Writing As We Go, Chapter 17

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Writing As We Go, Chapter 17

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Sat Sep 24, 2022 11:15 am

Sierra Birch stared at the screen in front of her, resisting the urge to let her optical receptors focus on any one pixel just to alleviate what a human might've referred to as mind-numbing boredom. She was still filing the incident reports from Lexi's actions inside the Dyson Institute's Billings facility, wondering just how the psychotic gynoid had evaded capture for so long already. Just the past week had seen a number of incidents, many of which were falling neatly into place in the timeline of Lexi's activities since her activation. Photos of said “activities” (now updated to include the dismembered body of Thea's robotic form, and Kari as she'd been left in the security office) raised the question, yet again, of who could possibly think that breaking a gynoid's mind so thoroughly and using her as a weapon might be anything other than a very bad idea.

Two knocks on the door frame drew Sierra out of her morbid reverie. “Yeah?”

“Didn't think anyone else was still here this late.” Celia Faulkner nodded at the empty workstations dotting the room's perimeter. “Everything okay?”

“It will be,” Sierra replied, “once we get this Lexi case over with.”

“Lexi?”

“The one who trashed Pariello's house,” Sierra clarified. “And who—well, just see for yourself.” She gestured for Celia to join her at the terminal. “As of this moment, Bobby Pariello is in intensive care and can't be moved—the official word from the top, in case anyone asks.”

Celia read over the incident report. “How'd we get a name on the perp?”

“She got into the comm systems of the Dyson Institute's Billings branch, and somehow called Elaine directly,” Sierra replied. “Don't ask me why she did it, or how, because I have no idea.” She nodded at the pictures of a ruined firearm discovered near the entrance of the facility. “She apparently had that stored in her leg,” she continued. “Every part that'd normally be metal is carbon-fibre, and the rest is high-impact plastic. The Forensics team is still analysing the bullets from the spare clips.” She moved to the next set of images. “Wore that—” She gestured to the photo of the almost-featureless mask Lexi had been wearing when the power to the conversion chamber had been cut. “—with the intention of taking an axe to Pariello's stomach.”

“Yeesh.” Celia cringed.

“Detective Logan handled the legwork on getting Pariello a lifetime contract with the Institute.” Sierra forwarded the images to the next set. “She gets therapy, counselling and anything else needed to help her reintegrate into society.”

“And 'she' is?”

“Bobbi. Formerly a floor model, until Lexi got the 'hilarious' idea—her words—to do a Dyson transfer on Pariello.”

Celia glanced at the photos of Bobbi, the first few showing the deactivated floor model. “I'm guessing she hasn't taken it well,” she murmured; the next photo in the queue, as if to answer her question, depicted the nearly-hysterical Bobbi on one of the two couches in the conversion chamber.

“It's not even about the gender switch.” Sierra moved another photo set to the forefront. “She kept screaming about how she's 'just a thing', now, all that stuff. Apparently, Pariello really bought into all the bullshit from the talking heads at Herring about how 'robots are not, cannot be and will never be people'.” She rolled her eyes at the notion. “I've been informed by Detec—Tommy that the Institute will keep any of the Herring Media vultures at arm's length if they go looking for a scoop.”

“Good call. Is there anything else we can do for Bobbi?”

“Dunno.” Sierra leaned back in her chair, her eyes closing with the faintest whirr. “The counselling and therapy will help, hopefully, but apart from that...” She shrugged. “I just have no idea.”

Celia was still going through the photos of what had happened at the Dyson Institute facility. “Any leads?”

“On what?”

“On where she went after she left.” Celia closed the last photo set. “She has to have some place to hide,” she reasoned, “in-between going on these rampages of hers.”

Sierra groaned, in lieu of an actual reply.

Celia merely shrugged. “So we're sure she's doing this because she wants to?”

“There's a nice little mountain of documentation we've found that says she was specifically engineered to be a weapon,” Sierra replied, rolling over to plant her face in the backrest of the chair. “Which makes this even worse than if she was malfunctioning or hacked.” She raised her head for a moment, only to face-plant into the backrest again. “It's all she's ever known, and all she was meant to know.”

“So we don't pack her up and ship her to Rehab when we catch her,” Celia murmured.

“We catch her,” Sierra replied, “we scrap her. Simple as that.” She turned over again in the chair. “She was loaded for battle even when she got into HQ—I still don't know how she pulled that one off.”
-----
With another borrowed face, another stolen set of clothes and a serious urge to indulge in her preferred extracurriculars, Lexi tried not to look too noticeable as she watched the city employees setting up the staging area for the Christmas parade that'd be going on the following afternoon. Almost all of them were human, with a few being augmented in some way. A 'bot—sentient, because of course—was going over safety checks off in the distance.

Multiple scenarios were playing out in Lexi's twisted digital mind, all of them ending with burning parade floats, screaming crowds and her amidst the carnage, shrieking with laughter. That would be a hilarious way to close it out...

...but the job, as boring as it was, came first.

Lloyd Watson—a quick public records search had turned up the meat's name—was the first on her list. If he was at the parade, she'd have to wait, ambush him in private, and follow-through however she saw fit. If he was in the parade, a subtle approach was even more necessary. She could, of course, take him down during the parade—pop off a quick shot from a rooftop, then duck out of sight and run like Hell—but the window of escape for such a feat would be slim. Even a 'bot as spec-built for wet-work as she was would have a tough time getting clear of the scene before her position was triangulated and subsequently surrounded.

No, this would have to be done quietly. Carefully. This would take finesse.

Ignoring the sparking, jittering remains of her latest NonSen victim, currently in the process of falling further into the gaping maw of a grease-trap, Lexi beat a hasty retreat. She had a day to plan for, escape routes to calculate and a few other errands to run. Before any of that, of course, there was the small matter of finishing up her impromptu round of cat-and-mouse with the drunks who'd been leering at her—and following her, not that they knew that she knew—for the last half-hour. They'd probably expected an easy mark, and more besides.

Stringing them along had been fun, and would be fun right up to the end.

Lexi couldn't help but sneer. Sometimes, it was just too easy to indulge on a job like this.
-----
“Thanks for the tip, Lieutenant.” Sierra ended the call, once again glad that she lacked the capability to feel anything like a migraine. “Forensics just got finished going over that truck they found shot-up on the side of the road earlier today,” she informed Celia. “From what they can tell, whoever left it there used a 4-gauge.”

“Pretty sure that's not exactly street-legal for hunting.”

“It's not street-legal for anything. That's what you fire to bring down enemy aircraft, not to hunt game.” Sierra rolled her chair over to the next terminal, quickly keying in a few words. “And it narrows down our search radius by a pretty wide margin,” she continued. “Can't exactly walk into a sporting goods store, cough up the cash and ask for that calibre around here, after all.”

Celia nodded. “But it is man-portable?”

“KS-23s fire it,” Sierra replied. “Shotguns, popular with Russian riot control officers. How one got to Billings, I have no clue.” She scanned through a series of listings on the nearby monitor. “And of course, no permits or requests to register one, which is fantastic for us.” Her fingers almost seemed to dance across the keyboard—a stark contrast to her utterly frustrated grimace. “Trashed NonSens, wrecked cars...” Her brow furrowed as she read the rapidly-appearing text on the screen. “People in hospital or slabbed up at the morgue—and one gynoid did all of this.”

“Maybe we should ask for some help,” Celia offered. “Get a few Agents from out-of-state.”

“That's like flying a banner reading 'Killer Gynoid In Billings' over the town,” Sierra countered. “Lexi gets free advertising, and we 'get' to chase every shadow and follow every bum lead called in.”

“I can get the outreach group at—”

“I appreciate the thought, but a bunch of civilians trying to stop a 'bot like Lexi is only going to end badly.” Sierra didn't look away from the monitors as she continued: “Unless one of them happens to own a tank.”

“Seeing as how it's a church group,” Celia replied, “I'd have to say that's a hard 'no'.”

Sierra's only reply was to groan, burying her face in her folded arms.

“I'm pretty sure we won't have to mobilize an entire armoured division to track down one gynoid,” Celia mused.

A muffled reply that might've been “I hope not” issued from where the other Officer's face was still ensconced in her arms. The groan that followed it was far less coherent.

Celia patted Sierra on the back. “It won't come to that,” she reiterated. “Besides, her info is up on the SIGN-posts and such right now, so if she does try to pull something stupid, we'll be all over it.”

After a moment, Sierra sighed, sitting back up. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem.” Celia grinned. “Oh, nearly forgot: you're going to the Christmas parade later on, right?”

Sierra frowned. “That's today?”

“It is. It'll be nice to watch the floats, just unwind for a bit.”

Sierra nearly responded by saying that they could also watch for any sign of the ever-elusive perp, but didn't give voice to the suggestion. “It would be nice to take a break,” she admitted. “Especially from all of this Lexi stuff.” With a few swift keystrokes, she set the terminals to Secure mode. “Once my shift is done, I'll meet you there.”
-----
The day had gone by relatively quietly for most of Billings.

For the residents of Harry Morgan's ranch complex, letting the day go by quietly wasn't exactly an option.

Lloyd and Diana had both been asked to practice their routines, one last time, before heading to the staging area where the parade floats were being prepped. Thus, Lloyd found himself donning the wig and gold lamé suit once again, doing his best hip-shakes and “uh-huh-huh”s before the mirror; Diana, meanwhile, had retrieved her own attire for the parade, going over her routine behind the closed door of the room that was on the rather speedy path to becoming her own.

Outside, the NonSens were engaged in a marching drill—not so much to “practice”, but to ensure that their motions and timing were suitably mechanical. None were out of step with each other; all moved with the stiff, jerky motions of wind-up toys upscaled to human size that one would expect. The drum harnesses were all checked and re-checked; those with other instruments wouldn't be “playing” them so much as miming to the music, but it didn't hurt to run a few tests and make sure they looked like they were all playing the same tune.

From his position at the front door, Harry watched as Erin “conducted”, leading them on a practice march around the property. He flashed Erin a thumbs-up, which she reciprocated; as he turned to head back inside, the glint of the sun on an approaching truck's windscreen caught his attention. Sure enough, one was heading up the drive to the gate.

“Ah, Erin, might want to give 'em a break,” he called out, “make sure they're all topped up for when we get to the parade grounds.” He jogged over to the gate, catching Erin's shouted “Got it” as he went; the truck had slowed to a stop, with the doors opening to reveal Abe Weissman and two CAEDIA Officers. “I'm hoping this isn't about not having a permit to hold parade drills on my property,” he began.

Abe rolled his eyes. “They're with me.” One of the Officers nearly spoke up, but Abe continued: “Just left from Sparx, the one that used to be Lee-Ray's—you know the place, right?”

“I know.” Harry grimaced; his memory of some of the fights at the former incarnation of the club were all too clear.

“They just got finished handling things out there,” Abe explained. “Found three locals—all with rap sheets—done up like trussed turkeys in a window.” He scowled as one of the Officers handed Harry a folder. “Just came from town after a noise complaint, I forget which restaurant. Said they heard somethin' bangin' around in the grease-trap out back.”

“A NonSen,” the female Officer of the pair clarified. “Her clothing and skin had been removed.”

Harry did his best to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “And?”

“The restaurant,” the male Officer stated, “was within sight of the staging area for today's Christmas parade.”

“I'd say it's a good idea to get there ahead of schedule,” Abe advised, “set up early, make sure everything's locked down for the route before it all starts. At least, that's the idea I got from them.” He glanced at the Officers; “Pretty sure that's what they were here to suggest,” he added. “Just get all the 'bots loaded up and ready to go, haul 'em to the site—”

“I'll have to tell Lloyd and Diana,” Harry cut in. “They're practising for their parts in the parade right now.”

Abe lowered his sunglasses. “They're in the parade?”

“Diana's singing a few tunes,” Harry explained, “a version of 'All I Want For Christmas', and maybe one or two more.”

“And Lloyd?”

At this, Harry grinned. “An Elvis medley. Costume, wig, the moves...I even got a parade license from Graceland.”

“Nice.” Abe clapped him on the back. “Pretty sure that'll be a nice break from that one song...the one about the shoes.”

Harry groaned. “Oh, that damn thing—heard it on the radio yesterday, on the way to the parade planners' dinner—”

One of the CAEDIA Officers gave a light cough, prompting Harry to get back on-topic. “Anyway. I'll go tell Lloyd and Diana about the new arrangements—leaving early, all that stuff.” He gestured for Abe to follow; “Now, when you say 'trussed up like turkeys',” he muttered, “were they, ah—”

“Still in one piece,” Abe clarified. “Upside-down, but still in one piece.”

From upstairs, the duelling strains of a twee Christmas song and “Santa Claus is Back in Town” reverberated, as if trying to cancel each other out. “The joys of isolated living,” Harry quipped, shaking his head as he turned to head upstairs.

“It's usually not as loud, y'know.” Abe hadn't noticed Erin walk up behind him. “They're both in the parade—”

“Harry told me.” Abe nodded. “And you?”

“I'll be doing what I do best,” Erin replied. “Working behind the scenes, making sure everything runs smoothly.”
-----
“Three more seconds. Just three, and I'd have had enough time.”

Anyone else in Lexi's position wouldn't have been fuming while trying to hide. Of course, she had good reason for doing both: the drunks who'd been tailing her in the wee hours of the morning were, in fact, still alive—granted, they'd only seen her in a borrowed face and clothes, both of which had long since been discarded. Nevertheless, it galled her to leave a job unfinished. They'd been bound, gagged and suspended upside-down for a reason, after all.

There was also the small matter of her face—her actual face, at that—appearing on all of those damn SIGN-posts that were situated around Billings. She could still face-jack NonSens, of course, but that'd only work for so long.

Another matter—much larger, and much more pressing—was that of the solid state drive. Its retrieval was, after all, her primary objective; more than silencing witnesses, more than eliminating anyone who knew of it, getting the SSD back was why she'd been reactivated. Any other operative working for her employer would've put that front and center.

There were, of course, reasons why Lexi hadn't done precisely that.

“He'd never understand,” she mused, checking her reflection in the mirror and blowing it a kiss. “Zina wouldn't get it, either, but that's her problem.” She licked her lips, both in anticipation of what was to come and to make absolutely sure the lipstick wouldn't run. The SSD was secure, in the hands of CAEDIA—which was fine by her. Retrieving the thing would be an anti-climax, at best. She could get in and out with it once Lloyd Watson, Harry Morgan and anyone else who knew about it were merely crossed-off names on her mental list.

How those names were crossed off was, to her, far more important.

That list had, of course, grown longer. Tommy Logan and his blonde Officer colleague, for one. Elaine Dyson, for another—Lexi knew that this would probably cause headaches down the line, especially if Elaine's Billings self was sharing data with her other selves, but she was out of fucks to give regarding “further complications”. The list went on, but Lexi ignored it...for now. The parade was due to start in a few hours, and she needed to be prepared.

As she turned to leave her latest hiding place, she frowned. It'd been closed, due to the traffic—both foot and car—that would be passing in front of and behind it, for the parade.

“Shame,” she mused. “If I'd dropped in yesterday, I could've added a few more names to the list...and crossed 'em off!”
-----
“...in Los Angeles, at the main facility. The other six are all over the country, at the moment—one's in Tennessee, in the process of talking to a prospective new client—I can't give any further details, you understand.”

Officer Birch nodded. “And you can call any of your fax units—”

“They're as much 'me' as I am, Officer, but yes.” Elaine Dyson nodded. “I've been considering, for the past few months, a rollout of two or three additional units, possibly stationing one in Canada.” She paused, frowning. “Hmm.”

“Something wrong?”

“A call came in from Los Angeles,” Elaine replied. “Something about an unscheduled landing at—that can't be right.” Before Sierra could ask what she meant, the roboticist retrieved a cord from her jacket pocket, hooking it up to a port behind her left ear. Her posture stiffened for a moment, before relaxing. “I'll link to my phone,” she stated, “it'll be easier.” Within seconds, she'd connected the other end of the cable to her phone, turning it to show Sierra the screen. “An unscheduled landing and departure, just an hour ago. One of our primary component suppliers had just had a cargo plane land, and their people overheard some kind of commotion on another runway.”

Sierra managed to terminate the thought process generating a groan before it could leave her lips. “I'm guessing it was just an argument,” she mused, amazed that she'd swapped “guessing” for “hoping” at the last possible femtosecond. “If the plane left without any further trouble—” A quick scroll down the screen brought the groan she'd just terminated back, in full force.

“The airport scanners didn't pick up anything that would warrant a full stop-and-search,” Elaine mused, reaching behind her ear to disconnect the cable. “It's probably nothing.”

Sierra frowned at her. “With everything that's been going on, nothing is 'probably something'.”
-----
Lexi felt it. Mere seconds before she would've dashed out to cross the street, it hit her like a bucket of cold water.

She'd often heard humans mention “chills down their spines”, or some equivalent sensation. If what they felt was even remotely like what she'd just experienced...

The feeling, for her, could only mean one thing: her employer was sending “insurance” to Billings.

Whether or not that insurance was intended to assist her or to replace her was another story entirely.

Anyone else in Lexi's position would've felt desperate, helpless, regretful. Time was running out, after all; her employer never sent “insurance” without a damn good reason for it.

Lexi being Lexi, she didn't feel those things. Instead, all she felt was rage. Disgust. Sheer indignation.

The solid-state drive would be retrieved, after Harry Morgan, Lloyd Watson and any other interlopers were disposed of like the worthless sacks of meat they were. Should CAEDIA offer to avenge the fallen, they'd go the same way. All she needed was time, just a little more time. Her employer would never afford it to her, of course.

“His fucking loss.” She felt her lips form the words, heard herself snarl them. Had he heard, as well?

It didn't matter. What mattered now was getting back to the job—and at the moment, the job was staking out the stupid parade and waiting for the best possible opportunity to get Lloyd Watson alone. The damned stupid solid state drive, by necessity, would just have to wait.

She'd get to it, in the end. It'd be back where it belonged soon enough.
-----
“...hear my plea? Santa, bring my baby back to me!”

Lloyd, once again decked out in the gold suit and wig beholden to an officially-licensed Elvis impersonator (for a day), was going through another run of “Santa, Bring My Baby Back to Me” when the door to his room opened. “When you're done with the TCB,” Erin declared, “you can get those blue-suede shoes of yours downstairs—we're leaving for the staging area in twenty minutes.”

Feeling the spirit of the moment, Lloyd did a double-point. “Thank you, ma'am,” he drawled. “Thankyouverymuch.”

Erin merely rolled her eyes as she closed the door.

Once he turned off the Blu-ray player and grabbed a loose-fitting jacket and sweatpants to go over the gold lamé suit for the ride over to the staging area, Lloyd left his room and headed down the hall—only to stop. He hadn't heard Diana leave the room she'd been “gifted”, nor had he heard Erin close the door to said room. A slight frown crossed his lips as he slung the jacket and sweatpants over his shoulder. “Diana? Everything all right?”

It barely took him a short jog to reach the room, where he found the door still open. “She can't have malfunctioned,” he muttered, shaking his head and entering Diana's temporary (possibly soon-to-be permanent) personal quarters.

The blonde gynoid was frozen in place, simply standing there—and facing away from Lloyd. With a sigh, he took a step towards her; “Must've gone into standby,” he mused, wondering if there were any settings he could configure to ensure a flawless performance at the parade. He reached out for her shoulder—

—and stopped, if only because Diana seemed to jerk back into “life” before freezing again.

Before he could comment, or touch her shoulder, Lloyd stepped back just as Diana moved again. A song started playing from somewhere—it took Lloyd a moment to realize that a radio had been moved into the room, and was playing the same song Diana was going to perform in the parade. The words and music seemed to wash over him without really being heard, however—due in no small part to the absolutely entrancing performance that was being put on less than five feet away.

By virtue of turning on her heel, Diana was mimicking a music box doll—her initial, mechanical motions slowly becoming more fluid, more lifelike as the song continued. Every so often, she'd lock eyes with Lloyd and smile, before her rotation continued. The song continued, with Diana seeming more vibrant and full of life than ever.

Lloyd was stunned. He wanted to say something, to applaud, but he also had no desire to break the apparent spell the song and performance had him under.

As the song came to an end, Diana “wound down” once again, slowly turning to face Lloyd with a smile. She leaned forward, as if expecting a kiss....and froze, just as the last note faded out.

“That was amazing!” Lloyd declared; he moved to drop the sweatpants and jacket, only to realize they'd already fallen out of his grip earlier. Despite feeling a bit daft, he applauded Diana's performance all the same. The fact that he couldn't recall the exact song she'd just performed wasn't much of a problem, in his view.

Diana straightened, still smiling. “Thank you!”

“Are you, ah, going to do that routine for the parade?” Lloyd inquired.

Before Diana could respond, a car horn honked from outside. “IF WE LOSE OUR SPOT AT THE STAGING AREA...”

Lloyd nodded to the door, ignoring the rest of Erin's shout. “I think we should get downstairs.”
-----
“And he's been at this all morning?”

Sierra's question was met with a nod from Mr. Scott. “Muttering to himself in Spanish, searching through the data logs and sometimes just shaking his head. No red flags from the system yet—”

“Keep me posted.” Sierra moved past the technician, to where Professor Enrique Belsham was still going through the data that CAEDIA had collected about the enigmatic Lexi. He muttered a few choice words in Spanish as he scrolled past another picture of the murderous gynoid. Sierra couldn't help but notice that, for every image of Lexi called up on the monitors, there were also pictures of those whose lives she'd ruined—one screen had images of Kari and Thea, from the Dyson Institute, in far better shape than they'd been when Sierra had last seen them.

After a moment of awkward silence, the Officer spoke—or started to. “Pro—”

“Every one of them.”

The four words caught Sierra off-guard. “What?”

“I owe,” Professor Belsham stated, “every last one of these people. They deserve to be repaid for the suffering inflicted upon them by...” He gestured at an image of Lexi. “She must be stopped.”

“And she will be,” Sierra assured him. “Once we—”

“You do not understand,” Belsham insisted. “She...” He sighed. “If she is not stopped before the accomplishment of her mission, she will become an even more dangerous threat.”

“And that's because—”

Belsham never looked away from the monitors before him. “She will be unbound.”

“Unbound?”

“Not beholden to answer the call of her employer, or anyone else.”

“And that means—”

“What she has done,” Belsham stated, “in the course of her mission will be nothing compared to the madness she will undoubtedly inflict when she has no mission to fulfill.” He turned to stare over his shoulder at the Officer. “This city, and its people, will—”

“Wait.” Sierra frowned. “You're saying she's just going to go on more rampages once she's achieved her objective?”

Belsham nodded. “Her intended function was to serve as both a weapon and a means of consistent destabilization of enemy territory,” he explained. “If those failed, she was to merely be a distraction until stronger forces could be called upon to complete the objective—and, in the aftermath, retrieve her and retreat.”

Thinking back to the initial incident with Lexi, at Pariello's house, Sierra almost didn't want to give voice to the horrific idea racing through her thought processes, but knew it had to be mentioned sooner or later. “How much of what went into Lexi's design was dedicated her enjoyment of sex, violence and/or any combination of the two?”

At this, Belsham buried his head in his folded arms. “Too much,” he moaned. “Far, far too much.”

Another question formed on the officer's lips, terminated only when an Incoming Call notice appeared before her.

You're still at HQ?

“Talking to Belsham. Thought he might be able to—”

Tell me later. I'm at the parade grounds right now—staging area.

“And why are you in the staging area for the parade, Tommy?”

One of these days, you and I are gonna have to go over protocol regarding call signs and—”

Tommy...

Scoping out a possible lead on Lexi. If it's good, we can move in to neutralize.

Sierra glanced at Professor Belsham. “And if the lead isn't good?”

I think you already know the answer to that question.

“Have we received any credible evidence that—”

I'll explain later. You won't want the reason sooner, trust me.”

The Officer had to force-terminate a subroutine that would've led her to growl at the detective. “Can you at least tell me if there's a credible possibility of—”

I'm not out here to see the sights, put it that way. I'll tell you more when I get back.

With that, the call ended, leaving Sierra to her thoughts—and the confused glances from Professor Belsham. “That was Detective Logan,” she explained. “There's a Christmas parade on, today, and he's helping out with security.” She decided against mentioning the fact that Tommy had apparently gone behind her back and had himself put on parade detail on account of Lexi possibly being at the grounds. “He'll be back before the end of the day.”

Belsham merely nodded. “He is augmented, yes?”

“Technically, he has medical implants and prosthetics, but yes.” Sierra sighed—wondering, not for the first time, just how many iterations of code and hardware had been gone through to make that possible for herself and others of her kind. “He experienced two, ah, severe incidents on his old job, so...”

“'Lexi' fought augmented operatives in training,” Belsham muttered. “Some, she wounded. Others were forced to have their augmentations replaced.” He bowed his head. “She revelled in it.”

Even as she listened to Belsham speak, Sierra silently called up a window in her field of view displaying the Civic Accords and their relevant sections on sentient Artificial and Machine Intelligences. What had been done to Lexi, twenty years prior, had gone against every single one of those precepts and rulings. Those who'd shaped her mind and personality had known exactly what they wanted from her, and received just that—with interest.

“Professor,” she quietly asked, “CAEDIA could extend an offer of protective custody to you—”

“If I tell you everything I know about those who gave the order for Lexi's creation,” Belsham finished, almost as if he'd expected the offer. “Years ago, I would have refused—but now, I no longer have the option.”

Sierra took a seat at the terminal near where Belsham was sitting. “You don't have to go into detail, if you don't want.”
-----
Lloyd noticed, as the RangeStar got closer to the parade staging area, that Diana's expression had slowly been changing with each passing minute. What had started as a look of wide-eyed wonder was now an equally wide-eyed gaze of what could only be deep-seated fear, complete with a quivering lower lip and quick glances across the crowds of people. She didn't notice Lloyd looking at her, either—her artfully-designed eyes darted over the crowds, any confidence from her stellar practice performance already long gone.

“Ah, Uncle Harry,” Lloyd muttered, “we, ah—”

“We what?” Harry barked—less out of annoyance at his nephew, and more out of frustration at how slow the line to get into the staging area was moving. He glanced up at the rear-view mirror, his brief anger giving way to concern as he spotted Diana's growing panic.

“I don't know what she's thinking,” Lloyd murmured, “but—”

“I do.” Harry sighed. “Or at least I can take a pretty big guess. Let's check in, first...”

The RangeStar passed through the security checkpoint, gliding through to reach the assigned parking spot marked by a green-trimmed tag hanging off of the rear-view mirror. Other participants in the parade had already arrived—at least three marching bands, a few local charities fielding classic cars, a float comprised of local cosplayers and at least one certified military vehicle (a flatbed truck with its own band merrily practising “Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree” in full dress uniform)—with more still due. Two of the cosplayers—looking utterly epic in full Vegeta and Wolfwood gear—had taken the opportunity to go over the route with a local police officer, their completely normal conversation made slightly surreal by their vastly different attires.

“You can ditch the sweats,” Harry informed Lloyd. “No lookie-loos here.”

Lloyd lowered the hood of his jacket, taking extra care to not disturb the pompadour wig. “So, ah, about Diana—”

Her name had just left his lips when Lloyd had to jump back—the rear passenger-side door of the RangeStar flew open, nearly bashing into his knees. Seconds later, Diana herself exited, looking this way and that as if she were afraid of being abducted any second now.

“Diana! Diana, it's fine, we're perfectly fine.” Harry gripped the gynoid's shoulders, holding her steady. “We're fine,” he repeated. “There are cops here in the lot, and nothing's gonna happen.”

“But what if something happens when we leave?” Diana whispered. “What if—”

“HARRY!” The bellow of his name caught Harry's attention; Lloyd, having just managed to avoid pantsing himself while discarding the oversized sweatpants he'd worn over the Elvis costume, stepped in, doing his best to pick up where his uncle left off. “I'm here, and Uncle Harry's here,” he assured Diana, “so nothing's gonna—”

“Are you sure?” Diana quietly asked. “There are so many people, and any of them could—”

Lloyd immediately realized what the problem was: SafeSense, for whatever reason, had magnified what should've been a slight case of anxiety into a full-blown phobia. On the one hand, Diana wasn't sporting glowing red eyes and suggesting any kind of extreme “crowd control” measures, but on the other—

“I need to defend myself. And you.”

“Wh—what?!” Lloyd was taken aback. “Defend—Diana, what are you saying?

“I don't want to get taken again.” Diana pulled Lloyd close, hugging him to her. “And I don't want you to get taken.”

“Nobody's going to take either of us,” he assured her. “There are cops here, and CAEDIA's probably got some people on the ground.” He pulled away, smiling. “There's nothing to worry about.”

Diana still seemed hesitant to believe him. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Their conversation was cut off by Harry's approach; he was accompanied by Abe Weissman, the latter of whom looked somewhat annoyed. “—and I told 'em we're not doing a John, Paul, George, Ringo, Pete and Stu situation, since nobody's gonna recognize the last two,” he stated. “So they're not doing the Sgt. Pepper's routine this year, they're going with the Beach Boys.”

“Just make sure they stick to the Christmas stuff,” Harry advised, turning his attention to Lloyd and Diana. “Feeling better about the parade, Di?”

“I'd still like to be able to defend myself,” Diana admitted, looking away slightly.

Abe cut off whatever response Harry intended to make: “I might actually have just the thing for that.” He nodded for Diana—and Lloyd—to follow him. “Mostly used for cattle control, and every once in a while to bust up a riot—you didn't hear that from me, by the way—but it might be just what you're lookin' for.” The trio reached Abe's truck; he opened the rear passenger's side door and retrieved what looked like a long, white cane. “Pretty nice, isn't it? The trick is in the grip. Just squeeze tight...” He pointed it just to the left of Diana. “And—”

As the gynoid watched, a brilliant arc of electricity shot from the end of the “cane”.

“Just wrap some red tape around it, and you can pass it off as a candy cane.” Abe winked. “Anyone tries to play Boarding Party on your float, you tap 'em with this and they'll be seeing tinsel stars for a while.”

Diana accepted the shock stick with a nod. “What about Lloyd?”

“Lloyd's fine,” Harry began, but Abe stopped him. “With all the crazy crap that's been going on in and around town, you never know when you might need a bit of extra 'oomph' to keep someone off your back.” He reached under the back seat of the truck to retrieve a locked metal box. “Consider this an early Christmas present, by the way—your uncle Harry can help you fill out the paperwork later, get a license and all that.”

Harry nearly groaned at the mention of a license; Lloyd merely stared at the box, wondering what it held.

“This little beauty,” Abe declared, “should be enough to keep you out of trouble on a dark night.” He punched in a code on the keypad built into the box, and pressed his thumb to a sensor above the pad for good measure. “Just remember the principal rules: never point it at anything you don't intend to shoot, keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target, and never assume it's unloaded until you check the chambers.”

Inside the box was a fully-polished revolver. The barrel couldn't have been longer than three inches. “Smith & Wesson Model 19, fit for a King,” Abe explained. “.357 Magnum. I'm really hoping you don't have to use it.”

“That makes two of us,” Harry agreed. “And don't think you can go around the house shooting up TVs with that thing!”

His uncle's attempt at a joke was lost on Lloyd; he carefully lifted the revolver out of the box. “How do I, ah—”

Abe quickly showed him how to check the chambers, load and unload the gun. “It's not a hand cannon,” he admitted, “but it'll make any creeps think twice before they try to bust you up in a back alley. Got holsters for it, too, if you want one. Leg, shoulder, back—take your pick.”

“Just stow it in your pants pocket for now,” Harry advised. “Parade's gonna start in a little under two hours, and you two need to get ready. Diana, get someone to prep that cane to look more like a candy cane before you get on the float.”

Diana nodded. “I will, sir.”

“And Lloyd...” Harry sighed. “You're gonna kick ass up there,” he intoned, planting his hands on his nephew's shoulders as he looked him in the eye. “Don't think about all the 'crazy crap', don't think about anything but giving the people one hell of a show.” He grinned. “And try not to go too crazy with the dancing.”

Any anxiety Lloyd felt about the parade—and having been given a revolver “just in case”—faded away. “I'll do my best.”

Harry clapped him on the back. “I know you will. And you will, too, Diana,” he quickly added. “Just don't worry about the crowd, and you'll do fine.”
-----
Thanks to his position at the far end of the staging area, Detective Logan had spotted Abe Weissman, Lloyd Watson and the Heartelligence gynoid named Diana heading over to Abe's truck—none of them had spotted him, of course, which was all for the better. From his vantage point, he saw the transaction carried out, Diana getting her shock stick and Lloyd being given an unspecified weapon of some sort. He considered allowing his artificial eyes to zoom in on the gun, but decided against it. If Lloyd wanted to follow in the footsteps of the entertainer he was emulating and pack a revolver, then so be it—as long as he didn't intend to include TV-shooting in his act, of course.

Lloyd and Diana weren't the first parade participants to be arming up, by any means. Abe's buddies—already practising their Beach Boys harmonies on “Little Saint Nick”—were all carrying pepper sprays of varying strengths. The classic car owners fielding vehicles for the parade had their own “surprises” in store for anyone who might try to rip them off or abscond with their rides. Even a few of the cosplayers were carrying stun guns, Mace and other deterrents, all cleverly hidden in their prop weapons and the like.

Under other circumstances, Detective Logan might've joined the cosplayers—granted, some of his go-to costume picks wouldn't have meshed with the overall look and feel of a Christmas parade. Thus, he was “in costume” in an entirely different way: embedded within the Billings Police Department as a CAEDIA liaison, wearing the full parade uniform.

“See something?” Officer Michael Carver nudged Detective Logan in the side.

“Just Abe talking to Harry Morgan's nephew.” The detective gestured as if to adjust his cap. “You run a count on how many on the floats are packing?”

“Almost every single one,” Carver replied. “Anybody sees that psycho from the SIGN-posts—”

“If she's smart, she won't show up.” The detective arched an eyebrow as a group of three men in different variations of the iconic Spider-Man suit walked by. “Everybody's been screened?”

“Green and clean. Maybe one or two speeding tickets, but nothing that'd get someone up on a SIGN-post.”

“Good. Call me if anything starts looking weird.” The detective glanced at a group of clowns in full regalia off on another side of the staging area; half were professional entertainers, and the other half were police and CAEDIA Officers who'd chosen to don the greasepaint and floppy shoes to keep an eye out for Lexi among the crowds. The thought occurred to him that it'd actually be better if all of this precaution was for nothing—if Lexi did, indeed, choose to not show up and risk getting maced, tased and otherwise made to regret hassling the Billings Christmas parade.

The standing orders of the day were to handle any potential trouble quietly, so as not to give Lexi a reason to run.

Detective Logan had the distinct feeling that running was the last thing on Lexi's mind.
-----
Lexi hated hiding.

Specifically, she hated hiding in the context of having to sit and wait, make sure she wasn't discovered—all that boring garbage. Hiding was a last resort—the one chosen only after all else failed. It was just a step or two above “surrender” on the list of things Lexi refused to accept, and very high on the list of things she never wanted to have to do herself.

And yet, here she was. Hiding.

The police, and CAEDIA, had finally stopped playing around. Putting her face on the SIGN-posts dotted all over Billings would, if nothing else, lead to a lot of running and—probably—a lot of hiding, too. She'd been running passive scans any time she passed people—metal-detection, “sniffer” programs that could detect even the faintest traces of the stuff that made up gunpowder and most pepper sprays, all the usual suspects. Not surprisingly, everybody was loaded.

Zina was probably pissed—or would be, anyway. Not that it mattered.

The parade was due to start in a few minutes, meaning that hiding might get easier—the ultimate irony. Everyone would be watching the floats and the bands, and nobody would be paying attention to one rando with their hood up; it was the wintertime, in Jefferson, of course people would have their hoods up. Nothing wrong with that. Thus, without having to face-jack another NonSen, Lexi would be able to hide in plain sight. Assuming, of course, that nobody bumped into her and knocked her hood askew.

As for how that was going...

It occurred to Lexi, as she nudged past various people and managed to avoid glaring and/or swearing at anyone she felt “too annoying” (read: every other person who crossed her path), that she'd done this sort of thing before, once, before being sealed away for well over 20 years. The memories were both vaguely fuzzy yet alarmingly specific: like her current situation, a parade had been involved.

Specifics were meaningless. The job would be done, and the solid state drive would be retrieved.

Granted, that retrieval would come after everyone who knew about the drive was dealt with—and everyone who knew those who knew about the drive had been similarly taken care of.

As she threaded her way through the crowds of people, waiting for the parade to start, Lexi scoped out potential vantage points and getaway routes. One was a nearby music store, with an oversized window poster advertising an anniversary reissue of Elvis: LIVE at the Budokan on sale. The gynoid scoffed at the advert, ignoring it and a similarly-sized poster for a special-edition reissue of some album with “Chemistry” in the title. She ignored the posters, focusing instead on possible lines of escape; she could always brush up against the door, as if to get away from the crowd, and discreetly check the lock...

Two police officers in full uniform rounded a street corner ahead of her. Neither had spotted her.

As they both checked their radios to report in on their current position, neither noticed her break away from the crowd to slip between two buildings.

Nobody had spotted her snarl, had seen her fists clench. This was unbearable. Her gunfight with Tommy Logan, back at the Dyson Institute building, was still fresh in her mind—but she needed more. The waiting, the hiding, the stealth—it all felt beneath her.

The subtle, possibly-imagined chill only served to remind her of why it was all necessary.

Lexi hated hiding...but in times like these, she had to admit—it was better than the alternative.
-----
Sierra had the feeling, as soon as she walked in the “command center” for monitoring the Christmas parade, that if Lexi decided to show up and cause problems, it'd be both the biggest and last mistake she ever made.

What had started as a tractor-trailer had been turned into a full-on mobile base of operations—an entire self-contained network of computers, linked to security cameras and tracking CAEDIA operatives on the ground by various means. It felt a bit overzealous; in most circumstances, it would've been. “Most circumstances”, of course, didn't involve Lexi, nor did they have such a high risk factor for the general public.

CAEDIA had no intention of letting Lexi—or anyone else—turn a Christmas parade into Hell on Earth.

Several monitors showed, from different angles, the Master of Ceremonies announcing the start of the parade, with the crowds cheering as Christmas music blared. The first of the floats thus rolled out of the staging area, onto 2nd Avenue North; the ersatz Beach Boys onboard were belting out “Little Saint Nick” as the float made its way up the street. Not far behind it was a marching band from an area school. As expected, the crowd was loving the show.

Officer Sierra Birch, by contrast, was less focused on the entertainment, and more on the crowd itself.

Every face was scanned, every bystander watched for the slightest hint of aggressive behaviour. If Lexi was among their number, and tried to act on any malicious intentions, she'd be spotted and routed in seconds.

Tommy was out there—Sierra knew. For a day, he was a beat cop again—just another uniformed officer on patrol, doing his job. Before the replacement voice box and facial prosthetic, he'd been a police officer; apparently, he'd left that gig in good standing, since the Billings PD had no problem temporarily reinstating him for a day. It was better, in the long run, than sending uniformed Officers out in droves and risking the populace catching on that the perpetrator behind all of the crimes committed in the past few days had been a gynoid.

Sierra mused, for a moment, that she could've joined Tommy out on patrol—or at the very least, linked up to the Billings network of security cameras and done more to try and at least spot the perp. There were androids and gynoids who had the kind of connectivity to link to security networks; Sierra had worked with one of them during her time in Silicon Valley, just two years prior. Of course, the gynoid in question was also a high-ranking ALPHA commander and the head of a robotics company—

Call Incoming

The notice brought Sierra out of her momentary reverie. “Found anything?”

Apart from the crowds enjoying the parade, nothing. If she's out here, she's doing a pretty damn good job of hiding.

Tommy's frank appraisal of the situation drew a frown from the gynoid Officer. “So why the call?”

Got a notification on another investigation I'm running—connected to our perp. We may have to move in on that one soon. I can't explain over an open channel.

“Right.” Sierra nodded; she'd faintly remembered Tommy investigating something connected to Lexi, out of town.

The floats from Harry Morgan's are coming up. If Lexi's going to make a move—”

“Keep me posted.” Sierra ended the call, glancing at the nearest bank of monitors. Sure enough, a float was gliding out of the staging area; on the “stage” atop the float, surrounded by impeccably-dressed backing singers and decked out in a gold lamé suit and pompadour wig, was Lloyd Watson.

Despite the gravity of her assignment, Sierra couldn't help but smile. Lloyd was clearly enjoying being Elvis for a day.
-----
“I don't need a lot of presents, to make my Christmas bright....”

Lexi could hear the strains of “Santa, Bring My Baby Back (To Me)” as the latest float left the staging area. Sure enough, there was the meat—wearing that lame-ass wig and a gold lamé suit, shaking his hips. Quite a few girls in the crowd were getting in on it, shrieking and mock-fainting like he was the real deal. None of them threw their panties—it was a public event, after all, sold as “fun for the whole family”.

“Fun,” Lexi growled. “I'll give 'em some fucking fun...”

As the float continued on, Lexi made her way to the forefront of the crowd, fighting the urge to just start shoving people this way and that or send anyone flying into the path of a float. It'd be glorious to watch some rando meat get crushed under the wheels, but there was the small matter of her face being on SIGN-posts, after all. As much as she loathed it, subtlety was still the order of the day.

“—but with my baby far-away, a-what good is mistletoe?” The meat was really getting into the song, now. “Oh, Santa, hear my plea! A-Santa bring my baby back to me!” The other shits in suits were all singing along, clapping in rhythm and echoing the chorus: “Santa bring my baby back to me, Santa bring my baby back to me”. The crowd was starting to get in on the clapping, too—that grating clap-clap, clap that would've driven anyone with less patience to start throwing punches.

Even as her teeth ground together, Lexi kept her cool. So far, so—

The meat had gone to the railing of the “stage” on the float, leaning out and seeming to search the crowd with his soulful gaze while singing about reindeer hurrying. Lexi found herself pushed forwards, a muttered “the fuck” barely audible over the shrieks of the fangirls rushing for a glimpse of the faux-Elvis. Her hands immediately went to the hood of her jacket—if it fell off of her head, she was royally boned.

From beneath the pompadour wig, the meat seemed to briefly recognize Lexi—his stare locked onto her eyes for just a moment...but just as quickly, he took a step back, continuing the song. The briefest hint of a concerned frown crossed his lips, gone as quickly as it'd appeared. The pressing crowd around her was still cheering, acting like the idiot on the float had really been the one to play Hawaii in '68, the Budokan in '75 and a sold-out show in Wembley years before that Live-Aid crap started there. Never mind that he was some snot who attended the local college—or that he had no idea about the death warrant currently on his worthless ass.

The crowd around Lexi kept cheering, thinning ever so slightly. If she could get away, now, and make it to the staging area for when the floats returned, there was a very strong chance that—

She stopped, staring across the street. One of the Billings Police Department officers was talking into a handheld radio, his eyes shielded by sunglasses...but she saw the telltale lines of the facial prosthetic. Heard—after filtering out the crowd noise and the shitty music—the rasp of his voice.

Tommy Logan was working the parade beat, in full cover as an ordinary Billings cop.

Ignoring the first few notes of “Blue Christmas”, and the meat's overly-hammy delivery of the same, Lexi backed away from the barricade. Now, more than ever, she needed to get as far away from the crowd as possible and find a way into that staging area. The meat would never even know she was there until it was too late.

Her stare focused on the other side of the street, Lexi backtracked until the crowd wasn't pressing in around her. Thus freed from their confines, she turned away—walking, not even sprinting. A sprint would just get her more unwanted attention, and unwanted attention would only end badly.

A smirk crossed her lips as she turned away. At least Tommy hadn't spotted her.
-----
“I'd say 85%, 90% chance it was her. 94%, tops.” Detective Logan spoke into the radio as if he were calling another of the Billings PD's finest, instead of the mobile CAEDIA HQ. “Pretty sure she thinks I didn't see her.”

You're sure it was her, Tommy?

“Seeing as how I had to look through the peripheral, I couldn't tell dead-on—but I think it's her.”

Wonderful. So she is on the parade grounds.

“Was. She's back-pedalling somewhere else now.” Detective Logan glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “And as for that other thing we may need to look into,” he added, “I may be looking into it now.” The two men he'd spotted at the “farm” a few nights ago were leaning against a barricade half-a-block away and chatting—both with each other, and with the immaculately-dressed blonde in sunglasses standing near them. Her figure and attire were a stark contrast to the greasy overalls, bootleg Skynyrd t-shirts and faded baseball caps of the two men, but from what little he could hear of their talk, it was strictly business.

“Sierra,” he muttered, “I'm sending you coordinates to an intersection of security cameras. Can you triangulate and get a clear image of the three in view of...” He checked the street signs. “North 31st Street and 2nd Avenue North?”

Give me a sec.” A keyboard quietly clicked away on the other end of the line. “Got it.

“Thanks. Find anything else?”

The two Skynyrd fans are already on file with the PD—criminal trespass, unlawful operation of a DeCommissioning facility, illegal possession of firearms. Their files from before the Accords were passed are even longer!

“Wonderful.” The detective rolled his eyes. “And their friend?”

Still checking—all I have for sure is that she's a 'bot. No other info yet.

“Check around with any Rolls Royce dealerships around here—I think we might get an answer from there.” The detective heard Sierra's faint muttering on the other end of the line, followed by more keyboard clicks.

Tommy, how in the Hell—”

“I'll explain after the parade. Save whatever info you found—quad backups, with two extras just in case.”

On it.

The detective returned his attention to the parade, knowing that the info he just shared with Sierra would also end up with the Billings police department. The sharing of intelligence wasn't the problem; CAEDIA and the police were, after all, working towards the same goals in the long term. The problem would come when and if whoever had activated Lexi decided to check up on her—or, worse yet, if they decided to just cut every loose end from this whole sordid affair and move on.

Detective Logan turned his attention back to the parade; Harry Morgan's NonSens were marching past, their movements intentionally robotic to match the faux wind-up keys fitted to their costumes. Another float was moving into view behind them; Diana was standing at the helm, looking radiant.

The hint of a smile played at the detective's lips. For a NonSen, Diana was giving an incredible performance.

His attentions, thankfully, weren't so divided as to keep him from noticing the Skynyrd fans turning to leave.
-----
FUCK! NNNGGGHHH, DAMN IT, YES!”

The lines between frustration and arousal had already blurred as the parade went on. Lexi had waited, ever so patiently, for an opening to take out the meat—but security was too good. Police on every corner, the damned SIGN-posts and the cameras that fed them within easy range of any possible getaway route...

Nobody had been in the store—she couldn't be bothered to remember which one it was—when she'd kicked open the door and made a beeline for the women's restroom. That door, she locked behind her, followed by locking the stall door just in case.

Once inside, knowing the parade would drown out anything anyone might've heard, she gave in.

Her clothes were either hanging from the top of the door, or simply thrown wherever she felt like flinging them at the moment. Her panels were only slightly less carelessly discarded; still, as one hand worked her folds, the other played over her exposed internals, her fingers occasionally grabbing a wire. The electrical shocks were mild, serving only to enhance her frenzied efforts to bring herself to a mind-blowing climax.

Various scenarios, each more erotic (and violent) than the last, played out in her digital mind. Throttling Lloyd Watson while pegging him from behind with a strap-on; vigorously tonguing the blonde she'd seen with Lloyd, her nails raking the other gynoid's flesh and leaving hideous gashes; sandwiching Elaine Dyson's head between her thighs, screaming in pure ecstasy as she slowly closed them around the roboticist's artificial cranium—she could hear the creaking of parts, the rupturing of plastic and shearing of metal as her hips crushed Elaine's head. The unreality of her fantasy meant nothing, at that moment—it would be real, in due time.

Her demented, erotic desires, coupled with the “daydreams” playing out in her field of view, drove her into a shuddering, body-wracking orgasm. Her left arm, seconds away from pulling out a backup power cell, shot out of the open cavity and pounded the wall once, twice, three—four times. Her hips bucked, eventually proving too much for the toilet below her; the fragile fixture shattered, dumping her unceremoniously on the floor.

She barely noticed. The afterglow was upon her; the shrieks had since faded into manic laughter.

Her panels, annoyingly, hadn't been soaked by toilet water; she considered splashing some into her internals—not too much, just enough to get a mild shock. Given that the oversight of her mission was now under Zina's purview, however, she decided—quite reluctantly—to avoid the needless self-damage. As she pressed the last of her panels into place, her right hand “accidentally” brushed against the jagged edge of the ruined toilet. Lexi sucked in a hiss of breath, shuddering as she felt her synthetic flesh get sliced by the porcelain.

“Yeah,” she murmured, biting her lip. She left the stall, collecting her clothes and getting dressed in the solitude. The only distraction from her thoughts of the epic climax she'd just reached was, of course, the lame-ass music blaring from the parade outside. She turned around, to get one last look at the stall she'd just left, and barked out a laugh—her left arm, in its flailing, had left a hole in the wall. Toilet water—unsullied, thankfully, by any “organic waste”—washed over the floor; the toilet itself was a ruined mass of white, all jagged edges and jutting pipe work.

“Oops.” Lexi raised a hand to her lips, in mock contrition. “Guess I made a mess, didn't I?” In the inevitable silence, she threw her head back and laughed, pulling her jacket on and heading for the door.

Her sights were on the exit when she noticed a form emerging from the far side of the store—a janitorial NonSen, male form, in a badly-fitted set of coveralls. His expression, if it could be called that, was utterly blank, his eyes focused on his destination—the women's restroom, which Lexi had just left. Apparently, her destruction of the toilet had been noticed, at least by the building's system. The NonSen had thusly been sent, and was now trudging dutifully into the bog.

Lexi's tongue played across her lips. The door had just started to close when she darted back into the restroom.
-----
“Got something, Tommy.” Sierra motioned for the Officer at the nearest monitor bank to send the detective the exact coordinates for the “blip” they'd just picked up. “Not much, but it could be Lexi.”

Where?

“A building on North 30th Street—security sensors deployed a janitorial 'bot, and—wait.” She frowned. “Elaine's calling, gimme a sec.” She raised a finger to her left temple, her eyes taking on a soft glow. “Found anything?”

That plane from San Jose I called about earlier? It's due to land in Montana soon.

“And you know this, how?”

It pays to have connections at every airport I might end up in, Officer Birch.

Hoping to dissuade Elaine from going on a recap of any in-flight extracurriculars, Sierra spoke quickly: “And have your connections made any progress on learning who owns the plane in question?”

VIP, private jet. My counterpart in San Jose was able to send along an interesting tidbit from before the plane left: they had four crates marked for transporting humanoid robotics being loaded on, hurried through the checkpoints.” Sierra could tell Elaine was smiling as she continued: “They thought it'd be a good idea to pay off the flight attendants to get their luggage onboard as soon as possible—and when bribery didn't work—”

“They resorted to threats,” Sierra finished, rolling her eyes. “Nobody got hurt, I hope.”

The attendants in question are Dyson Institute clients—a slap to the face would only hurt their pride.

“Remind me to never get on your bad side, Elaine.” Sierra smirked. “And they only counted four 'bot boxes?”

So far. There could've been more in the cargo hold, but my San Jose self didn't see any loaded.

“No worries. Thanks for the tip, and call us if you get any more info.” Sierra ended the call, frowning. “Crazy.”

And what, exactly, was 'crazy'?

“Elaine just called—she, as in the Elaine in San Jose, got word that there's a VIP private jet heading for Montana with four 'bot boxes onboard.”

And?

Sierra groaned. “It might be connected to all of this madness with Lexi.”

It's a pretty big ask, but I'll see if Pierce can get word out to the Butte department.

“All I could ask for.” Sierra sighed. “Still looking into the blip I mentioned?”

Store's locked up—might've been a system error.

Tommy...”

I can get an officer on it soon—as it is, I'm still on parade duty until the last float disbands.

“Right.” Sierra watched as another float rolled past. “Hopefully, nothing stupid happens between now and then.”
-----
“If anything does, we'll be the first to know.” Detective Logan ended the call, staring out at the parade. The floats were still going on their way, the “Rockin' Christmas” theme continuing with float bearing a Rolling Stones tribute band. Their would-be Mick Jagger certainly had the strut, and the voice to match; whoever had been enlisted to be the group's Keith Richards was definitely filling the role of a guitar hero. The only thing that made the ersatz Stones' performance slightly surreal: their choice of music, a rock'n'roll-tinged cover of Wham's “Last Christmas”.

Detective Logan chuckled. It definitely wasn't the worst version of “Last Christmas” he'd heard, not by a long shot. A Stones-tinged “Last Christmas” wasn't even the weirdest song he'd heard during the parade. At least one float, clearly manned by fans of a certain Show About Nothing, had been dedicated entirely to “Festivus, for the Rest of us”, complete with an original musical composition dedicated to the same—

Detective?

The voice of Officer Carver cut into the detective's thoughts. “Yeah?”

We just found where that blip was coming from...”
-----
“...and, ah, it's not pretty.” Carver winced as his colleagues worked to remove the mangled remains of the NonSen from the ruined toilet. “Your perp must've been pretty hot and bothered when she went at this one, except the model she jumped wasn't made for penetration.”

Let me guess: she tried anyway.

“With the blunt end of a mop handle.” Carver regarded the implement in question, laying in pieces on the floor a few feet away. “Put it through the eyes, first, then—”

I get the picture. Anything else damaged?

“Two toilets, a mirror, and one of the sink fixtures.”

Bag and tag what you can. One of my colleagues will be there to collect...
-----
“...as soon as possible.”

Got it. And if we spot the perp?

“Stay as far back as you can, and aim for the vitals.” Detective Logan ended the call, doing his best to not look perturbed by the news. Another wrecked NonSen—the only solace that could be had was that the 'bot was, indeed, a NonSen. All other details, including Lexi's attempt to “have a little fun” with the 'bot first, could only mean that, until Lexi was caught and DeCommed, the whole thing would very likely end in tears.

The Santa-fied Stones tribute act was launching into “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town”, the Mick poseur giving a scarily convincing Jagger-esque pout as he sang about “gonna find out who's naughty or nice”. Detective Logan barely paid the song any heed; he was already continuing on the parade beat, doing an impressive job of looking like any other Billings PD cop on patrol. His artificial optics were hidden from view by the department-issue sunglasses as he walked the beat; if Lexi were trying to find him by looking for the reflections from his replacement eyes, she'd be out of luck.

Another float was making its way past the barricade. Detective Logan barely paid it heed; unless Lexi had somehow managed to find her way onto a float (a horrifying possibility), he had no reason to keep watching the parade itself. He turned away, continuing on the beat—just another cop working the route, on the lookout for any trouble.

Just like old times—except the stakes were even higher, now.
-----
Doctor Dyson?

The roboticist barely noticed the voice coming from the speakers—she'd been so used to such duties being handled by Kari, rather than the temporary secretary recruited to take the downed gynoid's place. “Yes?”

Officer Birch, from CAEDIA, just called—says she'd like to speak with you.

“Again?” Elaine frowned, but nodded. “Very well. I'll take the call.”

The window before her seemed to go opaque, before filling with the image of Officer Birch's face. “Can I help you with anything, Officer?”

You can tell me if you recognize this face.” An image appeared beside Officer Birch: an unfamiliar blonde with a blank expression.

“I don't,” Elaine replied, frowning. “Why—”

The Rolls Royce dealership you get your cars from has her on file as a customer—and as a Dyson Institute affiliate.

Elaine scowled. “That's impossible. All of my employees are on file with them!”

Well, someone's running a con under your name...and they might be connected to Lexi.

“You're sure?”

She was last spotted in the company of two individuals Detective Logan had under observation. Dunno the exact link—”

“I do.” Elaine sighed. “I'd pointed Detective Logan in their direction because they'd tried to 'run a con under my name', as you said, a few years ago. They have a refabrication table, and possibly the facilities—”

You're saying they might be able to rebuild Lexi if she gets scrapped?

“As unfortunate a possibility as that is, yes.”

Makes sense that Tom—Detective Logan wanted me to run a trace on her. You want—”

“I'd prefer a subtle investigation,” Elaine admitted. “Something that won't draw the attention of whoever thought it'd be a good idea to try purchasing a Rolls Royce on my credit byline, especially if...” Her thoughts turned to Kari, to Thea.

We'll put a lid on these people, whoever they are.

“I hope you can, Officer.” The call ended, leaving Elaine to her thoughts.
-----
The NonSen had been carrying a keycard. A keycard to a closet, but closets could be useful.

In Lexi's case, the closet could be used to ditch her current clothes and change into something more befitting the attire of the janitors on the parade route. She'd taken a security pass from the NonSen, as well—if everything went well, it'd get her into the staging area of the parade. From there, she just needed to find Lloyd Watson.

From there....

Lexi had to force herself not to grin as she left the building. Soon, Lloyd would be just another tied-off loose end.
-----
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

Section_Eight
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Re: Writing As We Go, Chapter 17

Post by Section_Eight » Sat Sep 24, 2022 8:19 pm

Nice tension and scene-setting in this one. The perspective shifts were particularly cinematic.

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