One minute forty seconds.
I stride down the alley without any further fear of interference. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to be able to send threatening scum scurrying away like frightened rats, especially when they deserve it.
One minute thirty seconds.
There are no police in Megaris. You would think that would make it a criminal hellscape, and you’d be right, but there are options for those who seek justice. Like Gettem, the company with the law enforcement contract for all Megaris. I’m an admin there, which doesn’t sound exciting, and isn’t, except for when I get to brush shoulders with some of the most dangerous, wild, and outright feral bounty hunters on the planet. And I get to see him. My crush. My unrequited love. Rath K’zar.
One minute.
Rath is my idea of the perfect man, except he’s not a man. He’s a korabi. All hunters are korabi. All the criminals they hunt are human. You can draw inferences from that if you want, but I’m not one to get political. It doesn’t pay to go around noticing things and then saying them out loud. You know what you’re supposed to think. The truth is pumped into all your devices on a daily basis, so you are not burdened with the effort of thinking.
43 seconds.
Rath is objectively better than any human male could ever be. I know that because the authority tells us so. Rath is tall, dark, handsome, a deep purple-blue, with a body trammeled with the finest augmented enhancements, which further magnify his massive natural powers.
27 seconds.
You don’t look Rath in the eye. That’s because Rath’s eyes are possibly the most intimidating parts of him, which is saying a lot given he has razor-sharp extendable ridges on his arms from a scythkin originated augment.
9 seconds.
I can’t stop thinking about Rath. This is what I do. I work, and I think about Rath. I finish work, and then I think about Rath. Sometimes I sleep. Then I dream about Rath. You could say I’m obsessed. I’d like to say that I’m very invested in my work. Rath is my work.
1 second.
I am signed in automatically as I walk through the great doors of Gettem. I breathe a sigh of relief as I clock the time. 8.59.59. I made it with one second to spare.
“Lyric. You’re late.”
“If I were late, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” I say to Agnes, who has welcomed me with her usual dearth of charm.
As two elites, Agnes and I look basically the same. All elites wear a uniform. Unlike old uniforms, which only consisted of clothing, our uniform is skin deep, provided by the augs, which we never, ever remove. We could, I suppose, if we wanted to, but why would we want to? Augs ensure we see precisely what we’re supposed to see and exactly what we want to see.
When Agnes and I look in a mirror, we see the same thing. Caramel-skinned women with frosted yellow hair swept up into a teal blue cap marked with a sunshine yellow ‘G.’ We have blue eyes which very nearly match our uniforms. We are both 5 feet 6 inches tall, and we both hover around 120 pounds no matter what we eat. The augs ensure that we never age. We are perpetually twenty-four years of age. Taut and toned and pretty forever. It is a sweet deal, eternal youth in return for compliance, obedience, and service.
“You know…” Agnes starts to say something, but she’s abruptly put on hold. Instead of her voice coming out of her mouth, the augs start broadcasting an advertisement. “You should really buy Rotter’s paste for teeth. Rotters is the only answer when it comes to pristine gnashers! Praise King Krush in all his wisdom, and remember to file your bux return for a rebate on all purchases this work period.”
I wait until she’s finished. Sometimes the advertisements and announcements can go on for a really long time. You’re not allowed to walk away in the middle of them either. That’s considered incredibly rude and grounds for removal.
She shakes her head as the announcements fade and looks at me as though she wishes she could apologize for the sudden blather. We both know that can’t happen. Our mouths are in service to the authority. Praise King Krush, and all hail our alien overlords.
“Hail our alien overlords,” I murmur.
“Praise Krush,” she replies. We are nothing if not polite.
Then she tells me what I need to know.
“Rath K’zar has gone and dragged a bounty into your office,” she announces, more irritated than she should be. The hunters are worshipped here. They are the backbone of the company. Without them, we are nothing.
“Rath’s waiting? For me?” My heart skips a beat.
“You have his processing key,” she says. “I would have processed it, but he insists upon you.”