Beyond the Hound - Talking Zebra Connection

September 2067. A suspect ROP disrupts the peace of Mona Lisa, a posh city block at the outskirts of New Langdon. Since Veckert Rainer is too busy dealing with the Walking Night case, the responsibility falls on the shoulders of Renne Schellenzeier, newly appointed leader of team Desdemona. With all the top players out of the picture due to the looming threat of Silman's machinations, Renne finds herself deep into cold waters, trying to find out the truth behind a glitched talking zebra. A truth that could spell the end of Mona Lisa and its inhabitants.

Stream of (un)consciousness

“Life is strange, isn’t it?”

The picture flickered, dots of digital noise all over the display, before stabilizing, replacing what was there before. And what was there before was something extremely trivial – a dance show like many others, with celebrities trying their best at tapping their feet on a stage. All was going great, until the signal started to degrade, the images to fade. To be replaced by that.

A talking zebra head.

“What were the chances you were reached by this broadcast? And yet, here you are, watching me.”

Yes, that was unmistakably, unquestionably, an animal face over an elegant suit, clearly not human. Clearly not real. The stripes on its neck faded in and out of existence, as the head turned left and right, details removed and restored at irregular intervals. The zebra’s mouth was synced to the words, albeit with a slight delay, a slight anticipation, without never being truly fitting. The voice distorted too, modulated by some sort of pitch shift. Then, hands. Human hands showed up too.

“In a sense, it’s like the anthropic principle—a post-facto explanation. We are here, in this universe so unlikely made for life… because it’s the only universe in which we could possibly exist. No matter how unlikely, we are here because it’s the only here we can experience. And that’s the same for you.”

Digital noise, pixels lighting up and down on the display, as the zebra twists its neck a little, joins its hands. Eyes glued on the picture, on the weird talking head. Curiosity having the best of logic, the irrational desire to understand what’s happening.

“Thirteen people, though, won’t have any here.”

Silence. Digital noise again, the image shakes, splits, mirrors, before turning back to normal—if normal was the correct word for that. The impulse of switching channel, the puzzling sensation this isn’t advertisement. The zebra looked at the viewer too, looked through the screen, its hands still joined. A wristwatch appeared on its right wrist. The eyes glanced at it, the head still.

“If you are still watching this broadcast, it’s because you didn’t die. Which means, this is the universe… no, a universe, in which you have been blessed by the luck of the draw.”

The hands clapped in a slow applause, without a rhythm, with odd breaks between each clap, the face unmoving, the zebra’s eyes fixated on the camera.

“Congratulations for being born in the correct set of circumstances. In another place, in another time, everything else being equal…”

A short pause, the image shakes, degrades, switches off pixel by pixel.

“… you have died too.”

Black. Nothing. The display went silent.

Something viscous, dark dripped down the sofa, sullied it.

Where once sat a man, lay a stiff, motionless body.

A body whose heart exploded.

Leaving a gaping hole in its chest.

Twenty-seven chicken drumsticks

Ban gulped down the last of his ramen bowl, the chopsticks almost bending, breaking under the pressure of his oversized fingers. He shook his hand a little, with a subtle hint of annoyance and relief. Relief, because he had managed to finish his meal without thrashing a table or crushing the small ceramic dish that hosted the noodles till not long before. Annoyance, because he still didn’t feel completely in control of his own movements. Nevertheless, it had been a constant improvement for the past seven years—slow but steady. He carefully grabbed a slice of bread, chomped it. Only to meet the curious gaze of a girl, puffing her cheeks, resting her head on her hand, as she lazily munched yet another chicken drumstick. Ban squinted his eyes. That had to be the sixth in a row in the last two minutes. How deep was her stomach? And why she didn’t get absurdly fat, with all food she guzzled? He sighed, realizing that those were nothing but idle questions. He knew the answers to both of them, after all. Yet, that diminutive girl swallowing drumsticks like they were candies wasn’t ready to call it quits yet, as she raised her hand to get the attention of the guy at the counter.

“Waiter! I’ll have another serving of fish and chips!”

“No.”

“But…”

“I said no, Shu.”

From an outsider’s perspective, that had to be a rather peculiar sight. One one side, a mountain of a man, dark skinned with short black hair and an equally black goatee, wearing dark pants and a short-sleeved shirt with flower decorations. On the other side, a microbe half as tall as him, with a pale complexion, neck-length, unkempt purple hair, eyes of the same improbable color and a matching t-shirt no less, on top of ripped, knee-length jeans. Both of them had a sort of official badge too, tucked inside the pocket of their pants, but it was hard to read what was written on it. It was the exact same badge the third person sitting at the table had received mere weeks before, a badge she was keeping between her fingers while uncomfortably glancing at her two companions. Such a weird duet, a duet she’d expect to read about in a book or see as characters in a movie, not as colleagues in her new line of duty. The small girl was gobbling chicken sticks like a black hole, devouring everything on her plate as if she was possessed by a devil, while the big man clumsily tried to move more gracefully than his muscles and size would allow. Said man turned around to face her, to face the red irises and red, braided hair of his new acquaintance.

“Don’t mind her too much, Renne. If she could, she would gulp this whole place down in one go, chairs included.”

“That… can’t be healthy.”

“It isn’t. It definitely isn’t.”

“Ooooh, shut up you two! It’s not my fault! I just consume a lot of energy, yes? Ban! Tell her! Tell her that’s just because my metabolism is crazy fast!”

As she said that, Renne felt like Shu’s eyes shone for an instant, glowing like small lightbulbs before returning to their original, weird color. That was, of course, impossible. Or, at least, unlikely. Renne groaned, shook her head.

“Bless my paranoia…”

Her first official assignment as a member of Yard, as the head of Team Desdemona, was going in a completely different direction than she expected. Order, discipline, well-sourced documents, groundwork and information about everything concerning the case?

Just big, dumb pipe dreams.

She sighed deeply, while massaging her temples. How did they convince her, again? It had to be something about Vay’s safety, as explained by that gorgeous specimen of a azure-haired detective whose manners made her feel weak in the knees at first sight (but not as much as her beloved Vay, that was sure. Her love life didn’t need yet another complication). Yes, she had accepted because of Vay. And now she was paying the price of it—awkwardly sitting in a small British-Asian Fusion restaurant, eating fish and chips with a bowl of ramen as a side dish. She had quickly shelved the chopsticks, as they felt too impractical to use, and moved to a more comfortable and familiar fork. That move inevitably attracted the disappointed gaze of the Japanese owner, but it was something she could live with. After all, she had it way rougher the first time Jean invited her to a sushi night at The Lighthouse. It was during the time they were still working as wardens… and their evening ended with Jean throwing a table at a sharkman she mistook for a ROP. It was all Jean’s mother’s fault, to the surprise of literally nobody: she had convinced her daughter that every mutant was an anomaly, causing her survival instincts to kick in automatically when she saw one. That incident cost them one month of salary. The army had to send a formal apology addressed to this Mirto Lorrena fellow too (or was it Fidel Rugàl? Renne would have bet the shark guy introduced himself with another name), much to her superior’s chagrin. Yes, General Boost was less than amused by that boutade and threatened to send both them to Antarctica, to the newly built Polaris base. Fortunately, their joint plea convinced him that there was no danger of an encore, thus allowing them to keep their comfortable job as wardens (at least for a while longer). But that was the past. Boost was apparently stuck in a deep depressive state at home, Jean and she weren’t wardens for a military hospital anymore, and now their new boss was a rough woman in her early thirties who had to be the hottest chick magnet Renne had ever met in her life.

Ban’s thunderous voice interrupted her train of thought, causing everyone in the small venue to turn towards them.

“Yashiro, the bill’s on Yard, ‘kay? Ask detective Rainer about it.”

The guy at the counter, whom Renne believed to be from Japan, rolled his eyes before turning his attention back to the trio.

“Veckert-sama told me you would say this, Ban-san. She asked me to give you this answer: hell no.”

“But…”

“She added: I’m not having Yard pay eighty pounds of roasted chicken just for Shu ever again.”

Renne couldn’t help but chuckle. She could almost imagine Veckert receiving a bill the length of the Bible with just an infinite list of chicken drumsticks x1, repeated several thousand times. Ban, though, didn’t seem amused. He slowly reached for his phone, activating the payment system while mumbling something under his breath.

“I told you it was a bad idea, Shu.”

“Come on! It was an all-you-can-eat offer!”

“Except it wasn’t, not after the twenty-seventh drumstick you downed in seconds.”

Renne stared at them bickering for a little longer, asking herself several, unanswered questions. Why was she assigned to those two? Why she couldn’t work just with Jean and Chandra? Why were they wasting precious time having the longest lunch in recorded history at a crappy British-Asian Fusion restaurant without even a working toilet? These musings seemed to have no immediate answers, except for getting to know our most eccentric elements that are somehow still valuable. Ban Cardia. Shu Tsigano. They called them the Gentle Mountain and the Hungry Brat, around the precinct. Now, she understood why. Ban seemed to recognize her discomfort, nodded in her direction.

“I apologize, Renne. I wasn’t expecting this lunch to last that long… but Shu needed calories. Without calories, she’s useless dead weight.”

“Hey, I heard that!”

“I know.”

He tapped on his phone, clumsily hitting the keys in a broken rhythm. Renne felt a vibration in her ear. Her communication device had just received something. She tapped on her earlobe, causing her EVE lenses to come to life. It was an encrypted communication from Ban, sent with the internal ROPES cypher. Literally for her eyes only.

> Attached you’ll find the case files, Renne. I’ll fill you in with the details later. Start reading through them while I get two cans of soda and try to bargain with Yashiro. I can’t afford a three figures bill right now.

Renne blinked, activated the response function, started typing a response with her eye movements.

# What is this all about, agent Cardia?

The answer didn’t take long.

> Call me Ban.

# Alright, Ban. What’s the deal?

> You read the news, this morning?

Renne groaned, shook her head. Mornings were a no bad vibes moment for her and Vay. Vay wouldn’t let her get sullen by going through all what was wrong with the world, to the point of begging her not to sink into a depressing pattern of scrolling and scrolling through wars, calamities, murders, doomsday plants, and assorted amenities.

# I didn’t, sorry.

> Thirteen people died yesterday night while watching a stream on their personal devices, all at around the same time.

Renne let out an audible gulp, before turning her attention back at her EVE lenses.

> I’ve sent you all the files while we were having lunch. Please, take some time to review them while I try to get a discount. Shu will be the death of my wallet.

# Why haven’t we talked about it in the office?

> If there’s one thing I’ve learned about ROPES is that even talking about them can be dangerous. But reading documents that just describe their effects? That’s fine. I hope. I guess. Old man Funabaki would have some funny stories about that too, I think. You should talk with him once or twice. Or maybe not, he’d make you paranoid. Probably.

The contact ended abruptly, replaced by one flashing notification in the corner of Renne’s eyes. She let out an even longer sigh. Those contacts were annoying—when she had a new message or attachment, there was no way to filter it out. They were made precisely for the ROPES department, making dead sure that every single communication was relayed and read. So, Renne blinked twice, opening the file she was sent. The augmented reality function of the EVE lenses projected the content at around forty centimeters of distance from her, taking the shape of a scrollable display—one steered by subtle eye motions. The first page was the usual disclaimer—state secret, confidential, share it and your dog will be eaten by a streetlamp… the usual clickwrap blah blah, like one of those scary license agreements that popped up in old computer programs. So, she skipped it completely, all while catching wind of Ban’s clumsy pleas to the restaurant owner in the background. He was surely trying his best to persuade the middle aged Japanese man to strike out some of the chicken drumsticks from the bill (unsuccessfully, if his face was of any indication). Renne’s attention jumped back to the document. To the picture that opened it.

She gasped.

On a sofa, a common sofa that could have been in any living room, sat a corpse. With its eyes rolled. Its mouth agape. And its chest burst open, where its heart should have been. Renne felt the miso soup and the porridge rising back from her stomach, rumbling to get out and get some fresh air. She gritted her teeth, kept her reactions under control. She was a warden, she should have been accustomed to it, even if death wasn’t her deal. She couldn’t let that picture embarrass her. Not after all she did to get over her previous life. Her eyes twitched, scrolling down to the text. It was a succinct and informative report, written in the dry, mechanical style of Veckert. Thirteen victims. All of them died when their hearts detonated for unknown causes, all at the same time. Some of them at home. Some while walking around the city. One even inside a church. Yet, they all had their eyes on a stream of some sort. Not necessarily the same stream, but indeed a stream. The internet companies had been queried, but no common thread could be found between the shows that were watched. Nevertheless, that started to sound like a weird coincidence, one that couldn’t easily be explained with logic. Renne felt a shiver running down her spine. A shiver of excitement. A ROP. A real ROP. Not a training test, not a mockup exercise. A ROP, in all its unexplainable, reality-twisting beauty. One side of her would have loved to squee excitedly like a teenager at her first crush, but, on the other hand, lay thirteen corpses. Right. That thing was dangerous. It killed people. She bit her lip, groaned under her breath. With that huge plant causing a mess all around Shard and calling for an ‘all hands on deck’ style meeting, showing inasmuch as a smidge of joy would have been very frowned upon.

Still, her first real ROP case to crack, yay!

Her eyes moved frantically through the pages, absorbing every single detail, devouring every scrap of information she could feast her eyes on. Her heart pounded faster and faster. Vay would have loved to hear the whole story, in front of a warm soup that evening. Vay was always so excited by the tales Renne told her, her eyes shone, her smile beamed while listening to every single word with the attention it deserved. Vay couldn’t be deployed on the field, so all she got was third party reports of what happened. It was all due to her condition, to the uniqueness of her biological makeup. Vay was truly one of a kind, a raw gem like no others—almost an ‘alien’, if one wanted to get fancy with the term. Renne thanked God every morning for it, for having met that wonderful woman she couldn’t live without and having been allowed to save her from her cruel fate. Yet, now she had to focus on the case, on the weird connection between thirteen dead people who were just watching a stream mere hours before. People that were now rotten collections of shattered bones and splattered entrails. People that wouldn’t savor the comfort of a warm soup ever again. People who probably had partners too, waiting for them at the dinner table. In vain. That realization made Renne’s blood freeze. The ones left behind. The ones that mourned.

Ban’s unceremonious return to the table somehow cracked the vicious tunnel her mind had fallen into. She shook her head, trying to focus on the current moment. Trying to let the dead rest.

“Alright, bill’s taken care of. Shu?”

The small imp with purple hair turned towards him with a radiant smile.

“Yes?”

“I’m cutting your allowance till I get my money back.”

That smile turned into a frown in the span of an instant.

“You can’t do that…!”

“Huh, no, I totally can.”

“…but… but without it, I won’t be able to…”

Ban rolled his eyes, heaved out a long sigh.

“…to do what, Shu? Buy the latest issue of ‘Metal/on/Metal’ or ‘Grinding Gears’ behind my back again?”

“I did it for Blame! He looks so lonely! And even military robots like him deserve some entertainment!”

“Shu. Blame is a VORS. VORSes don’t read cybersmut. They ain’t programmed for it and you know it.”

Shu raised her hand as if to say something, before letting it fall down, closing herself in a sort of annoyed silence. Renne, though, had to refrain from saying anything, from even letting out the smallest smirk, to absolutely stop her judgmental nature to peek out. Still, one part of her wanted to scream. ‘Grinding Gears’ was… something. Jean once showed her an issue she bought for giggles (or ‘documentation’, as she often loved to say when pressed about the matter). It was a baroque, decadent gallery of pictures of robots of all shapes, forms and number of limbs. All of the photos and renders showed the machines interlocked with at least another mechanical partner in a bizarre position, exchanging lubricant, fluids and data in ways Renne didn’t even think possible. It felt like laying her gaze on an alien planet, on how a race of completely different beings would approach lovemaking and make it look like a nightmare. In her mind, Ban’s remark opened the way for two possible interpretations: either Shu had an academic, cultural interest in machines… or she was a robophile. That second alternative caused Renne to blush violently. Robophiles. Humans attracted to robots—humanoid or less so. There was some pretty graphic art depicting such unions, hidden deep in the belly of the internet, art that made her uncomfortable. That kind of ‘parasocial relationship’ was slowly becoming more accepted and mainstream, to the point she would have sworn to have seen a highly rated Lone Cub painting on the subject. Yeah, that portrait was truly… something – an atmospheric, eerie, delicate depiction of a naked girl with long hair in an evident state of otherworldly bliss, caught embracing a shining black robot while its cables, plugs and wires intermingled with her and delved into her body. Renne found that disturbing, horrifying to some level. Letting a machine do that to you… which kind of person would revel into that feeling? Was Shu one of them? Did she fantasize being railed by a mass of metal and writhing wires, when alone in her room at night?

‘Don’t judge, don’t care, walk by’.

Renne took a deep breath. Jean’s mantra rescued her out of that mind tunnel she had fell into. Right. Don’t judge, don’t care, walk by. Whatever Shu fancied, it was not relevant to the current moment, not relevant to her case and not relevant to her life. Still, one side of Renne was overwhelmed by curiosity, almost to a morbid level. She bit her lips, kicked those thoughts back where they belonged. Maybe, just maybe, she could have talked about it with Chandra and Jean, later, just to exorcise that unsettling feeling that took a hold of her. That thought made her feel immediately better, as if her hands were once again secured around the invisible steering wheel of her soul. She cracked her knuckles, grinned at the bizarre duo she was assigned to.

“Alright, where do we go?”

Ban blinked once, sending another encoded message to her contacts

> Mona Lisa Quarter.

Renne whistled, started typing an answer by moving her eye around.

# Any specific reason why?

> Because that’s where all of the victims lived.

A formless parasite spreading like a tumor

The first thing that struck Renne was the smell of burnt gasoline permeating the air. The second was the towers—a vast stretch of concrete towers, littered with windows opening on a central plaza. Every single one of the buildings was at least eight stories tall, forming a skyline of squared shapes that stretched to the horizon. Renne glanced at her surroundings, looking left and right without ever stopping, almost biting her lips more than once. The windows. The windows weren’t disposed in any orderly, intentional fashion. Instead, they looked like they had been placed at random on the slick surface of the ‘scrapers, without rhyme or reason. Gone were the lines of glass she was accustomed to, gone were the familiar, comforting grids that seemed so usual in any other part of the city. What occupied her field of vision was a cubist painting that might have been mistaken for a collection of buildings, taken over by a formless parasite feasting on those apparently orderly external walls, spreading like a tumor all over them, causing thousands of small, distorted eyes to open on the concrete. No two of the same size. No two of them aligned. Even the buildings themselves were all of different heights. The whole district felt like the result of an absurdist art performance, one where the architect would jump out of hiding in the end, winking at the crowd and then showing the real city block. Except that wasn’t the case. There was no grand master magician preparing to reveal his trick to an enraptured audience. And that was the real appearance of the Mona Lisa Quarter at the far outskirts New Langdon. Renne tried hard not to retch. That arrangement of windows triggered her latent trypophobia, causing her to shiver, her whole body to send signals to stop and go back. Her hand went for the car door, pulled the handle almost automatically. It clicked, clicked without mechanical response. Of course, of course it did. It was Ban’s car, after all. And was now locked.

“Forgot something inside?”

The giant’s voice echoed behind her, forcing her to face the result of her actions. She was trying to run away because of some oddly-shaped windows. Not the best first impression. So, improvisation it was.

“Just checking if the door was locked properly. You know, burglars…”

Ban shrugged, shook his head in an almost theatrical fashion.

“Burglars? In Mona Lisa? Huh, you’ve never been here before, I take it?”

He pointed his finger up towards something. Renne followed it with her gaze, accurately avoiding to put the eyes-infested buildings in her field of vision. Only for other eyes to occupy it. Glass eyes, spherical. Suspended everywhere, floating like balloons filled with helium, lazily moving around in the air above her.

“What the fu…”

“Eyemeras. Pretty, ain’t them? They stalk every square inch of this place, twenty-four seven. They’re directly connected with the police precinct and even equipped with tasers. Trust me, you don’t wanna steal anything here. They’d zap you in no time.”

Renne stared at one of those floating semi-transparent marbles for a while longer, as it slowly moved away in a smooth trajectory, flying around the corner like a fish would swim in the current. She felt enraptured by that vision, as more and more ‘eyemeras’ followed the first, all at different altitudes, all with different speeds. It felt like looking at a seasonal migration, something like the flock of geese that Vay watched with sparkling eyes out of the window of their flat. Vay couldn’t help but be marveled at them, at the ephemeral shapes drawn by the birds in the air, as they traveled to the inhospitable, moist England from far warmer lands—right as summer started to wane and fall began to settle. That image was still vivid in Renne’s eyes: her Vay, still in her birthday suit, pressing her nose, her palms against the glass, gazing at the the spectacle of hundreds, if not thousands of feathered guests dancing in the sky. Only for Renne to join her, hug her, kiss her on the neck, pressing her bare skin against that of her partner. It was the morning after their first night together. A night that involved a lot of kissing, half-assed confessions and plenty of awkwardness on both sides. A night where Renne had to confront the fact that she had fallen in love with a girl five years younger than her and who, in a corner of her mind, still believed to be an alien princess. Yet, the sight of those geese dancing in the autumn clouds, the sight of her joy at that ordinary moment of quiet, washed away all her worries. She wanted to be with Vay, no matter what. She’d breach military protocol for her again and again and again. All so that she could watch those birds migrating to England with her one more time.

“If you’re done staring at the void, maybe we should go, yes? The coroners are waiting for us.”

Ban’s voice broke the spell. The eyemeras were gone too, but many others were coming back from the other side, in a continuous, uninterrupted flow. Renne nodded. Enough daydreaming. So, she started walking towards the giant. Only to just notice that he was carrying Shu on his back, much like he’d carry a small kid. That elicited a squint at the purple-haired girl with a black hole for a stomach. Said girl returned her favor, gazing back like the abyss she was. For the second time that day, Renne had the impression that her eyes glowed up, even if just for an instant.

“What can I say? Walking drains too much energy I’d rather use for something else.”

That was her answer to Renne’s unvoiced question. An answer that made Renne’s brain store Shu as ‘that lazy sloth’. Eat on Ban’s tab, be carried by him, offer no real contribution. That made Renne wonder why that brat was even around. Maybe she was a sort of mascot? Knowing Veckert Rainer, that couldn’t be the case. No matter how she put it, detective Rainer would never waste public money on a placeholder. So, Shu had to have some uses. It was just not the right time for them.

Ban walked forward, not minding the conversation that had just happened, stepping towards the jungle of concrete and eyes that stood before him.

“We start our tour from building four, alright?”

“Fine with me.”

Building four, huh. Three of the thirteen victims lived there, according to the files. Probably the best way to begin the investigation. So, they pressed forward—Ban with the additional burden of Shu on his shoulders and Renne just behind, keeping her eyes low to avoid meeting the gaze of those tumor masses that everyone else called ‘buildings’. She focused on the tiles instead, on the pavement, on the patterns drawn on it. To her relief, there was at least some regularity there, a striking contrast with the chaos of the towers looming all over them. Suddenly, something unusual entered her field of vision. An apple. An apple rolling close to her feet. She crouched, grabbed it, had a look at it. Perfectly red, shining even, of a regularity and beauty she seldom saw. She turned around, trying to understand where it could have come from, while still avoiding the stare of Mona Lisa. The answer was simple and yet boring. A motorized fruit stall popped in front of her, with faded green and white banners. Apples, chilies, several varieties of berries all rested in wooden crates occupying the front of that unusual vehicle. The stall was moving slowly, powered by three wheels and an old gasoline engine, one that emitted the characteristic smell she had previously felt when entering Mona Lisa. The owner of the stall, a man in his forties, was driving it with a motorbike handle and seemingly didn’t notice the fallen apple. Renne looked at the fruit in her hand, looked at the stall, looked at the fruit again. She considered biting it, tasting it—nobody would have noticed and, besides, it was just one apple. Still, she was a police officer. That wasn’t the right thing to do.

“Hey! Heeey!”

She raised her hand, waved it wildly. The moving stall stopped. The owner turned around to face her. He had a squared jaw and short brown hair that were now littered by white strands. His eyes were gray-ish, of an indistinct shade that felt rather anonymous. The man looked very tired, to the point of looking older than his biological age, to the point of needing a bed right there, right then. Still, in all his tiredness, the man found the time to answer Renne’s call.

“Yes?”

“You lost this!”

Renne showed him the red apple resting in her palm. The man nodded, grabbed it, looked at it for a long while, turning it around.

“You didn’t lick it, did you?”

Renne blinked, squinted her eyes.

“…what kind of person would lick an apple before giving it back…?”

“The kind of person who lives here.”

Then, he wrapped it in paper and pulled it away.

“Thank you. Gotta clean it before I sell it anyway. Licked or not, it fell to the ground. God only knows what germs it picked.”

After saying that, the stall owner turned the engine back on, waved his hand in a sort of greeting and set off, leaving only a thick cloud of acrid smoke behind him. Renne watched that mobile stand go away, turn left and disappear behind the buildings, as the smell of burnt gasoline slowly dissipated. Ban’s heavy steps thundered behind her, causing her to jolt, turn around, find herself face to face with the gentle giant.

“Anything the matter?”

“…that guy was kinda weird.”

“Eh, his shift was probably over and he wanted to get home. Dealing with Mona Lisa people must be mentally draining.”

“Mentally draining.”

Shu’s voice. Oddly monotone. Her eyes glowed again, just for a moment, but they unquestionably glowed. This time, Renne was sure of what she saw. Whatever was going on with Shu, it wasn’t a play of her mind. She was going to ask the question, but Ban cut her short.

“Let’s go to the building, Renne. We’ve wasted enough time. Dr. Crawford will kill us, if she has to wait any longer.”

Dr. Crawford. That name caused Renne to jolt.

“Dr. Crawford as in… huh, Alina Crawford? Jean’s… mother?”

“Yeah. With so many bodies to check, we ran out of, huh, normal coroners.”

Renne groaned, rolled her eyes.

“Great. Absolutely great.”

Trypophobic-unfriendly buildings, lazy brats with glowing eyes, thirteen dead people and the absolute last person she wanted to meet.

That case was off to a great start.

Profiting a little from all that grief

Alina Crawford bit the hem of her nitrile glove, pulled it down to cover her wrist better. The stamp from the club she went the previous night was still barely visible, much to her chagrin. She had told the gorilla at the entrance to mark her as close as the wrist as possible, so that she could conveniently hide it under the sleeve of her jacket, while at work. Little did she know that she’d be asked to dissect three corpses in a mobile safe room driven inside the very heart of Mona Lisa Quarter. She glanced at the wall clock, counted the number of cigarettes still in the packet. Two PM. Five smokes left. Enough for a while. If only she could take a break, that is. She pulled the mask up on her face again, letting her blond hair surround it. There were so many places she’d rather be, so many other errands she’d rather run. Still, she was there, face to face with a—literally—heartless corpse. All in all, she preferred them when they lost their head. Without the head, she didn’t have to deal with the grimaces of pain sealed by rigor mortis after their last breath. That was the only part of her job she didn’t like. Dissecting a corpse was easy, once you forgot that it was once a living being. The less it looked like a human, the easier it was, of course. Unfortunately, this corpse still looked very much like alive, all things considered.

A powerful knock on the metal door, repeated several times. Dr. Crawford turned around, mentally counting up to ten before yelling at the knocker to just stop it. It must have been the kids—the spoiled Mona Lisa kids that kept pestering her despite the clear POLICE LINE DON’T CROSS signs. Stupid mononeural brats. She’d love to drown them in a bathtub filled with their own piss, just to leave the medical analysis on their death to her ‘esteemed colleague’ Dr. Simka. Imagining that old stuck up prick dealing with that kind of disgusting death made her all giggly. Words boomed from the other side of the door, before she could delve more into her revanchist fantasies.

“Dr. Crawford?”

She clicked her tongue. She knew that voice.

“‘Twas about time, dumbass. You should have been here, I dunno, half an hour ago? What took you so long—did that little brat eat a whole store worth of spaghetti again?”

“Chicken drumsticks.”

“…a distinction without a difference.”

Alina Crawford pushed the door open, stepped out of her mobile lab, closed it behind her. She pulled her mask down, showing a tired face with prominent eye bags and subtle crow’s feet. Thirty-eight years old, no shame in showing all of them and no attempt at hiding them. She wore every white strand like a badge of honor, adjusting her hair behind her ears. Red earrings peeked out of the blond mass too, in evident breach of the sanitary protocol. Still, Alina Crawford wasn’t someone known to adhere to any kind of rule that didn’t benefit her. She squared the giant black man in front of her (wrong skin color, but, heh, it was what it was. At least, he wasn’t a reptile or a mutant) and that portable pillow of a purple haired gal that stuck around him like glue. A weird duo, one that must have caused Yard’s psychologists to need therapy too—no way they didn’t, after having to psychoanalyze that odd couple. That checked out, though: Veckert Rainer had a massive talent for collecting useful weirdos in her ranks, that was sure—as it was sure Alina’s relationship with her couldn’t last longer than a single day. Dr. Crawford sneered as an involuntary reflex. Being rocked in a roadside motel by that azure-haired gal had been extremely satisfying. Shame their personalities were night and day and that, after all, Alina Crawford still strongly preferred men to women. Veckert had been an exception to her routine, a bump on the road that fascinated her to no end, but their ways were so different that it couldn’t go further than a single, drunken one night stand consumed years ago. One that Veckert Rainer herself was probably trying to forget and had regretted a couple times, but whatever—that was the past. Now, in front of Ban Cardia and Shu Tsigano, Dr. Crawford wore her best grin, finally addressing the odd couple with her most bombastic tone.

“Good that you’re finally here. I’ll give you a guided tour of crime scenes number two, seven and twelve, then I’ll leave this cesspool of a district and go get some rest. I’ve got a funeral home to run too, yes?”

Ban looked at her dead in the eyes, with a stare that exuded resignation.

“…please, Alina, tell me you didn’t give your contact details to the relatives of the victims…”

“Sure as hell I did! Business is business, musclehead. Bills are mad expensive, prices have skyrocketed ‘cause of that damn plant in Shard and I haven’t got an appraisal in two years! Plus, I’ve got an idiot adult daughter to take care of, till she moves out of my place, yes? Yard should pay more, but tell it to the bosses and they’ll say nuh-uh! So, fuck your ethics, I want them money. Thirteen funerals are gotta help me float my boat a while longer.”

“…you… you didn’t convince all the other coroners to give your name to the families…?”

“Hey, they get a ten percent affiliate commission, if I get customers through their referral. I call it a win-win arrangement.”

“This… doesn’t really make it right.”

“Come on, Cardia! These guys we dissect are dead! We can’t change that, and neither can their families! So, what if I profit a little from all that grief?”

Ban wanted to add something, but somehow he felt at a complete loss for words. Shu simply caressed his hair, all while resting in silence on his shoulders, avoiding eye contact with the beast. Only for said beast to finally realize that there was, indeed, a third person behind them. A woman in her twenties with red, braided hair and equally red eyes, hiding a pretty muscular build under a standard Yard uniform. A woman she knew very well. Renne Schellenzeier. Her daughter’s best friend and partner in crime. The gal that was dating that ROPES-magnet mess of a green-haired ‘alien-y princess’, as if there was nothing wrong with it. Dr. Crawford giggled, as a slasher smile crossed her face.

“Look if it isn’t my favorite not-daughter-in-law!”

Renne gulped down a lump of saliva, tried to hide behind Ban’s massive frame. Yet, Alina Crawford moved forward, peeked around the corner, forcing Renne to meet her peering eyes.

“H… hello, Dr. Crawford.”

The blue irises of that older woman pierced her very soul, delved into its depth with just one glance. Renne tried to avert her gaze, but she felt trapped by the uncontainable presence of Jean’s mother. A presence with just one question in her mind, one that Renne was subjected to any time they met.

Why?

Why didn’t she get together with her daughter?

Why weren’t they a couple?

No matter the fact that Jean had absolutely no interest in women, no matter the fact that Renne had a partner already. Dr. Crawford didn’t care about it at all. All she wanted to see was her daughter getting out of her house and living together with a person that couldn’t knock her up. An eunuch, a woman, a neutered neko—everything went, as long as there were no risks of an unplanned pregnancy. So, Dr. Crawford put all her eggs in one red-haired, red-braided basket—which turned out to be the wrong basket to put any eggs into. And, as if that weren’t enough, her daughter was still sleeping around like a slut, increasing the danger of getting unwanted grandchildren. Whenever Alina Crawford confronted her about it, though, Jean had a nuclear retort to blast her fort open and defeat her with one fell swoop.

“At least I didn’t become a single mother at seventeen like you, mom!”

That was usually the end of the conversation for a couple of days. Before the topic turned up again and again, as the next catch of the week showed up. And, every time, Dr. Crawford’s resentment for Renne increased a little. The perfect age difference—less than three years. The perfect level-headedness to counter Jean’s unhinged personality. Alina Crawford clicked her tongue, squinted her eyes. After the dream that haunted her past night, it felt even worse, a shockingly wasted chance. Those images were still so vivid in her mind and yet so cryptic—the kind of dream that made her feel like she stumbled by chance into a parallel universe. In that dream, she came back from a tombstone engraver convention, one that really took place just one year earlier. The convention was canceled because the organizer died, in what was probably the funniest twist of fate Dr. Crawford had experienced in her life. So, she came back home at five AM, finding Jean asleep with the radio still switched on, but nothing out of the ordinary. However, in her dream, as she opened the door of her daughter’s bedroom, absolute chaos unfolded. Jean, Renne and three other girls their age were hugging and cuddling in the nude, while watching an old Disney movie on the TV (the one with the talking llama). One of them had a pale green complexion, green spiky hair, green eyes and short cyan antennas peeking out of her forehead. She looked a whole lot like Vay Finnegan, if Vay really were an alien princess and not a play-pretend weirdo. In Dr. Crawford’s mind, it was clear that the five of them had just finished having sex together and that they were now unwinding, basking in the afterglow of that mutual, shared experience. That weird dream felt more vivid than her own reality and the moments right after were no exception. Watching their surprised gazes, their apologies, then grinning at them and cooking breakfast for the whole gang, while sitting at the same table, seeing them smile and joke at Jean’s off-the-charts embarrassment (even though they called her ‘Juni’, in the dream), all while still hugging and enjoying their coffees without a scrap of clothing covering their bodies. Quite a weird situation, one that felt almost real. One that, of course, could only exist in a dream. Vay wasn’t an alien, her daughter was called Jean and not Juni (though Juniper was a candidate name, when she was about to be born) and, while one of the other girls looked surprisingly like that arsonist whose name nobody remembered (but whose surname somehow started with ‘Chandra’), the last one was new to her. Pinkish fluffy hair, soft shapes, younger than her daughter. That was definitely someone her brain invented, a person that simply didn’t exist. But, of course, dreams were not meant to be a perfect reconstruction of reality. Somewhere, somewhen, Alina Crawford had to see a person that matched that profile and her imagination did the rest. That was what she got by getting home late after a night at the club.

Her gaze and Renne’s remained locked for a while longer, till Dr. Crawford’s slasher smile slowly faded away, leaving room to her more professional, annoyed side. Dreams and regrets could wait a little longer.

“…whatever. Follow me, I’ll bring you to the apartments. But, please, hold your noses before getting in—they all reek of money. Too much money. Disgustingly so.”

Transmissions will resume as soon as possible

The display came to life again, flickering back, fighting against the digital noise. The image shifted and shook once more, before finally stabilizing. It was the same man with a zebra head, this time donning a shirt of a different color. Not ten minutes had passed since its previous message. Yet, it was back, watching the watcher from the comfort of its other side of the screen.

“You’re still there, aren’t you?”

A question, posited in that distorted voice, while the stripes on its white mane faded in and out of existence at irregular intervals. A question that sounded more like an order, an imperative uttered with sheer confidence.

“You don’t need to answer: I know you’re there. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be hearing me saying these words. And, contrary to thirteen other people, you are still alive. Congratulations one more time.”

The zebra clapped its human hands, while watching whoever watched it, then, slowly, went back to a semblance of composure. Its words were still slightly delayed, slightly in advance. Nothing matched—the lip syncing, the movements, the quality of the sound itself. Yet, it went on, with the same broken rhythm.

“You might still think this is a prank. I sympathize with you, really. After all… you didn’t die. You’re safe. You’re watching me say these words. How long for, though? I wonder.”

Silence. A couple seconds of silence. There had to be noises in the room, words, utterances. But nobody switched to another channel. The zebra bared its teeth, in a mockery of a smile.

“One day. Two days. Who knows? It’s the luck of the draw, really. Pure randomness. If you happen to watch my next stream, you’ll be eligible for selection. It could be everywhere. Any time. As long as you are here, as long as you live here…”

The smile enlarged to comical proportions, distorting the sides of the zebra face, almost ripping them open.

“…I won’t let you off the hook.”

The neck tilted, human teeth replacing the grin, the eyes burning red.

“Oh, but you have one way out, you know? Either you run away and leave this place forever… or you become the scapegoat. Tell the truth you all know, about the arrangement that you’re hiding to the outside world. If one, any of you talks about it—if just one, any of you takes the fall and loses e v e r y t h i n g…”

The neck twisted even more, now almost perpendicular to its original orientation and still bending.

“…then, I’ll disappear quietly into the night.”

The lights switched off on its side of the screen, leaving only the red eyes of the zebra glowing in an unfamiliar darkness.

“See you tomorrow. I hope you’ll have sweet dreams.”

Then, the pixels faded, digital noise took over the display once again, handing it over to pitch black nothingness. After which, the original stream started to play again.

As if the zebra had never been there.

As if all of that were a dream.

A nightmare that didn’t want to end.

Rumors, more like half confessions

For all its claims of modernity, Mona Lisa building four was littered with small incongruences that made Renne question her judgement more than once. First off, the elevator. Every respectable eight-story building needed an elevator. It was a rule of nature, one that held true even for the crappy old apartment block where Vay and she lived together. Their flat occupied a fifty square meters surface on the fifth floor of the condo and was certainly not a high class accommodation: the piping had to be replaced after a half flood, one of the windows didn’t open properly and the wiring of the electric network sparked now and then when too many appliances were plugged together. Nevertheless, it was served by an old-fashioned, cramped elevator, one with manual door closure that jerked a little every time it passed by the third landing and sometimes skipped a floor or two. Still, for all its issues, that semi-functional elevator was always there for them—which was more than Mona Lisa building four could hope for. Renne couldn’t find anything remotely similar to a cabin at the ground floor—so, stairs it was. For seven, interminable flights. A sigh escaped her lips. Of course. Of course she had to walk up. Nothing was going to be easy. She glanced at Ban, at the dead weight he was still carrying on his shoulder. The dead weight in question stared back with a smirk, without uttering a single word. An enigmatic smile, worthy of the district’s namesake. As Dr. Crawford stepped forward ahead of them, though, that smile waned, turning into mild annoyance.

“Are we really taking the stairs, doc?”

Dr. Crawford didn’t even turn around to answer, ignoring Shu’s plea completely. That reaction elicited a groan out of Renne, a groan of discomfort at the idea of having to climb the vastness of that tower on foot. That groan, though, caught Dr. Crawford’s attention, causing her to sigh in turn while placing her hand on Renne’s shoulder.

“Before you ask—there is an elevator, but we can’t use it.”

“Why not?”

Dr. Crawford walked slowly back, sliding between Renne and Ban while still doing her best to ignore Shu. It felt almost like she poured all of her attention in avoiding eye contact with the now silent girl who built her nest on the giant’s back. Back to the first step, Dr. Crawford’s hand slid on one of the white walls, one that looked like coated in laminated plastic. As if reacting to her touch, a small square on the surface lit up, glowing red just for an instant. Her index finger remained stuck on it, causing it to flash red at regular intervals. A wry smile opened on her face.

“There’s a hidden array of fingerprint sensors here. If your profile matches, this panel slides and opens up on a cabin. I saw one of the residents coming out of it sooner. But here’s the catch—you have to know that it exists in the first place and, even if you know it’s there, it’s no use if you aren’t registered. Hell, not even the janitor has access to it—I asked him twice already. So, either you live here or you need to take the stairs.”

“…what…?”

“Yeah, that’s messed up, right?”

‘Messed up’ might have been a mild way to put it, but even acknowledging it didn’t make the pill any sweeter. Renne looked up, looked at the spiral of stairs towering over her head, going up and up and up to the top in an infinite rise. Yeah, there was no way out of it. Walking it was. So, against her own will, her feet started to move, to climb the steps one by one. Dr. Crawford overcame her quickly, taking the lead. Renne glanced at her one more time, at her unusually masculine fit. Black cargo pants, heavy leather boots, a beige coat. If she hadn’t known her for years, she would have sworn that the mother of her best friend had to work for some mafia family. Dr. Crawford aimed her finger up, grinned wryly, her voice lowered to a whisper.

“The victims were found at the third, fourth and seventh floor. We start from the top, of course.”

“…from the top?”

Dr. Crawford stopped, stared intently at Renne.

“How many homicides have you investigated in your life, Renne?”

“…this is the first.”

“I figured. Well, coming down is easier than going up, especially after—you know—seeing a murder scene. I’m just doing you a favor.”

Renne had many definitions of the word ‘favor’ and none included what Dr. Crawford intended. Yet, as no alternatives presented itself, going up it was. One step at a time, fighting against the cramps and the pull of gravity, trying her best at not thinking too hard at how many floors were still missing. Curious eyes rested on her and her small group, peeking out of perfectly white doors, smooth, featureless—as aseptic as the building itself. Those eyes, though, were begging Renne for attention. A kid, most likely, watching them go up, ignoring the first row of police tape. Before Renne could address him or even gesture towards him, a hand clawed around his shoulders, bringing him back into the safety of the apartment. Another set of eyes glared at her, a hardened expression that barely hid a deep-trenched disgust for the strangers climbing the stairs. Right before closing the door, without saying a word.

In that moment, a loud voice surprised her from the landing right above, stealing her attention from that cold, ephemeral eye contact that chilled her soul.

“Dr. Crawford! Here for a second ride?”

Three agents greeted her at the third floor, the first murder scene. All of them wore the standard Yard uniform, with a small ROPES logo proudly displayed on their jackets. Alina Crawford reciprocated the greeting, snapped her fingers at them.

“Gotta show the rookies what the real deal is.”

The first agent from the bunch barely concealed a chuckle at those words. Renne recognized his face, albeit barely. A field agent that did a lot of grunt work, the thankless tasks Jean and she were set to deal with if they didn’t prove their worth. Still, that guy looked reasonably content of his position, if appearances had to be trusted.

“Well, doc, the only body left is up above, so I’m not sure what’s there to show.”

Alina Crawford shrugged, shook her head for a good measure.

“Look, I don’t write the rules. Your bitch-in-chief will dole out my bonus only if I play parent with these three idiots and drive them around, guided-tour style.”

The second agent glanced behind the doctor, crossing gazes with the mountain named Ban. His eyes moved immediately to that portable pillow with purple-ish hair that rested on his shoulders. He shivered, whispered something in the ear of his third colleague. She nodded, bit her lip in response. Renne stared at them without flinching, racking her brain to get their deail. The atmosphere had frozen, a weird cloud of awkwardness lingered all around the third landing, enveloping, devouring it with reckless abandon. All for reasons she couldn’t understand, reasons she couldn’t begin to grasp.

Ban, though, didn’t seem fazed by that.

“Doc, you said seventh floor, right?”

He towered over everyone, carrying Shu as if she weighed nothing. His steps echoed in the staircase, while he slowly walked by the now silent agents.

“I’ll bring Shu up and wait for you there. Can’t say I like small talk.”

Without even waiting for Dr. Crawford’s answer, he started climbing up. To Renne, it looked like a mountain was crawling through a way too narrow staircase, with his arms almost grazing the walls. In a way, his rise was solemn. There was an elegance in his motions, a purpose in each of those steps. Dr. Crawford, though, didn’t strike her as impressed.

“…fine with me, as long as you take that waste of oxygen away from my sight.”

Waste of oxygen.

Renne had started noticing a pattern: nobody seemed to like Shu. Not her. Not Dr. Crawford. Not even her coworkers. The latter three were muttering something under their breaths, pointing fingers at the small girl, right as the giant got on his way and couldn’t notice them. Renne turned around, locked eyes with each of them for a long instant. Two men, one woman, all in their late twenties. All personally screened by Veckert herself. All of them visibly annoyed. Renne cleared her throat, groaned.

“Uhm… what’s the matter with Shu, if I can ask?”

Yet, the only answer she got was a side-eye from the woman, a gaze that could only mean don’t ask, not even in a polite way. Nevertheless, Renne didn’t feel like dropping the topic.

“…so?”

One of the men sighed, scratched his hair.

“Look, Schellenzeier… it’s not something we can tell you. You have to—um—experience it.”

The woman snickered, massaged her temples.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“But…”

“No buts.”

That was the tombstone that shuttered the grave. The three agents performed a standard salute, turned their back to her, then walked in silence, back into the apartment they came from. On her side, Dr. Crawford just shrugged.

“If you act like a parasite, you get treated like one. Can’t see a problem with it. Well, whatever. These stairs won’t climb themselves, right? We can argue about that dumb midget later.”

Renne nodded, started following the doctor in silence. Each step brought her deeper into the corpse of the tower, into its intricate, aseptic geometries, its inhuman twisted nature. For being a building made by man, it lacked all the warmth of one, in a maddening spiral. Each landing, the same scene played, in a loop that had nothing of natural.

Doors ajar.

Eyes pointed at them.

Doors closing again, as soon as they passed over.

Mona Lisa was watching each and every movement inside itself, its occupants acting as its antibodies. In a way, Renne felt like stripped naked by those stares, as if losing a layer of clothing every time she reached a new floor. It was all in her mind, it wasn’t really happening of course. Nevertheless, the feeling of being probed, violated, dissected by the tower was as real as it could get. Eight floors, six apartments per floor. One of the smallest buildings in the block. Mona Lisa Quarter hosted around two thousand people in total, scattered in several towers that grew around a common center. A city inside the city, outside the city.

Its occupants were happy to be left alone. Every intrusion was an anomaly, every intruder a bug that had to be squashed before it turned problematic. Renne felt it on her skin. There were rumors, of course. Rumors about how the whole block came up. Rumors that sounded more like half confessions of a crime never committed. Nevertheless, Renne had never been too curious about them. Not until that day, that is.

The steps went by, until the seventh landing. There, she could spot the open door, two more of her colleagues standing guard outside of it. Both of them looked distressed, annoyed, frustrated—not necessarily in this order. Renne’s stomach churned. She had a hunch. A hunch that it had to be related to Shu once again. Dr. Crawford snapped her fingers, pulling Renne by her sleeve.

“Welcome to Crime Scene #12! The Filthy Rich Sport Fanatic!”

Her grin was as wide as her face, startling the ROPES agents too, causing them to mutter something between them. Dr. Crawford pushed Renne through the frame, without ever stopping smirking.

“I hope you’ll enjoy your stay, Renne! Aaaand that you won’t throw up too much!”

In the dark, waiting, watching, talking

The blue lights weren’t close yet, but the sound could already be heard faintly in the dead of night. Tower four was ablaze with emergency sirens. Tower six too. Tower seven. Tower two. It was an unfortunate concerto, one that spread like a wildfire from building to building to building.

“Why? Why have you called the cops? We have our own police here! Why call Yard?!”

No, that was the wrong question.

The right question was who.

Who decided to involve New Scotland Yard?

Mona Lisa affairs stay in Mona Lisa.

They paid plenty of money for private security, a private police precinct and private insurance. So, who? Who called the cops? People died, that was a fact. But, that fact alone, wasn’t enough to grant a call. They could deal with it.

They had manpower for it.

Without the need of involving anyone else.

Because Mona Lisa affairs stay in Mona Lisa.

Even then, even there, in the corridors spreading under the plaza like a network of veins and arteries, people were pointing fingers at each other. No publicity. No news. Nothing worth investigating. The peace of Mona Lisa. A perfect place for perfect people.

If the illusion shattered, the buildings would lose value. The quarter would lose value. All of them would lose value. So, really, the question wasn’t why. The question was who. Because the why was easy. Whoever called outside cops, whoever snitched, could only want one thing: the ruin of Mona Lisa. Nobody calls the police, not even for a murder. There are no murders in Mona Lisa. There are no deaths in Mona Lisa. Those who perish disappear quietly, replaced by new blood.

Mona Lisa is pure.

Perfect.

Flawless.

So, who? Who did that?

The man could not get it. It all felt completely paradoxical.

Hence, the frustration, the chaos, the fingerpointing.

Despite that, their actions could not be undone.

New Scotland Yard was coming to investigate the deaths, to look for the truth behind them.

Truth.

That was a nice word.

One that the investigators didn’t need to come close to.

Not if Mona Lisa wanted to keep living its perfect, flawless life.

With that in mind, the man stopped yelling, looking at his fellows, at the crowd of scared gazes in front of him.

“Whatever. What is done is done.”

“Have you seen the zebra?”

A voice surprised him. A kid. The kid from the second floor, building four. Only child. Sticking to his mom. The man rolled his eyes.

“There was no zebra. You’ve never seen a zebra.”

“But… but I saw it! On the TV!”

The man squatted, looked the kid in his eyes.

“You’ve never seen a zebra.”

That was no question. That was a plain assessment. Yes, there was no zebra. Because, if there were a zebra, an anomalous zebra, someone would have dug deeper into it.

Finding about facts better left buried.

Stories that Mona Lisa owned.

Stories that weren’t meant to get out of her.

Overlapped like in a badly edited movie

Renne’s first time had been a strange affair, one that vividly survived in her memories even after six years had passed. It was during a trip to Italy, a short vacation with friends around Euterpe. All of them fresh from Abitur, all of them German, all of them completely incapable of not behaving like absolute dorks. Hot-headed teens, just above legal age. Which meant drinking—a lot of drinking, for once unsupervised and left to their own devices.

However, the beer had nothing to do with Renne’s escapade. That was all on hers. It was clear as day that she fancied girls, and she had accepted it for at least four years. Nevertheless, everything remained platonic for her and her classmates. Just a little kiss here, a little caress there, nothing serious. That is, until she met a walking hurricane that trampled everything on its path, including Renne’s own doubts and self-confidence issues.

The girl in question was just two years older than her, clocking at twenty, and sporting neck-length unruly blond hair. A scar crossed one of her eyes, which she said she lost while fighting werewolves. An upside down red crescent tattoo decorated her face, giving her even more of a smug grin. Her accent, though… an unholy mix of Bavarian and Japanese, something that Renne could barely follow. Still, she was hot. Very hot. No wonder they ended up watching the moon tangled together, while lying naked on the back of Frida’s pick-up truck. Their clothes were scattered everywhere in no specific fashion, formless piles of fabric that were quickly abandoned as soon as the sun set, as soon as their first dance began. After several awkward attempts at doing each other, they had finally found a way to address their mutual cravings, turning a blank shot into a full score for both performers, just by sheer stubbornness and shameless determination.

Hugging each other under the moon had been the last, cathartic step in that memorable evening, before chugging down one final beer together. After that day, Renne never met Frida again. Somehow, that made that experience so precious in her heart. The only proof that weird gal existed and became part of Renne’s life was etched in her memories, memories that sometimes came back and overran her feelings as powerfully as the girl who won her innocence.

That was one of those moments.

Renne’s brain was chaotically trying to find a way to distract her, a way to force her eyes off the crime scene. Her knees were shaking badly, her breath was ragged.

Blood. So much blood.

She had never seen. The body of a murdered person.

She had never seen. That much. Blood. In one place. Splattered. All. Around.

The sofa. The carpet. Even the TV screen.

And the corpse…

The corpse was still there, collapsed on the sofa. Ready to be packed and brought down. Yet, still visible, in its horrifying rigor mortis. Its chest was opened like a tuna can, as if a bomb had burst from inside out, carving the flesh, vaporizing the bones.

Renne’s mind went back to Frida, to her pick-up. What was its color? Ochre? Maybe it was ochre, rusty ochre. Not that she could tell, in the dark of the night, after all they went for. Frida had a sword too, a samurai sword, tucked in the corner of her truck. a strange sword, one she prized and gloated about with absolute pride. Its blade, though, had a very unusual color.

Red. Scarlet red.

Almost like.

Much like that.

Blood.

Yes, the same color as her tattoo, the same color as her sword. That’s what that vision reawakened. Frida, her sword, her tattoo, her pick-up truck, her kisses, her fingers, her tongue, her… Renne took in a deep breath. Alright. It was alright. Everything was going to be fine. As Dr. Crawford said: the dead cannot do any harm. They are gone, just a collection of bones and soon to decay biological matter. They were people, but not anymore. They pose no danger.

Breathe. Breathe.

Listen. Listen to the voices. Listen to everyone around you, Renne. Focus on them, not on the blood, not on the stench, not on Frida’s pick-up truck. Ban is speaking right now. Listen to him. Listen. Listen.

“Alright doc, why’s the body still here?”

“Duh, Cardia, this question is stupid even for your standards! It’s because I’ve no fricking room for it downstairs! My mobile lab is cramped and can host just one guest at a time, before sending it to the morgue. This is the last left, alright? One down, one in the refrigerator, and this here.”

Alina Crawford donned her nitrile gloves, pulled up her medical mask, wrapped a net around her hair.

“The Filthy Rich Sport Fanatic. What a nice evening plan, right? Football match, beer, pop corn. And, huh, death, apparently.”

Renne forced her gaze to move around the walls of the room, to avoid eye contact with the dead man. Colorful banners were pinned all over the place, all sporting the same logo. Liverpool FC, a historical football team, with their signature red banners. Red. Red everywhere. If it weren’t blood, it were Liverpool logos and pictures. Pictures with the players, autographs, merchandise. A replica of a trophy from the early two-thousands too, with a commemorative plaque. Team jerseys. Memorabilia. A cupboard full of neatly labelled solid drives, each with a match description on it. Dr. Crawford didn’t exaggerate, when she said that Mona Lisa reeked of money: in front of Renne’s eyes, stood enough collector items to pay her rent for at least a decade, if auctioned all together.

Ban slowly moved around the flat, after delicately placing Shu on a wooden chair. He counted his steps, took extra precautions to avoid knocking down anything with his massive arms. His frame reminded Renne of a steer plowing through farmland, trying and failing to make himself unnoticed.

“So, he was watching a stream too… like the other victims.”

He was muttering under his breath, doing a bad job at hiding his remarks. Shu was gazing around the room from her chair, kicking the air with a childlike attitude. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, from banner to banner. Then, they focused on the TV. A huge flat display with holographic projectors and an array of speakers tucked everywhere in the room. Watching football on it had to be almost like being sitting at the stadium. Not that she had ever been there. Too many people. The food was too expensive and scarce. The action wasn’t interesting enough. The result of the match was too easy to predict after the first five minutes. Not interesting, not at all. But crime scenes like that? They still managed to surprise her, in a way.

Renne stopped close by, breathing heavily. Her forehead was dripping with sweat, her chest rhythmically inflating and deflating. Shu glanced at her, framed her face in her mind, decided to sacrifice some of her energy reserves to strike a conversation with the newbie.

“After the third corpse, you won’t be so affected anymore. Dead bodies are… well, dead. They can’t just start moving again… most of the times, that is. The times they do, it’s, huh, because they are ROPES. Michio had some funny stories about it. Shame he retired after on-boarding Veckert, you would have liked him. Ooor maybe not.”

Renne nodded, wiped her sweat. Her breath slowed down.

“I worked as a warden for a military asylum, before being recruited by Detective Rainer. I thought I’d be accustomed to stuff like this, but… yeah, I haven’t caught any dead bodies before. Does it… really get better?”

Shu kicked the air once again, shrugged.

“Well, no. You just get desensitized and stop considering them like living beings. It’s what Dr. Crawford does. All she sees is little charred bags of money.”

Renne clicked her tongue.

“…ten percent affiliate link for funerals…”

“I wish I were as smart as her, when it came to doing business. Living on Ban’s charity is… annoying. Makes you feel useless, yes? I wish I didn’t need him as much as I do, but it’s not something I can change. Bummer.”

Shu’s answer was not at all what Renne expected. Wanting to be like Alina Crawford felt like the worst possible wish for a healthy adult. In comparison to her, Frida was a stable and prized member of society—her whole thing about hunting and mating with imaginary werewolves aside, driving her ochre pick-up truck into the sunset. Ugh, Frida, again. Renne bit her lips, walked away from Shu. She had to clear her mind. Frida was the past. Her blood-red katana was the past. Vay was her present. Vay was her future. In a way, she found that comforting, though. Her mind associated Vay with green, peace, tranquillity, stability. What she craved. What she needed. Frida came up when the opposite feelings burned through her. Rage. Uncertainty. Violence. Instability. Frida was a metaphor for all what she had before and she didn’t need anymore. Vay was the image of what she wanted. Yes, that was how things went.

Her first time making love. Her first time seeing a dead body.

They overlapped in her mind like in a badly edited movie.

Both involved a bright red color. Both involved anxiety. Both involved excitement.

Both involved chaos.

That realization made her heart warmer. Thinking about Vay, waiting for her at home, soothed her distress, healed her soul. She would kiss her, hug her, make love with her in the back of a pick-up truck, under the moon. With no sword around, though, replacing her first time with her best time, her one night wonder with her future wife. She had to do it, at some point. That thought filled her with energy again, giving her enough of kick to turn back to the chaos that unfolded in that flat. In that moment, right as she started to get her footing, a sound of steps blared from behind her.

Shu turned around too, caught by surprise by the unexpected visitor. An unknown voice had just saturated her ears, caught her attention, causing her to zero her attention on the entrance door, on Renne herself.

Right in front of her colleague stood a tall man with an impeccable black fit. Short black hair, dark skin too—even if of a lighter tone that Ban’s complexion. He was towering over Renne, crossing his arms, squinting his eyes in a way that betrayed disgust.

“Why are you all still here? I’ve already told your colleagues that they should leave this place at once, Miss...”

“Schellenzeier. Renne Schellenzeier.”

“Oh god, another bloody immigrant from the other side of the pond? No wonder New Scotland Yard is so inefficient, these days. Wasn’t that bloody EiN guy enough?”

Shu blinked for an instant.

Inefficient. Immigrants.

Alright, that told her all she needed to know about the guy. Renne, though, was still a semi-unknown variable. So, Shu focused her attention on her instead, curious about how she would react.

The answer was not that well. Her hands were shaking, her cheeks deep red, her teeth almost clattering. Still, her voice was calm. Unnaturally calm. Almost too collected.

“Well, Mister…”

“Swans. Edgethorn Swans. I’m the Mona Lisa representative for building four. I’m the person that should have been informed of your visit.”

“Okay, Mr. Swans, sorry I was born a kraut. As soon as they invent time travel, I’ll go back to before my dad knocked up my mom and tell my parents to sail for England before conceiving me. Then, they’ll offer my soul as a tribute to the Royal Family, so that I can be a bloody Brit from birth. But, until that happens, I’m a Yard dog and you show me respect, got it?”

The man stared at her for one second longer, in silence. Renne didn’t break the spell. She too stood, blood boiling and all, trading mind blows with the unexpected guest. Gone was the retching. Gone was the uncertainty. Her fighting spirit had awakened as soon as she was insulted by that stuck-up prick. There was no blood, no corpse that could change that.

Yard dog. Respect.

Wrong keys to press. Not all what the guy would listen to.

“I’ve already phoned Yard about it, but your boss is as unpleasant as they say—that bloody chainsmoking dyke. I’ll get a line with Her Majesty’s office, if you don’t get out of here yesterday. Mona Lisa affairs stay in Mona Lisa. We have our own police team that will surely handle this case better than you Yardiots!”

“Not when it involves ROPES.”

“ROPES? This is just a simple murder case. Your presence here is superfluous.”

Again, a staring contest. Dr. Crawford was rolling her eyes while tending to the corpse. Ban was silently watching from the sides without saying a word. The two ROPES agents at the door were also enjoying the show, in a way. So, Shu had to be the sensible one and scan the crime scene for clues, while everyone was too distracted by that pantomime. Liverpool. Memorabilia. Trophies. Pictures. Solid drives. A lot of solid drives. One per match. Last week’s date. Her eyes moved back to the flat display, to the cables emerging from its backside, down to a small device. Solid drives. One per week. One per match.

“All thirteen victims were watching a stream when they died.”

“Oh, yeah, because now that’s a connection. Surprised you are wasting public money like this.”

Anger. Frustration. Deflection.

Shu’s attention went back to the cupboard. Labels upon labels upon labels. One per match. One per week. Back to the TV. Back to the cables. Back to the solid drive.

“Look, there was nothing wrong with the streams, right? You’ve already involved the channel networks, I was told, and nothing, nothing came out, so what about letting our own police precinct handle it? We have footage from our eyemeras array, we have everything we need. So, you should…”

An electrical interference. A static noise that interrupted everything for an instant. Just an instant. Enough for Swans to shiver. Enough for Renne to realize it.

Shu.

Shu’s eyes.

They had just shone once again.

Even if just for an infinitesimal, ephemeral instant.

“The stream was recorded.”

Her voice broke the discussion, her finger aimed at the box close to the TV.

“That’s what that solid drive was for. To record the football match. The victim had a Liverpool jersey on and was sitting on the sofa, with a half-eaten can of pop corn and a half-full beer. All together this means…”

Shu chuckled, smirked with something akin to barely concealed satisfaction.

“…that the device was still recording when he died.”

A name that had no purpose, if not mocking her entire existence

As a noun, Renne meant ‘racing competition’ in German. In Italian and French, it was even worse—either reindeers (plural) or reindeer (singular). Whatever language she looked her name up in, the results were always frustrating. Her parents named her like that after a famous Swiss actress of their time, uncaring of how it would have affected their daughter’s school years. If only they went for their original first choice, Rhea Elena Rina, it would have been much better. But no, Renne Marina was it instead. Marina was a name she loved, though, but everyone and everything called her ‘Renne’, snickering at it every time. Moving to the UK, where her name didn’t actually mean anything, had been a blessing. All of her coworkers seemed to like it, even the customers she met while working her shift at Van Douglas Burgers, after dropping out of college.

Still, ‘Renne’ always meant something and she couldn’t run away from it, as much as she tried. If anything, her name mocked her for how slow she crawled through life. Her career halted to a screeching stop when she failed her first year of university. That led her to get away from home, from her oppressive rich parents, from the expectations, and look for a new beginning on the other side of the pond. In a way, her name was fitting. Running away from her responsibilities had been a common thread in her whole life.

So, she couldn’t run anymore, now. She had to endure it. She had to keep the ball rolling, no matter what that mockery of a name she carried asked her to. Even if it meant having to sleep in one of those trypophobia-inducing buildings. Even if it meant sharing a room with Shu. Even if it meant leaving her Vay alone at home, anxiously waiting for her return. No, when the zebra talked, she knew what she had to do. There was no escape or way out.

“You might still think this is a prank. I sympathize with you, really. After all… you didn’t die. You’re safe. You’re watching me say these words. How long for, though? I wonder.”

Renne wouldn’t have run away, this time. Not before getting to the end of it.

“See you tomorrow. I hope you’ll have sweet dreams.”

That broadcast had been disturbing to no end. The synthetic zebra avatar, the way the movement didn’t match the words, the ominous message…

No streaming channel had broadcast that video around. Yet, the recorder had captured those moments, sealing them for eternity—or at least until the solid drive lasted. Mr. Swans face didn’t show any emotions for most of it, but, suddenly, had lost all colors at one specific point.

“Oh, but you have one way out, you know? Either you run away and leave this place forever… or you become the scapegoat. Tell the truth you all know, about the arrangement that you’re hiding to the outside world.”

The arrangement. That single word made Mr. Swans’s face go blank. He started sweating profusely, chewing words under his teeth, muttering some unheard curses. Curses that became loud and clear, as soon as Ban took the decision that shaped the rest of her day.

“Well, we’ll have to stay here this night. If this video can be trusted, something is going to happen soon. I hope you have all you need with you, Renne, ‘cause we’re not driving back to Yard.”

Yeah, stay there for the night. Great. Impressive, even. Fortunately, Renne was prepared. She had packed a change of clothes and a pajama in her rucksack, before jumping on Ban’s car. Veckert had been crystal clear—“be prepared for a night out. You never know what happens, when ROPES are involved.”

If it were for Renne, the answer would have been simple. Just… disconnect the bloody internet. If the zebrahead exploded people by streaming, what about simply pulling the plug in Mona Lisa until the case was closed. But no, lo and behold, Mr. Swans had been categoric.

A disruption of this magnitude would sink the value of our premium buildings. We have granted one hundred percent uptime since this block’s inception, thanks to a dedicated internal relay and several satellite connections. Once you lose your one hundred percent, you can’t get it back. You can, at most, reach ninety nine point nine and counting. No, what you want is impossible and I won’t allow it.

Sure, then die. That’s easy, right? But, hey, your crappy city block won’t lose value. That’s a good bang for the bucks, right? The only positive aspect of that was that the zebra was more likely to make its appearance later, even if the chances were fairly low. After checking the video, Ban and she questioned all the residents of building four, but none of them mentioned a zebra—not even when pressed about it. Mr. Swans, too, was very reticent. He didn’t say anything about the arrangement. He kept his stoneface in front of Ban. Nothing was gained from him, nor from the residents of the other buildings. So, what? What was the deal with that fake, synthetic pseudohorse? Renne couldn’t say—hence, she was there, stranded in the janitor’s room, hoping for something to happen.

Nine twenty six. All blinders down. No lights, except the soft blue of the tablets and the pale yellow of a table lamp Shu was using to read. All the power of Yard had been just barely enough to get two rooms for the three of them. Ladies’ room and Ban’s room. Both of them in building four. Both of them freed of the poor seasonal worker that was manning them, just to host the ROPES team instead until the following morning came.

Thus, Renne was now there, donning a two-pieces red pajama, lying on a cramped bed and watching a random stream on two different tablets, one of which borrowed from Swans, hoping that the zebra would show up, sooner or later. All while her roommate was lazily browsing a printed issue of ‘Metal/on/Metal’. Its cover depicted popular robot singers I.N.A.B.A. and 47-Shishichi hugging in the nude (for whatever definition of ‘nude’ might be applicable to robots) with a huge ‘The first real oilmates?’ title plastered right underneath them. Renne had no idea what an oilmate was supposed to be, nor wanted to know it. Still, that cover picture made her slightly uncomfortable. 47-Shishichi looked very much like a human. If it weren’t for that crack under her left eye, Renne would have been hard-pressed to identify her as a machine. It simply didn’t feel possible, really. Watching a Nanami v1 concert on stream with Vay made her realize it—some robots looked too human to be just machines. So, where did the limit lie? Was that just a question of different hardware—flesh and blood against metal and oil? Or was there more to it?

More stupid musings, unnecessary even.

Nevertheless, Shu seemed enraptured by her reading, so much that it made Renne want to take a peek, a tiny sneak peek at what her roommate was eyeing so eagerly. The center pages of the magazine depicted a mass of tentacles and long appendages wrapping a human girl in a bondage-like fashion, much like in that Lone Cub painting. Shu was visibly flustered by that sight, lingering on it over and over, turning page back and forth but never leaving that landing site. Which, if anything, solidified Renne’s hunch that her temporary roommate was, indeed, a robophile. No sane person would have bought an issue of ‘Metal/on/Metal’ otherwise.

“Please, don’t tell Ban I brought this with me, or he will cut my allowance even more.”

That was all Shu had to say to her, after pulling out the magazine from her own bag, together with a blue pajama that complemented the color of her hair. Renne could somehow live with it, though. As a warden in an asylum, she had witnessed a lot of weird parasocial relationships. Robophilia wasn’t even that high on her ‘disturbing scale. Nevertheless, Shu chilled her. There was nothing specifically off, it was mostly a combination of all her behaviors, all her quirks. It wasn’t her allergy to walking, it wasn’t the black hole she had for a stomach, it wasn’t even that messed up magazine she was reading, nor that weird shine her eyes seemed to show once in a while.

It was the combination of everything that made Shu ‘Shu’ which was creepy.

Renne couldn’t say when that feeling turned from slight annoyance to being put off by that strange girl. It might have been during dinner, though, when they ordered delivery pizzas. Of course, Mr. Swans didn’t let any courier come directly to Mona Lisa, so they had to wait on the side of the road till the scooter came. Humans were surprisingly still cheaper than drones for pizza deliveries—the joys of capitalism, Ban had remarked. Renne couldn’t complain, though. Working minimum wages jobs was what allowed her to escape the grip of her family, no matter the human cost. Sure, it was less than ideal and she wouldn’t have suggested it to her worst enemy, but the chance to be independent, to live on her own resources alone, was what let her to go on. So, when the delivery guy arrived, she tipped him more than usual, to make up for the excruciating trip to the Mona Lisa Quarter. Eight pizzas in total. One for Ban. One for Renne.

Six for Shu.

Six.

For Shu.

Alone.

The velocity she devoured them with was inhuman. How could such a minute girl eat so much? Renne couldn’t get it. She simply couldn’t understand her. Shu was borderline unnatural.

So what if.

What if that were actually the case?

A chill ran down her spine.

Yes, what if Shu weren’t really human? Maybe, that would have explained her intermittently shining eyes, her weird hair color or her general absurd energy consumption. But, if Shu weren’t human… what was she, actually? An alien? Like Vay thought she was? No, that was impossible. Real aliens looked like lizards and snakes, not like flimsy teenage girls. Maybe a robot? No, robots didn’t eat. They just had a vestigial digestive system to give an illusion of life, but they did not have any real need for food. So, what was Shu, actually? Maybe, she just had a rare illness or a rare genetic makeup. Yeah, that had to be it. Purple hair. Purple eyes. Rare, but not unheard of. In effect, there was another person with similar colors. Of course it was…

Static.

How was she called, again? Renne racked her brain. It had to be easy to remember, right? She owed her that much. So how? How come she couldn’t remember

Static.

Her team. What was her team called again? Team Desd

Static.

Renne gasped. Nothing. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t manage. No, that was too weird. Sweat flowed down her forehead. It was alright. It was alright. Just a hard day. She couldn’t have forgotten. She couldn’t have. Because, without her, without ***, Vay would have died. Yes, ***. That was it. That was her name. ***. Short for *****. Short for *********. Yes. Right. She drew a long breath, wiped the sweat away, let head slump on the pillow.

That’s when she noticed it.

Shu.

Was staring at her.

“Renne?”

With eyes wide open.

“Can I ask you something?”

Renne almost screamed, throwing her cushion away in the process. Still, Shu simply tilted her head on her side, letting the pillow fly without interrupting its trajectory. A movement that looked as natural as it was unexpected, precisely putting herself out of harm’s way. Shu kneeled over Renne, looked at her deep in the eyes, purple on red, with a total lack of expression.

“How do you think Ban lost his arms?”

Renne blinked. Slowly. Her voice ended up leaving her throat, ragged, crushed by her windpipe’s dryness.

“What.”

Shu, though, didn’t budge.

“Do you think he hates tentacled industrial robots because one cut his forearms?”

Renne didn’t know how to answer. She had noticed something weird about the giant’s arms, that was for sure. They were too bulky, too solid and angular to be natural. Cybernetically enhanced, at a minimum. While they were eating pizza together, she could have sworn to have seen joints hiding under a layer of fake skin. But that question? That question was out of left field. Yet, before she could even attempt to answer, Shu curled up close to her.

“I don’t know what happened to him. He never told me, you know? His past is a dark blur. It’s like he’s purposely hiding it from me. It’s… frustrating. All I know is that he used to be a cop in Northern Algol, before the… huh, the whole Rosenmaester incident. But he lost his arms before that. Somehow.”

Renne gazed at Shu for a long instant. In the darkness of that shared bedroom, only lit by the displays of two tablets and a portable lamp, Shu looked pitiful. Dejected. Sad, even.

“If I were reborn, I’d love to be an industrial robots. With a lot of tools. Mechanical arms. Tentacles, maybe. Like, it must be wonderful to have such a precise control of so many limbs, right? But I can’t be reborn. I need to live this crappy life. If I fade, if I die, there is no continuation.”

Their gazes met again, in a strange moment of mutual pity.

“Renne… what is your past? How have you become… what you have become? What is your story? Your full story, I mean?”

Renne started to open her mouth, almost going to answer that question.

Yet.

She stopped.

The display of one of the two tablets.

It started flickering.

Digital noise.

Digital dots changing colors.

And, finally.

A zebra took center stage.

A zebra with human teeth.

Teeth that chewed the screen, in and out

“Color me surprised. You’re still believing you’re safe, despite proof, concrete evidence of the contrary.”

The voice was distorted as much as the picture, echoing and cracking under noise that kept permeating the background. Behind the zebra head, just a red curtain, a static picture from a magazine, with fragments of text still lingering upon it. The voice was slightly desynced, again, either too soon or too late, never exactly on time.

Edgethorn Swans stood watching with his mouth agape. He had switched off the TV, switched off all of his internet-capable devices. It was useless, though. The display came back to life, no matter how many times he switched it off. He couldn’t mute it. He couldn’t tone down the volume. Technology was rebelling against his hold, staring directly inside his soul. He was at the mercy of the zebra. He was at the mercy of its terrifying gaze. Of its terrifying, glitched grin.

“You’re either brave or stupid. But luck favors the bold, so… congratulations!”

The zebra clapped its human hands, with an evident delay between audio and video. Swans was paralyzed by indecision. There was a chance the ROPES agents were watching the broadcast too. There was a chance the message reached them. A damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation, one he didn’t know how to navigate. One that made him feel powerless, incapable of taking a stance.

Yes, there was nothing more he could do.

Except watching that broadcast, that is.

The zebra grinned again, showing its teeth in full light.

The kid at the second floor stared at it, touched the display. Just like the previous evening. Just like before. The zebra was talking about things he didn’t understand. Still, it was fascinating. It was calling him from behind that display. A strange event, one that his classmates wouldn’t believe. A digital ghost story like no others.

“Your whole existence is built on l i e s. Mona Lisa’s smile is f a k e. Consider that, consider saying what you know. Think about it. If you survive the draw, that is.”

Shu’s gaze was enraptured by the zebra. She sat unblinking in front of the tablet, with eyes wide open, as if to capture every single frame and commit it to memory.

Lies. Fake. What you know.

Her brain devoured the information, turned it into a soup of electrical impulses, stored it, mulled over it in real time. A ROP, a ROP was talking through the display, a ROP was spreading through it, like a virus. She had to monitor it, to study it, to assimilate it, understand it, become one with it.

That was the end goal, that was why she was there.

So, she didn’t miss a single instant of that broadcast.

She couldn’t afford losing track of even a single atom of information.

“Yesterday, thirteen lone people got the short end of the stick. Yes, the game was rigged. You were always meant to survive. I wanted the first hit to be… a warning shot. None of them had family. All of them were living alone. So, I drew among them. I chose that pot. Nevertheless, there are no innocents among you. Every single one of you has a role in this tragedy. Either you caused the current situation or you profited from it. So, this time…”

The zebra smiled again, baring its teeth in an unsettling picture, one that reminded of a badly edited photomontage.

“…I’ll strike you were it hurts the most. Maybe, this time you’ll l e a r n.”

Ban heard it. Crashing noises from the floor above. Screams. Utterances. The lights switched on abruptly from outside his window. He pulled up the blinders, saw more and more lights flaring up. Sirens. Cries. He crunched his fists, his arms trembled. Then, slowly, he started donning his fresh change of clothes, preparing for going out. What was done was done. Now it wasn’t time to sleep.

“See? Was it that hard? You could have prevented this. You could have saved thirteen more lives. You just had to t a k e t h e f a l l and c o n f e s s your sins. But no, what could I expect from you parasites?”

Renne felt it too. The chaos unfolding. The screams from above. She stood up immediately, took off her pajama, reached for her uniform, wore it in no time. Sirens. Lights switched on. An ambulance in the distance. More ambulances. She had a hunch. A horrifying hunch. Without any regards for Shu, she ran for the door, pulled it open. Finding herself face to face with the hulking figure of Ban Cardia. With his now clearly artificial forearms. With his sullen expression.

While the zebra was still talking.

“I hope this time my message is clear. Make things right. Make me go away. Or, tomorrow night… it might be your turn. Have sweet dreams… if you can sleep at all.”

It would have been nice.

To talk about it with classmates.

To share the story about the talking zebra with them.

About those teeth chewing the screen, inside out.

Yes, it would have been nice.

If his heart didn’t stop.

If it didn’t explode like that.

Leaving his now lifeless body sprayed on the floor, still hugging the display.

Sullying it red.

Right as the zebra disappeared.

In one, last, shrill bout of laughter.

Terminally ill, yet still posing as healthy

Alina Crawford had, of course, cursed against her phone. Who in their bloody mind would call her at eleven in the night on her work number? She was pretty sure she didn’t gave it to anyone, not even at the club, not even when drunk. A phone for work and one for hunks and stallions, to keep routine and adventure separated. But no, the one which ringed was the black phone with the cracked screen, the one that was usually bringing bad news. The name on its display was a harbinger of misfortune too. Veckert Rainer. Of course. That absolute azure-haired bastard would never stop getting on her nerves. It was always like that. Always. That was what she got for mingling with the ROPES team—unpaid overtime and existential angst. So, once she picked up the phone, all she could do was scream.

“Fuck you, Veckert! I’ve already been squeezed dry by you and your goons today, what do you want more from me, god damn it to hell?!”

“Looks like you’ve got new customers, Alina. Thirteen more funerals, exclusive rights to them.”

The unpleasant, chainsmoker voice of Veckert Rainer filled her with a mix of emotions she couldn’t really gauge. On the one hand, she found that oddly attractive. On the other hand, it was barely a voice she liked to listen to, almost grating to the ears. If anything, Veckert didn’t smoke a single cigarette in ages. What caused that strange, sick tone was a knife wound that damaged her vocal chords, one she was still annoyed about. That was, however, inconsequential for Alina Crawford. The content of the message had been way more important than a little flirting.

“Exclusive rights…?”

“The killer was most likely a ROP. Now we have circumstantial evidence of it. Suspect ROP victims have to be handled by specialized funeral companies… the only one I know of happens to be yours.”

Alina found herself nodding, even if nobody could see her. Yes, right. ROP-containment-compliance-certification. That had been a good business decision, after the whole Walking Night deal in 2061. No other undertaker she knew took it. So, in a way, she had a monopoly—in a niche, shrinking and not very profitable market, but still a monopoly. Veckert’s voice kept on pouring through the speaker, now talking a language Dr. Crawford could properly appreciate.

“All I need you to do is to confirm the case of death and check at least two or three bodies, while our ROPES coroners deal with the others. I’ll handle the paperwork for what comes after, as long as you get in the car and go to Mona Lisa tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“Wait, but I… I mean, I’ve already certified the deaths. Why should I go there again?”

“I said thirteen more.”

Alina Crawford had almost dropped the phone, at that point.

“And all of them are children, aged fifteen or younger.”

Yeah, that was a bummer. A shocking bummer.

Burying old people was fine. Burying healthy, adult gals and dudes was harder—many more tears shed. But burying children? Now, that was frustrating. ‘Cause the tears wouldn’t stop flowing and the parents would keep wailing. Not her optimal definition of a business. Still, it paid well and money was her first priority, so why not?

That was what she focused on to keep her eyes open, while waiting for the sun to rise. There was little comfort in the seat of her third-hand car, parked just slightly out of the entrance gate of Mona Lisa, but she couldn’t afford anything better than that. At least, it was powerful enough to pull her mobile lab behind, even if barely. So, she gulped down the second coffee of the day and cursed against its plain, cheap taste. The eyemeras were hovering over her like a swarm of bizarre insects, following no apparent logic while annoying her to no end.

Eyemeras.

Stalking every single living being setting their foot inside Mona Lisa.

How. Frustrating.

Even in that state of emergency, even while everything was crumbling, Mona Lisa was refusing to bend its stiff rules—like a terminally ill patient pretending to be healthy. That, somehow, suited the mental image she had of that exclusive place for stuck-up socialites. When she applied for renting a flat there, her query was immediately turned down. Apparently, she was a persona non grata in virtue of having been a single mother at seventeen and having accrued several minor felonies on record. No matter being a respectable coroner, no matter running a successful funeral home. She simply wasn’t good enough for Mona Lisa. That meant, of course, that Mona Lisa was simply not good enough for her. So, she stuck her middle finger out of the car window, directed at the eyemeras, at whoever was watching her through them. In that instant, a motorized fruit stall entered her field of vision. Gasoline powered. Slow. Colors and stickers faded with time. The guy driving it had a prominent squared jaw. He looked old, tired—as tired as Alina was, at least. Nevertheless, he waved his hand at her, in a sort of friendly acknowledgment.

“Hello! What brings you here again, doctor?”

Alina frowned. She didn’t introduce herself to this man before, but maybe, just maybe, he had seen her in the courtyard the previous day. It was very likely. Her mobile lab had been the focus of a lot of unwanted attention, maybe because of the advertising posters of her undertaker company that were plastered all over it.

Funeral home Dr. Crawford—from the morgue to the grave. Ten percent off for murder victims. Family discounts available on request. Together in death, at an affordable price!

Yeah, that was a little bold for her, but what was the point of advertisement if not being bold? Better be notorious than forgotten. If Jean had to learn a single lesson from her mom, that had to be it. So, Alina didn’t mind the lantern-jawed fruiterer so much. She simply clicked her tongue, downing a little more of her morning coffee.

“Well, guess. Looks like whatever freak killed people yesterday did an encore today.”

The fruit stall guy looked at her with a deadpan gaze.

“More victims…?”

“Huh-uh.”

Only to respond with a loud, frustrated groan.

“This will hurt my business a lot. Nobody buys apples, if they’re worried about their life.”

“But you know what they buy? Funeral service insurance. Which I happen to offer at a premium discount. Are you interested? You never know when it can become useful.”

The man squinted at her with an even more deadpan gaze.

“…I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Your loss.”

A swarm of eyemeras flew above them, winking at their faces for a second or two. Dr. Crawford gave them the middle finger one more time, prompting the fruit stall guy to raise his gaze too.

“Can’t stand them, doc?”

“I hate mass surveillance. Makes me feel like I’m a caged beast in a zoo, watched by hordes of screaming children.”

The fruit man nodded, sat back on his motorized stall.

“Mona Lisa’s residents have access to the feed 24/7. They can watch whatever comes into the eye of the eyemeras from any of their devices at any time, you know? An encrypted private surveillance network, just for them.”

“This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

“It’s frustrating. Sometimes, they use that to pester me about the freshness of my products. No, not that apple, you dropped it while coming here! No, that banana almost fell from the stall, I won’t pay full price for it! Seriously, I hate them too.”

Dr. Crawford yawned, had a look at her watch. Agent Cardia and Renne should have been there soon. The gates of Mona Lisa were still closed. She couldn’t get in, unless someone opened the way for her. Fruit-stall-guy was in the same situation, more or less. He didn’t seem like he had a key either. Which, honestly, begged the question.

“Say, why are you playing fruit monkey for these pricks? Of all the places you could sell stuff, you come her to get ridiculed by these neo-rich fuckers every day. I mean, why?”

“Who else would pay twenty pounds per pound of apples?”

Dr. Crawford whistled, tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.

“And they say I’m the scalper. Look, do you need an employee? I have an idiot daughter who could learn a thing or two from you.”

The fruiterer shook his head, leaned on the handle of his motorized stall.

“Sorry, nope. What I make out of it is just enough to afford a single room flat around here. Which is ironic, in hindsight. This place used to be much cheaper, before Mona Lisa was built.”

Dr. Crawford nodded absent-mindedly. Right, the complex was less than a decade old, still smelling of fresh paint, lacquer, and the money shelled to build it in record time. Before, that was just another industrial area at the outskirts of New Langdon. Not a place one would invest their fortune into.

Right as she started musing about what originally lay there, the gate came to life, creaking in the morning aurora while slowly opening inwards. On the other side of it, stood the unremarkable figure of a red-braided woman in her twenties, wearing a ROPES team uniform. She carried eye bags the size of a trailer, which made her look ten years older than she actually was. A powerful yawn escaped her lips, as she limped to Dr. Crawford’s car. Alina peeked out of the window, waving her hand at the newcomer.

“Yo, not-my-daughter-in-law. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you again, if it were true. But, well, it isn’t.”

Renne didn’t answer. She just rubbed her eyes, trying to force them to stay up and running. Dr. Crawford noticed it, poked her nose with her finger.

“Gal, you look like someone who didn’t sleep a single hour.”

“…because I didn’t.”

“Huh.”

Renne yawned again. It wasn’t completely true: she had some shuteye, but overall less than three hours in the whole night. So, the effect was basically the same. Her scaffold of flesh and blood was moving only thanks to the unsung hero called ‘caffeine’. Still, there was a limit to that extra endurance too. She stretched a little, looked at the motorized fruit stall, stared at the owner with a sullen gaze, brutalized by the lack of rest.

“…I’m sorry, but you can’t get in. We’re cordoning the area due to a suspect Reality Oscillation Phenomenon.”

The man gasped, almost jumped out of his seat.

“What? Look, I need to sell my stuff in there, my life depends on it! Do you have any idea of how much money this will cost me, if I can’t?”

Renne yawned one more time, pulled out a small piece of paper from her pocket. There was a phone number scribbled on it in a barely legible handwriting.

“Call my boss, alright? She’ll be sure you get suitable compensation—all on Her Majesty’s tab. I don’t know any of this stuff, but she does. Send her receipts from your average day and she’ll order some money transferred in no time. Just don’t call her ‘sir’ and everything will be fine.”

Alina Crawford whistled, winked at Renne, whispered in her ear carefully.

“You’re all grown up, huh? Access to Veckert’s private phone and all that jazz, I mean. What did you do to get it? A little two-on-one action with your gal pal? Or was it, I dunno, a full on lesbian orgy? Must be nice to swing the same way as your boss.”

Renne waved her hand, loudly groaning at that baseless accusation of polyamory. How did she even came to the idea of her sharing Vay with anyone, Renne wondered. Something twisted had to take place in Alina Crawford’s brain, between the rot spreading through her neurons and the grime that formed its basis. Or, maybe, it was just her hidden resentment for not having taken a liking on her daughter. Which, if anything, gave Renne enough fuel for a piqued retort.

“You should ask Jean. It was she who got her number.”

“Oh, I wish that disaster would get a scissor sister half as good as Rainer, but I’m not holding my breath. She’s running wild all the time, making me scared I’ll be a grandma before I turn forty.”

The fruit peddler eyed the number on the scrap of paper, looked at Renne once again, then back at the paper.

“…so, there’s no chance for me to get in? None at all?”

Renne shook her head, leaning heavily on the side of Dr. Crawford’s car.

“Sorry, no exception outside of police personnel.”

The man sighed, shrugged with a mortification that could not described with words.

“I supposed I have no choice, then.”

He turned around the handle, restarted the engine of his mobile stall. The smell of burned gasoline filled Renne’s nostrils, causing her to pinch her nose closed. As that tar-powered motorized mess left her field of vision, she rubbed her eyes once more.

For a moment, just a moment, she thought she had seen something odd.

A peeled, half-faded sticker on the side of the strange vehicle.

A sicker in the form of a zebra.

Nightmarish screams, a concerto of dread

Mr. Swans was still sweating, breathing heavily in front of the mirror of his bathroom. Sweating, coughing, breathing heavily. Everything was going down the drain. Everything. Mona Lisa’s reputation, the monetary value of the building, the stocks connected with them. Thirteen corpses was already a huge deal, but thirteen more? All children?

That was going to be a PR disaster.

An absurd, absolute PR disaster.

Streaming networks would send journos to sniff every droplet of blood, to report on every tear of the heart-rended mothers. Yes, it was going to be exactly like that, whether he wanted it or not.

He gazed at his reflection in the mirror.

A broken man, one with bloodshot eyes, with mouth agape. Open boxes of pills lay all around, scattered on the floor without rhyme or reason. Some were dangling from his pockets too, crushed and crumpled, squeezed to dust.

Still, despite the medications, despite the drugs, Swans was still hearing them.

The screams. The screams of the parents were still echoing in his brain, forming a dreadful ensemble that played phantom noises in his ears.

His phone had been constantly ringing for the whole night. For the whole night. The other building administrators had to have the same issue, right? All of them were involved, this time. At least a child per each building. No one of them spared.

That was the tombstone, the end of Mona Lisa. Recovering from it would have been almost impossible.

The apartment complex of the thirteen dead children.

No, the press would have not been kind. They would have etched those words eternally, in a way that could not be erased.

As his kingdom was crumbling around him, as his reality was shattering, Swans looked at the mirror again, smashing his fist against the faucet.

“You won! You won, you bastard! Now stop! Stop! Get out of Mona Lisa! Get out of our lives! You won, okay?”

That’s when he saw it.

The face of a zebra.

Looking at him from the other side of the reflecting glass.

Baring its human teeth in a most unnatural smirk.

Before starting to talk.

“Won?”

A raucous laughter, the sound coming after the lips moved, slightly out of sync.

“That was just the beginning.”

The grin widened, widened, widened, becoming larger and larger and larger than the snout and larger and larger and

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Swans screamed. Jolted. Shrieked.

He tumbled on the floor, kneeled, rose back up.

The mirror was empty.

The zebra was gone.

Only his reflection remained.

The reflection of a man on the verge of breaking down to pieces.

A wake of vultures feasting on a rotten carcass

The move from flipping burgers at Van Douglas to working as a low level security guard for a Fledermaus-controlled military asylum had happened so suddenly that Renne could barely reconnect the chain of events. One day she was just serving greasy Van Douglas Specials to angry customers, with the complementary, overpriced glass of Sgurgla Cola. The day after, Jean Crawford was taking her to a job interview for—as she put it—‘desperate people with no career prospects and without any certifications’. How she caught wind of that job ad was a true and tried mystery, one she never wanted to elaborate on. It was at the outset of 2064, right as the Western world was mourning the Black Lightning Disaster. In the chaos that followed, somehow, somewhere, Jean found two open positions in a facility that was ‘impacted by the loss of personnel’ due to the reactor explosion in Euterpe. That facility was located somewhere around Shard, far from every single public transport stop she knew of. However, the interview was being carried out in a different place, a cube of dirty concrete popping out like a mushroom in the suburbs of Carthias. That building was as anonymous as it might have been, with no recognizable mark, soaked in black tar from what once was a haven for coal processing factories. The insides was even more desolate, except for one room—a room smelling of dust and freshly smoked cigarettes, where she had to sit with Jean, in front of a man who started to address them quite casually.

“We’re looking for people with nothing to lose and no real work experience. We would usually be more selective, but the recent disaster opened up several… let’s call them ‘vacancies’ in our organization, that we must fill ASAP if we want it to keep functioning. So, here’s where you get in the picture.”

A strange explanation, one that smelled of danger from kilometers away, delivered by a guy in a military uniform. His name tag read S. Ondra, or something like that—Renne didn’t meet him ever again after that day. He wasn’t alone with them, though. At his side sat a peculiar man, one with long, greasy black hair and sight glasses. One donning a crumpled shirt with a terribly folded tie. The man called Ondra didn’t introduce him at all, treating him like little more than a kitschy ornament. And, much like an ornament, the man didn’t say anything either, playing instead with a soft, gummy ball. Ondra didn’t even address his presence, preferring to focus on the two confused twenty-something girls that sat before him.

“It’s a basic security job at a military asylum. You’ll have to make sure our inmates don’t run away and deal with potential breakouts if they do. You won’t be required or allowed to use lethal force even if you’ll be issued some standard weaponry for self-defense. Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

Jean had nodded more enthusiastically than Renne ever expected.

“Yup! Mom taught me when I was eleven. I can throw hand grenades too! Doin’ it every other month at the lake to stun them carps. Easy catch, that’s what they are! And explosives are funny!”

The way Ondra looked back at Jean had been priceless, with a gaze that was worth more than a thousand words. It was clear as day that, if it were for him, Jean would have been kicked out of the selection immediately. Yet, it was also evident that he didn’t have that power and had to endure their presence a little longer. Lack of choice and all that jazz. So, he simply nodded in the most robotic way a man could, turning his attention to Renne instead.

“And you?”

“Never done that, but I can learn if it’s required. Most I did was winning some high school boxing tournaments. I know how to throw a punch, let’s say.”

Again, disappointment took over his face, quickly replaced by resignation. Not the kind of candidates you would expect for such a delicate job. Yet, by the looks of it, that Ondra guy didn’t have much leeway. Renne still wasn’t sure it was the right choice. Guarding inmates in a military asylum sounded like serious business, way more serious than serving fries at Van Douglas and dealing with annoying customers that complained about her German accent. Yeah, even going there had been a mistake. A mistake she could still walk away from. It was just a question of answering no. She prepared herself to do that, it wasn’t that hard. A simple no. A complete, one word answer, without needing to elaborate on her discomfort.

“The compensation package includes thirty paid days off, unlimited sick leave, an extra retirement fund, complementary private dental insurance, on top of this monthly salary before taxes.”

Ondra had handed her a small, handwritten note, with a figure on it.

That figure washed away all of Renne’s moral questions, turning a heck no into a sound yes with the force of a hurricane. In order to get that much money, she would have needed to flip burgers until the heat death of the universe. That job, that shady job, was her last chance to get truly independent from her spoiled rich family. So, she made a deal with the devil—or rather the bat. A deal that haunted her for three, long years until

Until DESDE snapped her out of it.

Renne massaged her forehead.

Right, Desde. Her name had come back, somehow. That sudden mind black out had made her worried. It had to be the stress. It had to be the unusual situation in which she was catapulted. Waiting for a glitched zebra to talk on a tablet was outside of what she’d call ‘usual’, after all.

Desde. Desdemona Lagrange. That was her full name. A young girl living the fantasy that played in her brain as if it were real, existing in two worlds at once—one imaginary, one less so. But which one was the fake world? When Desde broke out of containment to help her save Vay, she was able to literally shoot beams of light from her hands. There was no possible explanation to that power, unless Desde was a shifter like EiN. But, if she were, they would have recognized it before sending her to the ward, right…?

Renne yawned, rubbed her sticky eyelids. Good questions, but not good enough for the moment. Not while she was fighting against Morpheus inside an apartment complex that was crumbling down like a castle of cards. The local police force had been deployed into every single building, stopping assaults and brawls, comforting grieving parents, directing the paramedics. Renne didn’t envy them. Now that everything was falling apart, they were trying their best to keep a semblance of ‘order’, against all the odds. But what is order, in a place where a digital zebra can kill thirteen people per night, children included, without a shred of remorse?

The coroners were hard at work, leaving her with nothing more to do than to tail Ban and Shu, who were somehow browsing through a lot of old newspapers in a common room. Shouts and screams from outside were dotting every minute of their waking hours. Sometimes, the roar of an engine would break containment too. Sometimes, even a blank shot. Journalists were pushing on the entrance gate like a pack of jackals, a wake of vultures feasting on a rotting carcass. Nevertheless, they couldn’t get in. The decaying flesh of Mona Lisa was still keeping them at bay, in a last ditch effort to delay the inevitable. Despite all that chaos, the room she was sitting in was pretty comfortable, with walls tinted in pastel ochre—very close in tone to the color of Frida’s pick up truck. A funny coincidence, one that struck her sleepy brain as amusing. What was not amusing was the mood inside said room. A somberness that trapped her in a vicious circle, a cloud of resignation that would have sunk any will to investigate, really. It was the same covert despair she felt during her job interview, the same lack of alternative and direction in life. That man, Ondra, was somehow not surprised by her leap into the unknown, after she immediately signed the contract. That was the depth of her feeling of inadequacy, of her need to change her life.

However, Ban and Shu looked everything except willing to give up. Shu, in particular, was reading through newspaper articles at the speed of light, scanning page after page of content without end, with fourteen bags of chips in front of her—six of which already consumed down to the crumbs. Ban was mostly watching her, staring idly at the ceiling, rocking his chair back and forth. A printed report stood in his hands, with the unmistakable signature of Alina Crawford.

Renne sank into her chair, poked Ban’s forearm. At the touch, it felt normal, human even. There was metal underneath, of course, and now she was sure she was able to recognize it. Why and how, was a question for another time. She had more pressing matters in mind.

“Why isn’t Veckert handling this case?”

Maybe too direct of a question, but she couldn’t keep it in anymore. Ban looked back at her, crossed his massive arms in front of his chest.

“Why should she?”

“Twenty-six people have already died and we made no progress. Isn’t she, like, a kind of super detective? Why can’t she help us on the field when we need her?”

Ban sighed, places one of his hands on Renne’s shoulder.

“Good old Veckert has bigger fish to fry, a behemoth of a case to crack. She’s been sending ROPES agents out everywhere around Europe for the past month or so, using us as delivery boys for some sort of food additive. I think she’s sleeping less than we did last night and still nobody knows exactly what the deal is. We don’t ask either, ‘cause talking about ROPES is a surefire way to make them worse. Aside from the lab rats, only EiN knows more about the situation, I guess, but that’s normal—he’s her second in command. I still don’t get why she trusts him so much…”

“So, while hell breaks loose, we have to deal with this alone? That’s so stupid! People are dying, Ban! And we three are not remotely enough for this!”

Ban stared at her for a long second, without blinking even once. Renne shivered, almost as if traversed by lightning. Ban’s eyes were deep, magnetic, digging through her soul, piercing her our mind.

“Renne, if Veckert could solve everything, we wouldn’t need an entire ROPES department. To help her do her job and let her focus on the cases that only she can crack, we need to be useful in our own way without always relying on her. There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’, and she doesn’t put it either. She assigned us to this case because she trust us to be able to deal with it. The people that died would have been murdered anyway—not even a Veckert could get ahead of that in less than twenty-four hours. More people will die today and, probably, we can’t change that. What we can do is understand how and why to stop this from happening again.”

Ban spread the report on the table, just under Renne’s eyes.

“This is the how, by the way. Their hearts exploded thanks to a small explosive device wired to it. A fully grown bio-bomb, if we want to be precise. Almost all coroners agreed that it was the source of the damage: the biological traces were sufficient for our lab mates to get to this conclusion and relay it back to the doctors. The explosion was powerful enough to pierce the victims’ chests and then some. What triggered it, though, is still unknown.”

Renne blinked at him. Slowly. At the report. Slowly. A bomb. A bio-bomb wired to a person’s heart. Making it go kaboom on demand. That felt… contrived. How would someone live with a bomb attached to their heart? Who put it there? Did the victims know about it? If so…

Ban cleared his throat, tipped his finger on the paper.

“Before you ask, there are two possibilities here: either all the victims had them implanted willingly or they grew inside them over time…”

An automatic reflex made him stroke his wrists, avert his eyes for an instant.

“…like the blood flowers created by Rosenmaester.”

Fighting a losing war of attrition

Rosenmaester was a name that lingered between facts and fiction. The facts: a nanomachine epidemic spread through the water supply killed an entire city worth of people. The perpetrator was a genius scientist who worked alone and was killed by his own invention. The fiction: he was rumored to be still alive, against all the odds, and to have been spotted around the world. One day it was India, the day after New Zealand, only to glide to Mongolia, sometimes Macau, once even Liechtenstein. Truth was that Silman Simmerik, the man who spread the blood chrysanthemums around Northern Algol, was dead and buried, resting under a macabre flowerbed. At least, the official truth. Five months earlier, Veckert and EiN found out that not only Silman Simmerik was still walking over the Earth… but that he had been dead all along while doing so. Information on the subject was strictly confidential and limited to the ROPES team. That, however, meant that all of them knew what that was about. When Ban mentioned him, when Ban mentioned the flowers…

Renne shivered.

What if the perpetrator of the zebra murders was one and the same? No, that couldn’t be. That wasn’t his modus operandi.

First, no flowers. That alone was enough for them to rule it out.

Second, he didn’t have a body anymore to move around. That, though, wasn’t going to stop a ROP, right? If anything, the absence of a body might have helped him move around undetected. A ghost among ghosts, an invisible, murdering force.

However, there was no ground for him to do that. Rosenmaester killed people he perceived as corrupted, before turning mass murderer without rhyme or reason. The zebra, whoever that was, had been very specific. A beef with the Mona Lisa denizens. An unsettled score. Mona Lisa didn’t even exist at the time of the Northern Algol tragedy, if the articles she read were to be trusted.

So, that should have been enough to exclude him.

Hopefully.

Renne sipped a little bit of coffee, the third of the day. Disembodied spirits were scary. As long as they were physical, you could hit them, smash them, shoot them. But spirits? What do you do with them, do you call an exorcist? Were there still any exorcists at all?

She looked around, while slowly walking under the clouds. Even the sky had decided to darken, to sink the mood even more. In the embrace of the twisted Mona Lisa buildings, curling on themselves like the fingers of a clawed hand, dotted with windows that looked like festering wounds, Renne felt her soul even more crushed. The swarms of eyemeras still lingered above her, watching each and everyone of her movements from above. She bit her lip, rolled her eyes. There were eyemeras out of her window too, that morning, peeking at her while she was getting out of the shower and changing her clothes. That had to be one of the grossest violations of her privacy she had ever experienced, but it was par for the course for Mona Lisa. After all, she was an outsider, an enemy. Making her feel unwanted was a feature.

“Yo, Renne, fancy a smoke?”

The abrasive voice, the waving hand of Alina Crawford surprised her. The woman was standing close to a balustrade, watching the lower plaza of Mona Lisa from a landing higher above. It was one of the upper rings, where luxury stores used to be open, together with a couple of very expensive restaurants. That day, all that was left was shuttered doors and silence. Which, apparently, was what prompted that peculiar specimen of a coroner to linger around them. Renne gulped down what was left of her coffee, threw the paper cup away. As soon as it left her hand, five eyemeras aimed at her, following the trajectory of that piece of rubbish in real time, until it safely landed inside the recycle bin. Only then the eyemeras looked away, turning to their quieter low-altitude swimming once again. Dr. Crawford snickered, pointed her cigarette at them.

“If they caught you littering, you’d be fined so badly you’d need a loan. Don’t litter, okay? First offense is just a slap on the wrist. Second offense? I hope you have a barrel to live in, ‘cause that’s all you’ll be able to afford for the rest of your life. Littering here is serious business.”

Renne yanwed, rested her arms on the fence. Her fingers moved to the pack of cigs resting on Dr. Crawford’s palm. Pale Horse. Her favorite brand. She took one, put it back, sighed, picked it up again, stared at it for a second or two. Then, she reluctantly shoved it between her teeth.

“Fuck, I promised Vay I’d quit.”

“And?”

“I almost did it. Almost. Once in a while, though…”

Dr. Crawford pulled out a zippo out of her pocket, lighted up Renne’s cigarette.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Renne’s lips tasted the nicotine, the tar mixed in the filter, inhaled, exhaled. A strange calm spread through her nerves. Yeah, it was stupid. Unhealthy. Problematic, even. But she couldn’t say no to the nicotine serpent, the tempting snake. Did he offer one to Adam and Eve too, in the garden of Eden? Might as well have, that would have been much better than an apple that makes you ashamed of being naked. Easier to sell too. Which meant, of course, that Adam and Eve didn’t exist in the first place. Amy and Eve, instead… that would have been interesting. Another puff of smoke. Stupid thoughts, the ones that occupied her mind. The reason why her parents shunned her sexuality was that she couldn’t produce children, if she prowled for girls. Natural order, all that jazz. All bullcrap. Gay lions were a thing, so why did they draw the line at a lesbian daughter? She should have run away with Frida, when she had the chance, hunting imaginary werewolves together with her, riding into the sunset on her ochre truck, fuck her till the dawn came in the back of her pick-up while running away from law enforcement officials. That sounded like a funny life, more interesting than the one she was living. An acrid cloud of smoke assaulted her nostrils. Yet, a life without Vay. No, that wouldn’t have made her happy. Not after enjoying her time with her little alien princess, the smile that always waited for her at home, the warm hug that made her stop crying. Vay was too precious to lose. It wasn’t even a competition.

“So, you saw it, right? The report.”

Dr. Crawford’s voice derailed her train of thoughts, forcing her to come back to the depressing reality of Mona Lisa.

“Bio bombs. Can’t say I was expecting that. Sound quite… I dunno… too normal. You can touch them, build them, grow them. What if…”

Renne sucked on her cig, exhaled again.

“What if there’s no ROP involved? What if this is just some tech wiz with a grudge?”

Dr. Crawford shrugged.

“I wish. That would mean that there is someone to arrest to put an end to it, yes? With ROPES, you don’t have the luxury of a conclusion, most of the time. You contain them until they vanish on their own… or until you can’t do that anymore. Dealing with ROPES is annoying as heck, a losing war of attrition, or so Veckert told me. Man-eating lampposts, living signals, screaming toasters, walking corpses, self-replicating flowers, shifting lion-stallions with heavy German accents…”

The smoke from their cigarettes mingled, spiraled, turned into a joint cloud that ascended slowly to the sky. Renne glanced at Dr. Crawford, at the wrinkles flowing on her skin like small rivers.

“Veckert told you about her close encounters with ROPES?”

“Just once, after we had sex together. We were both dead stoned after a party, long story. It couldn’t last more than one night either: too different, me and her, and I’m seven bloody years older! But, hey, she’s a demon in the sheets. Never had a man rock me as well as she did. Soured every other one night stand I had after that. Maybe I should ask her to do me again, but yunno, conflict of interest and all that jazz. Bad for business.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

Another puff. The light at the end of the cigarette sparked to life every time she breathed, bringing a little warmth to the dreadful chill that surrounded them. Right, Veckert Rainer. Grown up in the most bigot and homophobic city that ever graced Ireland, lost her mother to tuberculosis, her father committed suicide after killing her first girlfriend and, on top of that, she had her face disfigured by a maverick combat robot years later. Despite all the misfortunes in her life, she became a living legend of sorts, even getting a new face back. Renne could feel nothing but respect for the scarred hound of St. Patrick, despite her disastrous love life and her frankly abrasive personality. Someone who had the balls to bed Alina Crawford and survive the deal deserved more than a simple acknowledgment.

A swarm of eyemeras started circling around them again, focusing on the smoke slowly coming out of their mouths. Dr. Crawford raised her middle finger at them, turned back to Renne with a shrug.

“Oh great, more eyemeras. No respect for privacy, huh? Fuck them.”

Renne nodded, bit the butt of her cigarette.

“They were out of my window too, this morning. Just as I came out from the shower. ”

“See, some rich idiot was probably watching you in your birthday suit. Did you know that every resident in this complex can access the eyemeras whenever they want? It’s like, huh, a closed private network of sorts that works only for their devices—or so I was told.”

“So, they’re watching us too, now?”

“Yeah. Most likely.”

Dr. Crawford took another puff, tapped her finger on the railing rhythmically.

“To think Mona Lisa didn’t exist until just five years ago…”

Renne gazed at the honeycomb of concrete, at the chaotic, organic net of windows opening all over it, as a disgusting multitude of gazing composite eyes.

“What was here before? Undeveloped land?”

Dr. Crawford shrugged, raised her gaze to the clouds. A gray sky, the sun playing hide and seek behind them, without ever gracing the ground with its majestic presence. Even the light had abandoned that place. The gods were showing their true colors.

“A chemical factory. Closed more than a decade ago, after a huuuuge incident. Don’t remember much about it, at that time I was still studying to become a coroner, all while trying to bring up my baby daughter on my own—emphasis on trying.”

She patted Renne’s shoulder, lowered her voice to a graver, more solemn tone.

“Men suck, Renne. Never fall for someone just because he has a big cock: the moment he learns he’s gonna be dad, he’ll pull out faster that you can say ‘please’. I got sterilized after giving birth, to avoid the chance of it happening again. Still, that fucker is at large somewhere. One day I’ll get his ass to say sorry to little Jean, be it the last thing I do.”

Renne put out her cig too, after exhaling one last cloud of sweet-scented smoke. It was bad for her lungs, sure, and also an economic burden—but girl if it felt good, for once. A little relax. Just a little. A way to recover a little bit of human warmth. She gazed up at the clouds. One of them looked like a horse, from her position. Or, rather, a zebra. Her mind violently flashed back to the previous night. To the video. To the glitched artificial face that mocked them. She clenched her fist, muttered under her breath.

“Great, now I’m seeing that zebra everywhere…”

“Zebra?”

Renne covered her mouth almost immediately. Don’t talk about ROPES. Don’t spread information. Don’t give them a way to propagate. That was what Funabaki said, what Ban said too. Nobody knew about the zebra, except her, Ban, Shu and the Mona Lisa residents. The coroners weren’t informed. They didn’t have to know. It was confidential information. She almost bit her tongue, gritted her teeth.

“I just saw that horse-shaped cloud and my mind filled the blanks. With a zebra. Just because of a stupid wildlife mockumentary movie I’ve watched with Vay two nights ago.”

Dr. Crawford snickered, almost burst into laughter.

“Well, that’s a very funny coincidence, then.”

“How so?”

Dr. Crawford pointed her finger at the main plaza, waved her hand at the whole building complex.

“Guess what? The company who stood here, the one that closed before Mona Lisa was built…”

She paused for an instant, snapped her fingers for additional emphasis.

“…was called Zebra Chemicals.”

Reality connection phenomena

A stream of information roared through Shu’s brain. Snippets of articles, pictures, dates, events. An ungodly grand Guignol of what ifs, of what happened, of what could have been, blended and mixed inside her mind, in a stream of possibilities, of chances, of fake developments.

Mona Lisa Quarter.

Open five years before.

Huge celebrations, a core group of two hundred inhabitants.

Mr. Swans in all the inauguration pictures, several newspapers and web outlets covering immortalizing his face. Two hundred founders.

Names with lives, with addresses, with a past.

A past which could not be fully reconstructed, because most of them were nobodies—unimportant, anonymous people that weren’t worthy enough of attention. Shu couldn’t fill blanks that weren’t documented, just follow the leads that were.

Database searches, crossing data in the police archives, creating connections, severing them, building them again when a new piece of the puzzle fell into place.

She ripped open another pack of chips.

Starving.

She was starving.

Failing to keep her mind from dissolving, from shutting down.

She downed all of its content in one go, all in her mouth, swallowing them whole. No taste left behind. Just nutrients. Five more packs to go.

Two hundred faces, two hundred names, surrounded by a network of close relatives living in Mona Lisa. Twenty-six of them crossed out. Twenty-six of them gone. All among the first. All among them.

Yes. All victims were members of that first group or were closely related to them.

Confirmed.

She could see them, shadows strolling and dancing in front of her eyes, rewinding, going forward, rewinding again. Replaying two hundred lives in an instant, their threads intertwined and entwined in a lighting fast tango. Shadow echoes moving forward, moving back, spreading through the pages of newspapers, like a cascade of ink penning random letters and still writing meaningful sentences. She could follow them, go back, go forward even. If the Liverpool fan didn’t die, he would have celebrated the victory of his favorite team, got the drive out of its slot, labelled it, added it to his growing collection. Then, he would have opened a fresh beer, rewatching the highlights as they went live. From there on, the figure doubled. One would go to bed, the other would call the neighbor from two floors under, the lady whose clothes could be find in his cupboard. The divergence spread, turned into a coral of possibilities, a sea anemone of path not taken. Rewind. Rewind. Rewind. Back to the death, back to the two hundred potential victims, thirteen of which had already died and thirteen of which were related to them—children, nephews, younger siblings.

Back to the past.

One month. Some of the names in the same file. A bank statement. Exfiltrated data. Just a coincidence, in the darkest corner of the web. Still, strange. Codes. Weird codes. That was all there was. No credit card data, no biometrics. Just names and codes. Nobody ever took them down. Nobody ever asked for that. Still, the codes were leaked and the bank never acknowledged them. Codes for what, though? Shu couldn’t say. It was just a strange result. One that stuck out as unlikely. Still, not useful, not useful enough.

She had to rewind even more.

Back again.

Five years, before Mona Lisa existed.

Construction works after sanitation, after a clean up that lasted for years. Clean up for what? She could see signs warning about contamination spread all over the place, the fence finally removed to inaugurate the new city block.

Rewind.

Shu grabbed another bag of chips, squeezed it in her hands.

Hungry.

She was hungry.

Her fingers frantically made short work of the plastic seal, before she wolfed its content, emptying it in seconds.

Again, back to Mona Lisa. Back to before Mona Lisa.

Rewind. News articles scrolled before her eyes. One year, two years, five years, nine years.

Thirteen years.

Pictures of a different building, where the complex now stood. Large. Rough.

Zebra Chemicals.

The zebra in the logo laughs.

A factory. Two hundred employees.

Aerial pictures, a plume of smoke reaching for the sky. Helicopters. Warning sirens. More pictures. More news. Ninety-three victims. An incident, a safety valve that didn’t trigger, a catastrophic chain of failures.

Ninety-three dead.

The zebra in the logo laughs.

Still laughs.

Ninety-three lives lost. More threads connecting, spreading again, in a plethora of possibilities, a web of what ifs ending in a singular fixed point. Dead. All dead. All of them. An unchangeable truth.

Shu started to sweat, to breathe heavily. One more pack. One more pack of chips. To sate her hunger. To refill her energies. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t switch it off. That was part of her. Seeing the past, building the future, based on circumstantial information. Inaccurate predictions that diverged and diverged in an infinite tangle of possibilities, so many she couldn’t follow all of them.

Ninety-three lives. The zebra laughs.

Rewind. Spin forward. Rewind. More news reports.

A picture of the then owner of the factory, before he took his life after the incident.

A picture of his son.

A squared jaw. Short brown hair.

Stop.

Freeze.

A static spike, the lights of the room going out for a second. Her eyes flashed, blinked back to life, switched off, switched on again. Purple. Shining. Opaque. Alternating. Before finally settling.

Shu snapped open the last two packs of chips, devoured them in instants, wiped the sweat from her forehead. She smiled. She was smiling, almost like that zebra. Grinning even. Chuckling. Shaking her head.

“…Ban?”

Her voice was weak, muted, breaking down every other letter. Too much uncertainty. Too many unsolved threads. Yet, they were still spinning in front of her eyes, forcing her to breathe. Breathe. Calm down. Breathe. In that infinitesimal infinite time, Ban turned to face her. Worried. As usual. Whenever she overexerted herself, he became worried. Somehow. Then, diverged. Sometimes he kept being worried and asked her why. Sometimes, he just went back to his chores. Shu couldn’t predict it. She knew so little of Ban that she couldn’t follow his path in advance. She missed critical information to extrapolate…

“Shu!”

His voice. The possibilities collapsed into just one world, the one she was living in. And, in that world, Ban was worried.

“Shu, I told you…”

Breathe. Breathe.

“I…”

Breathe. Breathe.

“I found it.”

Her eyes shone to life once again, reflected in his deep black mirrors.

“I found the connection between Mona Lisa and the zebra.”

A truth that might as well have been fake

“Why am I here?”

It was a cramped room, watching its guests with a plethora of cameras mounted in every nook and cranny, now focused on the man at the table. A tired man in his forties, maybe fifties, with short brown hair marred by white strands, sporting a large, prominent squared jaw. In front of him sat an equally tall woman in her twenties, with a long, fire-red braid. Their gaze intertwined, even if just for an instant.

“It’s because of Mona Lisa, Mr. Graid.”

Her voice was calm, almost collected. Every breath measured, kept under control. In a corner, A mountain of a man was watching too, with his gigantic arms crossed. Silent, almost immobile. Much like furniture, in a way. An ornament that made the atmosphere livelier but without any practical use. Except he was there as insurance. He was there as deterrent. Having your head crushed by a strength equivalent to that of a hydraulic press was enough of a threat that most people stood put. Most. The few that didn’t—well, they walked out with at least one dislocated shoulder. At least. If they were lucky. So, Ban had nothing to do except wait. Wait and see how the situation evolved.

Renne’s heart was pumping. It was her first real interrogation, the first without Veckert leading her through the motions. A sort of static electricity ran wild through her body, a razor-thin wire between overwhelming excitement and the heavy burden of responsibility. Yeah, a subtle thread to walk on, suspended over a crevice full of stone spikes. Waiting for her to fall. Smiling at every misstep. Aching to pierce her skin. To carve her body. The man sitting in front of her, though, didn’t seem fazed by her eagerness in the slightest.

“What about it? I have a regular license as a greengrocer and passed all the health inspections for this year.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t about your apples, Mr. Graid. Not completely, at least.”

Renne spread some pictures on the desk, pictures from a decade past. Two of them depicted a laughing zebra. One of them had the man sitting in front of her, Tenson Graid, shaking hands under the selfsame logo.

“This is you here, right? Tenson Graid, son of Mikkel Graid and co-owner of Zebra Chemicals LTD.”

The fruiterer glanced at the picture with a deadpan gaze, blinked twice, touched it, all under Renne’s stare. Those photos were found by Ban after Shu told him what to look for. During Renne’s cigarette break with Dr. Crawford, Shu had a sudden revelation and connected dots so far from each other that it felt almost unreal. Zebra Chemicals. The fruit peddler. The founding of Mona Lisa. All from a bunch of old newspapers and archived internet pages? Really? If that were really the case, Shu deserved her spot in the team with flying colors—and definitely not a waste of calories and oxygen, even if most of her colleagues weren’t convinced of the latter. Chance had it that Dr. Crawford too knew about the Zebra incident. So, when Shu dropped the bomb, Renne was somewhat ready for it.

What she wasn’t ready for, was finding out that the CFO of the defunct company was the same greengrocer she had crossed paths with her already twice before. Said greengrocer, Tenson Graid, was still looking at the picture, wearing a strange, passionless expression on his face.

“Yes. That’s me. Fifteen years ago, I’d say.”

He looked back at Renne, right into her eyes.

“Is it a crime to be me, now?”

“No, not really.

“Then…”

Renne pulled out some additional documents from a manila envelope, spread them on the table. Data. Names. Amounts of money. Press articles. All that Ban put his hands on in four hours of thankless work. One photo stood out of the mass. A picture of a dark cloud, hovering menacingly up in the sky, over a large gray building. Renne tapped her index on that, before looking back at the man who responded to the name of Tenson Graid.

“Almost exactly thirteen years ago the main Zebra Chemicals refinery exploded, contaminating the whole area where we’re sitting now. The Mona Lisa apartment complex was built in the same place eight years later, after a long sanitation process.”

Tenson Graid nodded without changing expression, letting his fingers rest on the picture.

“Ninety-three people died because of a faulty valve. That explosion ruined my family, Ms…”

“Schellenzeier.”

“Ms. Schellenzeier. Yes, what can I say? We lost everything, my dad took his life and all our assets were seized to compensate the families of the victims. The cause of the incident was determined to be a construction defect that didn’t depend on us. The investigation concluded that the damage couldn’t be detected with industry-standard practices and that the failure could not be predicted or prevented.”

Tenson Graid slumped in his chair, shook his head.

“Well, my dad and I were fully acquitted as not guilty. Shame he was already dead and I didn’t have a penny left to my name, by the time we were cleared. So, I avoided jail time but I lost everything else. Suing the valve company would have probably helped me, and I would have won, but with what money? What lawyer, even? No, I gave up and tried to rebuild my life, in a way.”

He groaned, fidgeted with the pictures.

“Except, when your name has been dragged into the mud for two years as the corrupt manager who embezzled funds and didn’t care about the safety of his workers, nobody is going to give you a chance. People don’t forget. Being acquitted changed nothing. I had to start again from scratch, in a way.”

Graid crossed his arms, tilted his head slightly, squinting at Renne.

“All I own now is a small field and two greenhouses where I grow the fruit and vegetables I sell. It’s not a lot, but allows me to carry on and be independent. No loans. No debts. I’ve paid every cent I owed. I’m a free man now, a honest worker that came back from hell.”

Renne crossed her fingers, kept looking at him without breaking eye contact.

“But why, then? Why choose this place, the place where your company burned, to sell your produce to a bunch of rich pricks that treat you like a doormat? Like, isn’t it… frustrating? Eerie? Disturbing?”

Again, Tenson Graid shook his head.

“It’s no different from going to a graveyard to pay a visit to your grandma. Those ninety-three people who died… I knew all of them. My father knew all of them. Two were as young as nineteen years old, yes? A lot of lives ruined, mine included. You can see this… as my way to keep their memory alive.”

“Like with that zebra sticker on your stall?”

“Zolfo the Zebra, yes, our company mascot. I drew him when I was twelve, my dad turned it into the company logo. I’m still proud of it.”

Renne closed her eyes, let her mind gears grind. Nothing interesting yet. Just a coincidence. The zebra, the number thirteen, the place. No, not a coincidence, it couldn’t just be a coincidence. Too many elements converged. Too many pieces of a puzzle she knew she was not intelligent enough to put together. Still, it was worth a shot. It was worth trying to cast a net, in the unlikely case Ban and she were right.

“So much that you used it as an avatar for your murders?”

For the first time from the beginning of the interrogation, Tenson Graid showed a shred of emotion. His eyes bulged out, his veins popped, his teeth clattered.

“…murders?!”

He looked around, looked at Ban, then back at Renne.

“You aren’t thinking…”

“We sent samples from your stall to the ROPES lab. Our friends are checking them for nanomachines or other delayed activation nanoagents, Mr. Graid. You had a chance to use them to infect many of the Mona Lisa residents in the span of several years. A nice trick, but not that original. Did you steal it from Rosenmaester?”

Graid stood up, slammed his hands on the table.

“Come on! You can’t be serious! Nanomachines?! In my fruit?!”

He crunched his fist, gritted his teeth.

“Seriously, what would be my motivation? What have the Mona Lisa people done to me, except building their bloody complex where my company exploded?! That’s not even a crime!”

“Yes. So, why? Why have you done that?”

“I didn’t!”

Renne’s heart was pumping. It was just like in the movies. Just like the moment where the ace detective unmasks the evil criminal. Adrenaline flowed through her veins, sharpening her senses, making her almost grin from ear to ear. That must have been how Veckert felt, when zeroing on the truth. It was inebriating, intoxicating even. Renne couldn’t have enough of that feeling.

Now, though, it was time for the final blow.

A blow that Shu provided, in a last connection that was probably the winning card.

The key for a truth that might as well have been fake.

The missing element to close that case and go back to Vay.

A knockout punch, one that would have closed the door and opened a new gate of pain.

Renne pulled out another manila envelope. A single sheet of paper inside it. A transcription.

She started reading it, tapping her finger on a specific line.

“Mr. Graid… the zebra, the serial killer, mentioned a secret arrangement that the Mona Lisa people hid, one that scared Mr. Swans shitless. Now, let’s suppose, just as a hypothesis, that this… arrangement was connected with the explosion of your factory and would land anyone who was part of it in jail, if it were exposed.”

That adrenaline kick, again. While relaying Shu’s conclusions as her own, yes, but still a burst of satisfaction, of power, of being in total control. No matter the rage on Tenson Graid’s face. No matter his fierce denial. That was all or nothing.

“Yeah, let’s suppose that it was the real cause of your ruin, the cause of your father’s suicide, the cause of the death of ninety-three people. Wouldn’t that give you a great motivation for wanting all of the Mona Lisa residents dead?”

Tenson Graid didn’t answer. He just stood, silent, blinking at her in disbelief. Yet, before he could say anything, a creaking noise seeped in. The door opened, a ROPES agent walked through it with yet another envelope.

“Agent Schellenzeier, Dr. Tey’s team sent the results of the analysis on the samples.”

Renne nodded, kept the envelope in her hands. The truth. The last element of the puzzle. A long breath. A short breath. Then, she ripped the envelope open.

That case was as good as solved.

Or so she hoped.

A fascinating sense of self-destruction

Edgethorn Swans wolfed another apple. Green, shiny. The best of the best. Having them delivered by none other than Tenson Graid was so ironically satisfactory. Or was, at least, before everything went down the drain. Those apples were the symbol of Mona Lisa’s victory. The symbol of its existence. Victory of the interests of many against the interests of one.

A sweet story, the story of an incredible series of investments almost stopped by the selfish desires of an old man. Mikkel Graid, that idiot. Not seeing the future. Not seeing the vision. Now, Mikkel Graid was dead.

It was a shame that so many families lost a dear one, but what was the good of a hundred against the wellness of two thousand? A rounding error, that was what it was. Everyone was on board. Every single one of the first two hundred founders. They knew it. They knew what was needed to improve their net worth, to make their investment profitable.

Everything was set, except the bloody terrain. They bought it. They thought they bought it. Except, of course, there was a hindrance. A century-long lease to Mikkel Graid. Zebra Chemicals couldn’t be evicted. Zebra Chemicals was going to stay there until the end of the century. Fifty years were too long of a time to wait.

So, when that valve popped, it was as if karma gifted them the keys of heaven. A perfect finale, the prelude of something greater.

Mr. Swans’s teeth sunk into the apple’s pulp, bathed in its juices. Those green apples were exclusive for him. He paid extra for them. He paid extra so that Tenson Graid didn’t sell them to anybody else, forcing him to destroy all those Swans didn’t buy. That made him feel better. That made him feel even more in control.

So, why?

Why was everything slipping through his fingers?

Why couldn’t he silence them, silence the voices tormenting him?

Even now, in the eyemeras control room, watching over the apartment complex from its uncountable eyes, Mr. Swans couldn’t feel relieved. So many people up in arms. So many people running away. Emigrants. Refugees. Asylum seekers. Mona Lisa was at war, a war that was tanking its value, emptying it every hour more. Of the two thousand residents, barely one thousand three hundred remained.

Just as the zebra wanted.

Just as the zebra planned.

There, in that room that couldn’t be reached through the stairs, a room sealed by the elevators, Mr. Swans was safe, alone, in control.

So why?

Why did he feel so powerless?

His fingers danced on a small keyboard, one with an antenna peeking out of it. His safety net. His jewel. His final control stick. He caressed it, held onto it. His last thread of hope, the last thing he had power on, if at all.

A power to put him above his equals.

A power that not even the investment banks should have been granted… if he had any choice in the matter.

He gulped down another morsel of apple.

Soon it would be over. It would be definitely over. Things would go back as they were.

Yes, there was no reason to doubt it.

There was no reason to expect anything else.

Otherwise, the zebra would have come back.

Killed more people.

Made his life even more miserable.

Mr. Swans threw the apple core on the floor, smashed it with his designer shoe.

No, there were still too many people left.

The zebra was going to come back.

Exact its toll.

And bring a final end to that story.

Whether Swans wanted it or not.

Turning back and forth, lulled by failure

Renne slumped on her chair, gritted her teeth almost until feeling pain.

Nothing.

There was absolutely nothing inside the fruit and vegetables they sampled. No nanomachines, no nanoagents, no sentient seeds, no intelligent stalks.

Nothing.

Cleaner than Vay’s skin after a shower, scented like her apple-based shampoo. Her little green apple, Vay, the girl she bit and chewed like a delicious fruit, licking her delicate skin and kissing her all over it. Tenson Graid’s produce was as innocent as her.

So, back to square one it was—almost, at least. Because Graid was still suspicious, too suspicious. So many elements seemed to converge to him. The zebra, the number, the motivation. So, how? How come they didn’t have anything more than a logical conclusion, without any supporting proof? That goal, that absolute slam dunk had been a dud, leaving Renne stranded and aching.

“Take this, Renne. It helps.”

Ban’s clumsy hand brought her a bottle of soda, jingled it in front of her eyes. Renne groaned, pulled the bottle away from his wurst-sized fingers, took out the cap, shoved the neck of the bottle in her mouth. The fizzling carbonated taste of cola slid down her tongue, flowing down her digestive trait, as she guzzled her drink in seconds. She pulled the bottle out, breathed. Slowly. Savored the sugars. Slowly. Breathed. Groaned. Cried. Almost. Her fists were shaking. All of her body was. Nervous. Jolting. At the slightest touch. She looked at the wall clock. Seven in the evening. Way out of time. Maybe, she should have just clocked out and gone back to Vay. Yeah, that was the best idea. A tired mind was not going to help.

Still, thirteen more people…

No. There would be no more victims.

If Graid was the perpetrator, the murders would stop.

What if he weren’t, though?

She slumped again on her chair.

A usual ROP case needed maybe weeks of work to be cracked open, but most of the time didn’t threaten the livelihood of so many people. Twenty-six dead, thirteen going to die if nothing happened, if nothing stopped the zebra.

Maybe, she should have just given up. Maybe, begging Veckert to help would…

No, Veckert had bigger fish to fry. And EiN, her second in command, was not known for his acumen. That left only Vay—whom Renne was definitely not going to involve in such a dangerous case, Jean—not the smartest tool in the box, Chandra—or however the arsonist in her team was called, Ban, and Shu.

Oh, right.

Shu.

That mystery given flesh that was able to zero on Graid with so little information. Maybe, she could do that again, after waking up for her power nap. Yeah, Shu had simply collapsed on a cot, snoring like a mountain bear, and didn’t manage to wake up for the past hour. So, Renne and Ban started working again on the case without bothering her. A lot of work to do to find a new direction. Maybe, there was something else they’d missed. Another line of investigation. Another detail they didn’t focus enough on. For example, how did the zebra hijack the devices of so many people? That was a signpost of a ROP, right? An impossible feat, one that could not be achieved by any other means. But was it really like that? Could there be anything else behind?

A swarm of eyemeras flew over them again, without even deigning them of any attention. Renne snickered. If she started undressing in the middle of the road, would they have turned towards her immediately? A cursed thought from a cursed place that reeked of tar and festering pus. Eyemeras everywhere, destroying every little scrap of privacy visitors were supposed to have, peeping through the windows, capturing images they should have never had.

Eyemeras.

The personal eyes of…

Renne froze. Blinked.

“Did you know that every resident in this complex can access the eyemeras whenever they want? It’s like, huh, a closed private network of sorts that works only for their devices—or so I was told.”

Alina Crawford had said something like that, during their smoke break. Yes, it was after Renne complained about how they peeped at her while she was showering.

A private network.

Yes, a closed private network.

One that was not accessible from the outside world.

If that were true, each and every device that could access the eyemera feeds had to be connected to a centralized system, one that could fetch the footage. There had to be a dispatching central, somewhere, one that fed the camera pictures for consumption. But where? A building separate from the others? Buried deep underground? Or hidden somewhere inside an unassuming dark closet, at an unspecified floor of an unspecified condo?

Renne looked at the wall clock. Eight in the evening. That was how long they bashed their heads against the problem. The zebra was going live soon, if Graid weren’t involved… or set a dead man switch. That’s right, the zebra tapes might have been pre-recorded. There was no need for someone to be physically inside the eyemera room, right? Except she couldn’t imagine Mona Lisa’s administrators not checking who was where at what time. Whoever had access to the eyemera control center must have had special privileges, which reduced the number of potential suspects by a lot. Still, that didn’t make it easier.

Renne slumped on her chair. Nobody was going to talk. Nobody was going to help. It was a dead end, right? The zebra was going to come up again and…

“…may I get in?”

A voice. A voice she didn’t hear before. Renne and Ban turned around to the door of their cramped makeshift office, staring at the newcomer. A woman in her forties, with deep eye bags and reddened eyes. She stood shaking, in front of the entrance, biting her nails, breathing heavily. Renne recognized her, even if by chance.

The mother that pulled her child inside the flat, as they ascended the stairs of building four. Their eyes had met for just an instant, enough to transmit a deep disgust for the uninvited guests. Now, the same woman was standing in front of her, a ghostly wraith of what she had once been. Ban, though, didn’t seem to recognize her. It was just another face, for him. Just another stranger to deal with in the course of his strange job.

“We are pretty busy, Madam. Unless you have some urgent business…”

“I want to help you.”

Her teeth clattered, her muscles contracted.

“I want to help you catch the monster who killed my son!”

Long breathes. Shaking knees. More nail-biting. Sobs. Tears. That woman was barely keeping herself together, a castle of glass built on quicksand, aching to fall apart at the first touch. Renne sat down, looked again at the woman. What would it feel, to lose a child? What if Vay and she ever had one, only to lose them while still young? It wasn’t an absurd thought. Two women could get a functional zygote via basic gene splicing tech. The result was always a baby girl and there were limits to its application, so it wasn’t a surefire way to have a natural born child… but a possibility that existed. Now, what if they decided to bring a daughter to the world, watch her grow, love her from the bottom of their hearts… only for a ROP to snatch all that happiness away?

Crushed.

That would have utterly crushed them.

Renne felt something akin to empathy for that nameless woman that mourned her lost son. Now, all she could do was cry and hug a lifeless body. Renne’s soul cracked. Children were cruel. They could be absolute pests and behave worse than adults. They weren’t innocent. They weren’t flawless or spotless. Yet, there was something about cutting a life that wasn’t fully realized that made her stomach churn. Much like when Vay was selected for culling. Much like when Dr. Zojimbo told her that he was going to put that delicate, delusional, happy-go-lucky girl to sleep.

Forever.

Ban’s voice thundered gently, echoing with a deeply melancholic tone.

“Madam, I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do to help us. I’m sorry, but…”

He did his best to look at her, at her crumbling body, at her eyes on the verge of bursting into tears once again.

Renne cracked her fist.

“The arrangement.”

Air slithered through her teeth, her irises burned with a strange determination.

“What is ‘the arrangement’ the zebra mentioned? The one ‘all of you’ know about? What is it?!”

The woman gritted her teeth, snickered.

“…what happened in Mona Lisa stays in Mona Lisa. You wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s why I’m asking you!”

Renne inhaled. Exhaled. A gamble. It was a gamble. Nobody in Mona Lisa ever did as much as talking to her or Ban. Those who did, like Swans, never willfully provided any detail. So, it was now or never. Ride on the despair and get big, or go home to Veckert crying. Manipulation. Pure emotional manipulation. It was vile, maybe, it was horrifying. But, in front of ROPES, there was no horror. In front of thirteen more potential victims, there was no walking back.

The woman faltered, shocked by Renne’s roar. Her teeth clattered, her feet started sliding towards the door. A door that Ban closed shut, just by keeping his massive hand on it.

“Madam, you offered us your help. It’s not kind to run away after that, you know?”

The woman glanced at him, then at Renne, then again at him. She bit her lip. Breathed. Heavily. Her knees started shaking again, her hands trembled. She turned around, turned up, down, looked back at Ban, then at Renne.

“…I don’t want to pay for that.”

“Pay for what?”

Her eyes darted through the windows. The eyemeras were passing by, without focusing on her. She nodded towards them, almost imperceptibly. Renne got to the wall, pulled down the blinders, shielding the room from all unwanted peepers. The eyemeras couldn’t move fast enough. They just had to accept that a veil of darkness obscured their vision, stopping them from witnessing that exchange. In the dark, protected from the outside world, the woman kept shaking, looking at the floor, biting her fingernails. Her eyes were bloodshot, almost bulging out. Her hair unkempt and dried, as if its strand could snap at any time. Ban switched on the lights, stared at that wreck standing in front of him, trying to soothe her with his voice.

“Look, whatever you say, I promise we won’t use it against you… if it helps us stop the zebra.”

Renne wanted to interject, raising her arm. Yet, Ban stopped her with a glance, a stare weighing more than one thousand words.

The ROP has priority.

She gritted her teeth, crunched her fist. Yes, of course. Of course the ROP had priority, but… did that mean that they had to condone other crimes, because of that? How horrifying of a crime they were talking about, too? Was it simple embezzlement? O something deeper? As if to strengthen her doubts, the woman started talking again, with a broken voice tone, one that stuttered and staggered as the words came out.

“How can I trust…?”

“You have my word. I’ll sign you a document later, with Her Majesty’s seal on it too. You help us, we help you.”

“Even if…”

“Yes.”

Renne wanted to scream. Even if what? Why did Ban stop her? Why did he agree to…

“The ‘arrangement’.”

The woman started talking, all of a sudden. She slumped on chair, avoiding eye contact. Her voice lowered too.

“Yeah, the arrangement. It was something… something we decided together. All of us founders.”

A long breath. Deep. Still holding back her tears.

“The first two hundred of us, you know? We bought this property by pooling together all of our savings, but we were scammed by a bastard real estate agent—nobody told us about the Zebra Chemicals lease. We were planning to go for lawyers to claw back what was ours, but then… then one of us… had an idea.”

She turned her head slightly, her mouth deforming into a eerie grin.

“What if… what if that damn factory had a ‘small’ incident? One serious enough that it would be forced to close… forever?!”

A world of information, washed away by time

“I am. Profoundly. Disappointed.”

The zebra grinned, showing off its human teeth again. Its strange face beamed on the displays, glowing in the night. Same time as the two previous days, down to the second. A clockwork of digital noise, of distorted pictures.

“So many of you are still here. Way more than half. Don’t you have any shame?”

The voice, again, out of sync, making its deranged speech even more jarring.

“Or are you happy to be raffled to die? Are you so eager to rejoin your loved ones?”

Its hands clapped, causing a noise, a totally wrong noise, to play in the background. Much like two wooden tables clashing against each other.

“Let me tell you something: there is no afterlife. You’ll never meet them again. Your children… they are gone. As gone are the ninety-three lives you sacrificed. Only their residual information remains, permeating this reality layer until it’s overwritten one last time.”

Its arms spread, its eyes turning towards the camera.

“Strings of bytes, etched in concrete, hidden in dust. Atoms that recorded your interactions with the world around you, now the last bastion of what made you… well, you. That’s all what is left. For many of us… not even that. Deleted by time, washed away by newer interactions. Ghosts of undead existences lost to time.”

The zebra turned closer to the camera, grinned again.

“Isn’t it poetically tragic? In a world made of runaway information, you’ve done everything in your power to suppress the truth. Yet, the truth cannot be killed. It can be maimed, dismembered, torn apart, but never killed. So, here’s the truth. I’m the truth.”

Digital noise. The zebra head mixes with the background, comes back in one piece.

“I’m tired of playing games. If nobody tells it, I will. If nobody takes the fall, I’ll make you all fall. You know what you’ve done. You know why you deserved this.”

The zebra touched its chest, right over its heart, drew circles around it.

“You all signed for it, the moment you got a house, a flat, a space in this hell. So, now, all those of you who were too stubborn to leave… you will come with me.”

A short pause. The zebra grabs its shirt, rips it open, revealing a human torso.

And a grenade embedded in its chest, right where its heart should have been.

“All of us. All of those who remain. We will…”

Static.

The broadcast stops.

Screams. A roaring voice.

The message interrupted.

“…Cardia, New Scotland Yard! Hands behind your head!”

Chaos. Noises. The images shake, twist. The zebra appears again. Disappears once more.

For an instant, it overlaps with the figure of a red-haired woman, of a massive man, of a short girl with purple eyes.

Then, the image fades.

And the screen turns pitch black.

The filth festering behind the curtain

It was hard for Renne to believe her own eyes. That chain of events, the final step in reaching that moment—a blessing she didn’t know she could ask for. Now, the truth was standing in front of her, in the control room of the eyemeras, deep inside the corpse of building four.

In front of hundreds of displays, all showing a zebra. All watching them.

It all made sense, now. Almost. The how. The how was now clear. A terrifying ‘agreement’, one that made her skin crawl.

“When we decided to go for it, to pay one middle manager to sabotage the factory machines in exchange of some equity and a flat in Mona Lisa, we knew we couldn’t go back. So, we took it to the logical consequence—an oath of blood.”

The words of the woman were etched in her soul, forcing her to double guess herself. How could a bunch of people go to such extreme length for money? How could they bring their loved ones into it willingly? No, Renne couldn’t get it. She couldn’t accept it.

“Nobody of us could walk away from it, not after the ‘small incident’ turned into a full blown disaster. More than ninety people dead, all because of a defective valve. Some of us wanted to confess, right? Who would live with such a burden? But that’s what the genius move was.”

She had ripped open her blouse, pointed at now bare chest.

“We all agreed to have a small bomb installed, close to our heart. If we pulled out, if we spilled the beans, the bank could detonate it. Yeah, we had a bank backing us, won’t tell you which. They have the activation codes, for all of us. The only ones who have them. Our mutually assured destruction net.”

Except they were leaked. Shu found evidence of it. Scattered on the web. Names. Codes. What for, nobody knew. Now, it was clear.

Private devices. Connected to the eyemera networks. Devices that could be switched on remotely by the eyemera control center. Devices which knew who was watching them thanks to biometric gates. Devices that belonged to Mona Lisa residents, developed just for them.

It was no coincidence. It was nothing supernatural. No distortion phenomenon.

It was simple as taking over the eyemera network and use it to broadcast a signal.

The zebra videos. One by one. Night by night.

“So, you see, each of the founders and their family members were implanted these bio-bombs—our kids included, right after they were born. The risks were too high and we didn’t want anyone to snitch. If someone, anyone went public with it, the others could ask the bank to make the traitor or their children go boom. You play fair, nothing happens. You suddenly develop a conscience? You pay for it. We felt safe, in a way.”

“Safe?!”

Renne had almost spat at her, almost clawed at her like a feral beast.

“How can you feel safe when your kid has a bomb installed close to his heart?!”

“It was either that or being exposed as mass murderers and spend the rest of our life in jail! Almost a hundred dead, because of a stupid mistake! Say, what’s best?! Living with a gun pointed at your head that you can easily forget about or not even having a chance at enjoying life?!”

Stupid. Egotistical. Bitch. She lost her child and all she could think of was her lifestyle. That revenge she wanted to get… was it really for her kid? Or was it because she felt like someone stole something that belonged to her? Renne had gritted her teeth, almost understood the zebra. Almost. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t the biggest evil in the room. There was a slimy rotten undergrowth in Mona Lisa, one that smelled of putrefying carcasses and tasted like bile. Still, even that undergrowth had been useful, for better or worse. It was how they found the room. The last piece of the puzzle, now falling in place.

Reachable only via elevators, by Mona Lisa people, for Mona Lisa people. The woman had opened the way for them, opening the concealed sliding door to make them reach floor two point five. That’s where the control center lay.

No emergency exits. No alternative way in or out. A safety hazard, a nightmare for every inspection official. Still, there it was, waiting for them to break in.

“Find that bastard. Kill them for me. Make them pay!”

Renne saw Ban’s arms coiling back, suddenly expanding, smashing through the closed door as if it were butter. The plastic, the metal, all burst together as soon as Ban’s fist smashed through it. They needed a fingerprint to get in. They needed it from one of the administrators. Still, contacting Swans would have required too much time.

So, Ban went full speed ahead.

As soon as he heard the voice coming from inside.

As soon as he heard the zebra.

They didn’t know what to expect, true. They just wanted to check the room, check the logs, let Shu play with the files. Maybe, just maybe, a list of accesses would have come out. A list of all people tampering with it. A list of all people getting inside the room close to when the zebra broadcast. Even if the videos were recorded, there was no way everything was automated. The draw. The codes. The eyemera targets. No, someone had to be in control. Someone had to drive it. But who? Why?

Well, the logs would have told the truth. No way all of them could be tampered with—not in a place as paranoid as Mona Lisa. Whoever accessed the room during the incidents had to be connected with the zebra. Whoever watched those feeds held the key.

Now, that whoever lay in front of their eyes, staring back at them with an undecipherable otherworldly gaze. His mouth fell agape, his jaw hanging down, his face painted with a strange mix of relief, surprise and horror. In front of them stood the last person they expected to find in front of those displays.

In front of them stood

Edgethorn Swans.

Watched by dozens of zebra simulacrums.

Eyeing him from every display.

The screens as their flesh.

A multitude.

Which turned into one.

Ea rs.

Head.

Head.

Arm. Chest. Arm.

Hand. Chest. Hand.

Hips.

A puzzle-like picture that drew the puppeteer and the puppet. Drenched in digital noise. Marred by static buzz. Yet, clear to see. A cross-shaped pose for the zebra, with a bulging, beating grenade as its heart. Right behind Swans.

Right behind his trembling body.

His shaking bones.

His sweating forehead.

Right in front of Ban’s gun, of Renne’s gun. Their barrels aimed at the ‘man’, didn’t let him out of their sights. A ‘man’. Something that wore its skin, maybe. Or, maybe, just a person, a single person, gone rogue. A green apple rested in ‘his’ hand, a juicy green apple bitten and ripped apart. Swans’s hand was unsteady. He stood uneasy on his legs, blinking slowly at the weapons pointed at him.

“I said ‘hands behind your head’, Swans!”

Ban’s voice thundered, shaking Renne to her core. You don’t mess with a guy with arms capable of smashing through concrete. Not when he’s in grabbing range and pointing a gun at you. Swans looked at him dumbfounded, for several long instants, before twitching back, pushing his back against the displays.

Renne noticed it, felt it. A delay.

It was as if Swans didn’t react immediately. As if his nerves, his whole brain were taking an uncanny amount of time to process the outside information. Not enough to be a hindrance, but enough to be noticeable… and unnatural. The monitors behind him played ominous, low volume droning sounds, focusing on the crucified zebra man that made up the puzzle of screens. Each image was slightly out of sync, slightly too early, slightly too late. In the darkness of the control room, the screens were the only lights bathing it, in a white and black nightmare of stripes and twisting figures.

“…F… finally! P… please! Help me! Help me!”

Swans curled, shrieked, bit the apple, sank his teeth into the pulp, ripped it off with a mechanical gesture. He threw the core to the floor, blinked, gasped.

“…there are still… too many! If… if I stop now… the zebra… the zebra…”

He jolted, shivered. His head turned around slowly, towards the screen. Just for a second. An instant. Then, jerked back, gasping. His hand slithered on the keyboard, his hand slid on the buttons.

Renne looked without getting it, watched without understanding.

Of all people.

Edgethorn Swans.

The only person that didn’t have a motive, that didn’t have a reason.

So.

Why?

The how was now clear, crystal clear. Swans connected to the eyemeras using the control center in building four. Sent the zebra video only to devices held by Mona Lisa residents—which was how only one of their tablets was affected and not both. He drew lots. Activated the bombs with a remote and the right codes, parts of a leak that Shu tracked. Then, repeated it twice. Except, it didn’t make sense. Swans had no interest in destroying Mona Lisa. He fought for Mona Lisa. Unless… unless…

The zebra pictures flashed again. Swans held his head in his hands, crumpled on his knees, gritted his teeth.

“M… make them stop, please! Make them stop!”

He crawled to Ban’s foot, almost in tears. The crucified zebra man followed him with its inscrutable gaze, never stopping tracking him even for a second.

Renne gasped, bit her lips. Her hands closed around the handle of her gun, trembling. Edgethorn Swans was begging, breaking down in front of them, every second faster.

“They won’t… they still talk! They still talk! Why? Why do they still talk? They’re dead! They’re…”

The monitors flickered, switched off, switched on again. Shu’s eyes flickered too. She closed them, gritted her teeth, covered her ears, curled in a corner. Only then Renne noticed.

Ban.

Ban’s gun was trained on Swans’s head. His finger was hovering on the trigger. Shu had extrapolated one possible future.

“If Mona Lisa… if nobody tells the secret… but it can’t be me! I can’t! I can’t! I don’t want to pay for it! And… and I don’t want to die! But if I talk, if I go to jail, the zebra will chase me and… and…”

A certainty. One that covered the whole possibility space. One that had almost no chance of not happening.

Reality Oscillation Phenomena are a disease. A plague that everts the world around them.

They couldn’t let them spread.

They couldn’t let that happen.

That was all Michio taught them.

That was what Veckert said.

And that meant.

That Ban

had no choice

but to

pull

the

trigger.

A deafening noise. Blood on the displays. Splattered all over the sleek plastic. Dripping down from them, like macabre rain drops.

In that instant, all of them turned, all of the zebras.

Applauding all together, completely out of sync.

Looking back at Ban.

Looking back at Renne.

Switching off.

One by one.

Until just the last.

Remained.

And smirked.

With its perfectly gruesome human teeth.

“The curtain calls. Goodnight. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Before switching off completely too.

Leaving the room in the dark.

Silence was holding the reins once more.

Never letting go of them again.

All while the night, the darkest night.

Finally started to fall on Mona Lisa.

Coda

Veckert gulped down another sip of coffee, grumbling on the news. Mona Lisa stripped naked, it titled. Just like The Clover, alright. Why she still read that bunch of badly stapled toilet paper sold as a reputable magazine, she couldn’t say. Maybe habit. Humans were not known to be rational beings.

“So, there was a ROP.”

“Can’t really say, Veck.”

In front of her, Ban Cardia, sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. Alone in the room with his boss. Veckert was a short woman with rapunzelian azure hair—natural, not dyed, emerald eyes and one too many scars on her neck. Her chainsmoker voice felt even more unpleasant to Ban, that morning, but not by that much. Still, the boss was the boss, especially when she had tons of papers piled on her desk that needed processing. So, Ban decided to cut the chase short and address her point immediately.

“It didn’t really look like a ROP, not like the others I’ve seen. Nothing that couldn’t be explained with tech: no probability altering stuff, no paradoxes, no nada. It was weird, yes, and unpleasant, but I’m not sure it was a ROP. Shu’s of the same opinion.”

Veckert sipped yet another bit of coffee, rested her cheek on her hand.

“So, this Swans… he didn’t have a bomb attached to his heart?”

“Nope, he didn’t. At least, this is what Dr. Crawford wrote in her report. She found evidence that he had it removed in secret two or three years ago. So, he couldn’t kill himself using the codes—even if he wanted. He was too scared of committing suicide too. Never seen anyone cling so much to his life, Veck.”

“Huh-uh.”

The scandal was now in the open. The Zebra Chemicals sabotage. The lie Mona Lisa had been built on. Twenty-six dead. Thirteen of which children. All because of the greed of two hundred people. Now Mona Lisa was falling apart. The founders were being arrested. The inquiry reopened. Surprisingly, Tenson Graid didn’t jump on the bandwagon. He simply deflected any attempt at reaching out, remaining in his dark corner, watching from afar. The confession of that woman who lost her kid was used to convict anyone but her… for how much it helped, that is. The press was already singling her out, pressing on her. She didn’t strike a good deal. Yard was not using the truth against her, but the truth had more ways than one to hurt her back.

Truth.

Veckert’s guiding principle.

In front of that, no sacrifice was too big.

Not even allying with her worst enemy, if it led to saving people. Her hand moved back to the report, to the signature at the bottom of it.

“How was Schellenzeier?”

Ban shrugged.

“Not the sharpest tool in the box, but she did a very good job. Thinking hard is not really her forte, but she’s very determined and has good intuition. I wouldn’t be surprised if she caught wind of Shu’s…”

Veckert raised her index in front of her lips, causing Ban to nod.

“Yeah, right. Michio’s rule.”

You don’t talk about ROPES. You just make it easier for them to become harmful, if you do. You help them spread, like the disease they are. But some ROPES? Some can be useful, when kept under enough control. An analytical supercomputing engine in superposition with a human girl fit that description. Not neutralized, contained. Not safe, but under control. An asset for cases that required churning a lot of data. A liability for everything else. High maintenance model, with a caloric consumption the size of a power plant and not always that precise. The Graid connection, the code leak… she had done her job well, at least. And, even if she didn’t, Shu was the reason why Ban joined Yard. The reason why he put his life on the line. Veckert never questioned his resolve, never questioned Michio’s judgment. If he let Shu live, there had to be a reason. Maybe, with time, she would have understood the sense of that choice too. She groaned, slumped back on her chair. The preparations for dealing with her problem, an problem involving flowers—again—were well underway. Involving Ban and Shu in it would have been dangerous. So, using them to deal with all other cases felt like the safest option. Lazily, she stretched a little, turned back towards the window. Somewhere out there, the Mona Lisa buildings were crumbling under the weight of their secret.

The truth had broken free again.

Destroying the lives of two thousand people.

Who built their riches on the death of almost a hundred innocent victims.

A whisper escaped her lips, mixing with the coffee in her mug, never reaching Ban’s ears.

“Yeah, it was worth it.”

She savored what was left of her coffee, turned back to the staples of files littering her desk. The chaos that governed it was worse than the status of her sentimental life—with or without Dr. Crawford involved. That had been just a blip on her radar, one that she regretted every day more.

Still, she had no time to linger in depressive feelings.

Work to do, ROPES to catch.

That was her life, after all.

One case more wasn’t going to change it.

**

“Ms. Schellenzeier, right?”

“Yeah.”

Renne nodded, sat on the bench. Police agents were swarming the Mona Lisa buildings, together with flocks of journalists and TV troupes. Only building four was off limits, because of the ROP—the zebra. Presumed ROP. No evidence of it. Nothing that really made it stand out. So, Renne had started to think, think again, think hard. Focus on the stupidest details she could stop on. The easiest clues that everyone else missed. So, she had to talk to him again, to Tenson Graid, after stopping by Alina Crawford one more time. Now, the greengrocer was sitting close to her, with his motorized stall parked shortly behind them. He waited for Renne to talk, while watching the chaos unfold, watch the rotting corpse of Mona Lisa crumble on itself. Seconds passed. Even a minute. Until Renne, finally, opened her mouth again.

“You’ve been spiking your green apples with hallucinogenics.”

Tenson Graid didn’t answer. He simply kept looking at the scenery. A slip of paper slid under his nose.

“Dr. Crawford analyzed the fruit we retrieved from Mr. Swans’s flat. All of the green apples, all of them, were laced with heavy drugs, with an absurdly high concentration. According to my sources, he was the only one buying them from you. He had exclusive rights on them and forced you to burn all those he didn’t buy.”

Again, Tenson Graid didn’t answer. If anything, a tired smile opened on his face, all while the Mona Lisa complex broke down even more under its own weight. Renne shrugged, pulled the paper away.

“Normally, I’d have you trialed for drug possession and drug dealing… but we didn’t find any traces of chemicals in your house. That doesn’t mean you didn’t prepare it somewhere else. I bet Shu would find it, if I gave her enough roasted chicken. So, Mr. Graid…”

She turned towards him, looked at him deep in the eyes.

“When did you start? Was it your plan all along? Or just something that… developed on its own, in a way?”

Graid rested on the bench, with a serene expression drawn on his tired face. Again, not a word. Just a peaceful gaze. Renne started talking one more time, answering her own question.

“Maybe, the drugs were just the kickstarter. Swans’s repressed guilt and the zebra logo of your factory did the rest. He became convinced he was seeing dead people and, in his delusional trance, he became the zebra. Ironic, right? He wanted to save Mona Lisa, but was forced to destroy it by his own fractured psyche. He must have built the zebra avatar himself, using some cheap program. The rest was window dressing, a theatrical piece. Everyone can program that creepy out of sync effect, right? Still, he probably didn’t expect the ROPES team to get involved… or maybe he did. Maybe, he did everything to be exposed, to make his pain go away. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t help him either. You simply watched and fed his delusions.”

Tenson Graid stood up without a word, reached for his motorized stall. He smiled back at Renne, while adjusting a faded zebra sticker on the chassis, caressing it slowly until it stuck to it perfectly again. Then, finally, he said his first words.

“I’m ready to pay, if there’s anything to pay. I may have armed a gun. He pulled the trigger.”

“And killed twenty-six people.”

“More. Ninety-three more.”

Renne kept looking at him, in the first rays of the sunset. She shrugged, slumped back on the bench.

“Well, I ain’t gonna say anything. I paid the old hag enough that she’ll shut up too—she’d sell her daughter for money, I tell you.”

“Shouldn’t you do the right thing, Ms. Schellenzeier?”

“The right thing, huh? What is the right thing, Mr. Graid? Helping a bunch of capitalist killers enjoy their stress-free life after murdering one hundred people… or pardoning a minor drug dealing offense? Besides…”

She ripped the piece of paper to shreds, throwing confetti in the wind.

“…I don’t have evidence. Just hypotheses. For all I know, it was a ROP. A very weird and unorthodox zebra-shaped ROP. My first solved ROP case.”

Renne smirked at him, snapped her fingers.

“When it comes to ROPES, there’s never a real resolution, Mr. Graid. There is no easy way out. That’s why they are so interesting. The truth is that there is no truth…”

She glanced back at the sunset, grinning at the orange ball of fire in the sky.

“…just an endless array of possibilities.”

Tenson Graid didn’t answer, once again. He simply tipped his hat and went back to his stall. Then, he turned on the engine and floored the throttle. The smell of burned gasoline burst through the air, assaulting Renne’s nostril.

Gracing Mona Lisa’s decaying corpse one last time.

Never to come back again.