped for this,” to which Dexter instantly glances at him, amazed at the positive response.

In the position of power the senile man in the white robe takes in a deep breath steadily, and then just as much he releases it back out, closing his eyes and lowering his head for a moment of contemplation.

Yet that moment is short lived as he then raises his head with open yellow irises, facing back at the two by the podium with a pensive expression.

“Very well, consider it considered, we’ll circle back with you in about a week or so once we’ve determined the team.”

Alit Rica’s eyes become just as bright as her smile, nearly about to leap in joy before Dexter steps forth and formally responds, “Thank you sir, we’ll be awaiting your contact in the meantime,” with the nod of his head.

Swiftly the old man waves his hand forward and evacuates, “Well fly you go, we have a tight schedule today so we’d like to get moving.”

Smiling just the same, Rica nods her head and again thanks, “Of course, thank you!” She then turns to glance at Dexter who nods his head in the direction of the door, the two then walk side by side to the exit. They don’t hurry in haste as they did coming in, instead they stride confidently and elegantly in their exit, calm and composed in their way to the closed door which vaporizes for them.

Out the door the two walk, beginning down the white hallway swarming with other adults, some of them glancing at them before returning to their own devices as the door materializes close again.

First to explode is Rica in a hop before gleefully exclaiming, “Let’s go, I knew that’d go smoothly! And that’s the only one for today, looks like we’re completely free!”

Softly Dexter smiles to her cheer, nodding his head and more calmly but still clearly contently confirming, “Indeed we are, and the day’s only begun.”

Down the corridor the pair walk as Rica glances to her side and asks, “Anyways, have you eaten today?”

To his side Dexter also glances, tilting his head before answering with the assurance: “I have not, but I’m not particularly hungry now and I brought lunch.”

Blissfully Rica giggles, waving her hand and mocking, “You brought lunch for this? Man I hardly even remember to bring lunch on office days but here you are making it for a short trip like this.”

Contrasting Rica’s energy Dexter gently sighs before shaking his head and denoting, “Well I didn’t bring anything too heavy, just wasn’t sure if I’d have to stick around for any longer, I was just being safe. I guess I should probably just return back home, maybe I’ll keep it for tomorrow.”

Although immediately Rica lunges forward and turns around to face Dexter, walking backwards carefully navigating through the crowd behind her while she puts her hands together and proposes innocently, “Or wait, come on we just got out here, and come on you haven’t eaten anything you still should. Ooh wait, wait if we went to Space Square and ate there? It’s really close anyways, I think we could actually walk from here pretty easily. It's like just a couple minutes anyways.”

Lowering his head and scratching it, Dexter hesitates in a murmur: “I don’t know…I probably should get back and do some work, I’m pretty sure I need to review Aaron’s team’s designs. And you know them…I’m practically going to be redoing it for them in the end.”

“Oh come on you’re always working,” complains Rica who’s still walking backwards to face him head on, maintaining her path and teasing, “Come on, it won’t be very long anyways, we can just hang around a little bit and then go our separate ways.”

The one sensibly walking forwards is Dexter who also sensibly sighs with visible reluctance in his movements, lowering his head again. He takes in a deep breath but instantly lets it go before raising it back and surrendering, “Okay fine, but it’ll be in and out.”

“You got it,” joyfully accepts Rica as the wall she’s approaching opens up a door for her, letting her step onto the empty elevation pad in the tight shaft followed by Dexter, to which she comes to a stop as the holographic panel is presented to them which she presses one of the bottommost buttons of.

Seconds later the door is covered back up by the crystallization of the reemerging nanite cloud, and off they go while back and forth adults pace in their black blazers and white collared shirts, viewing theirs or their peers’ holographic screens involving logs of text, images of charts and diagrams, and a plethora of other data that they discuss in a sea of overall unintelligible chatter.