Chương 54: 53: The Office

The office hummed with the low thrum of Apis-fed machinery, a sound so woven into the architecture its absence would have been louder than its presence. Fluorescent panels cast sterile light across identical workstations where receptionists processed the endless flood of field reports. Pale white walls were broken only by status displays: tactical maps, biometric feeds, and the occasional screen drowned in static. Those always made someone pause, fingers hovering over a keyboard, waiting for the data to resolve.

The air carried a faint mix of ozone and floral freshener, installed after complaints about burnt Apis circuitry. Three rooms to the right lay a vast, heavily secured chamber where fresh False-twin bodies were kept in storage, awaiting the resurrection of fallen Enforcers and the abomination Thornburgh whenever death claimed them. At the center of it all sat Shamira Bekele.

Late twenties, with warm golden-brown skin, sharp brown eyes behind thin rectangular spectacles, and dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, she wore a silver stud in her left nostril and bore a faint scar beneath her chin from a childhood playground accident. She'd been running around a merry-go-round, slipped on a patch of water, and struck the metal frame face-first.

Fine Ethiopian geometric tattoos, inspired by traditional highland body art, spread across her neck, collarbones, and shoulders in delicate constellations of dots, crosses, and interlocking diamond motifs. She'd studied accounting, but the pay had been miserable. A friend had connected her to the Syndicate, and she'd never looked back. Her desk was immaculate: three monitors arranged in a neat arc, a tiny succulent named Gerald on the left, and a chipped mug on the right reading, 'WORLD'S OKAYEST RECEPTIONIST.'

She chewed the same bubblegum brand she'd bought for the past five years and, whenever she became distracted, absentmindedly bit at her fingernails, a habit she was still trying to break. She loved her job. She was very, very good at it. — Helmet-cam footage flickered across her monitor. A Stepper's recording, recovered from a corpse drifting between dimensions. Seventeen seconds of panic after an incomplete experiment escaped. Shamira chewed thoughtfully.

"Decent. What a pity." She opened his file. Twenty-seven confirmed kills. Two major engagements. Syndicate family for two generations. Father killed in an experiment breach. Mother in logistics. Younger sister worked in the Apis Core Division. Replaceable. She clicked DENIED. The file vanished.

"Next." A Talon's file replaced it. Twenty years of service. Over two hundred confirmed kills. Veteran of multiple campaigns. Personally commended by the Magpie Commander. Married. One son already in training. A daughter studying engineering. Shamira chewed slowly.

"… Fine." She clicked APPROVED. The file moved to the Restitution Queue. Within seventy-two hours he would wake in a new body, with no memory of dying, ready to serve again. To die again. To return again. The cycle continued. Shamira stood, stretching until her back cracked. She gathered a stack of paper files - the Syndicate's commitment to modernity remained oddly selective - and wandered past rows of receptionists buried in their own queues of dead Steppers, Talons, and Operatives.

A young man at a nearby desk caught her eye. Boyish face. Easy smile. The sort that bypassed more checkpoints than credentials ever could. He winked. Shamira smirked, blew a bubble, and popped it. He blew her a kiss. She rolled her eyes, though the smirk remained. At the central desk she dropped the files with a satisfying thump. The head receptionist, a middle-aged woman with permanently tired eyes, glanced up.

"These are ready?"

"Some approved. Some denied. The criteria's attached."

"You always have criteria?"

"Someone has to." — Shamira passed the workshop on her way to the bathroom. Through the glass, engineers crowded around a holographic projection, arguing, as they always seemed to, about which gadget was sustainable in the long run.

"The power draw is too high!"

"The Apis core can handle it. You just need to calibrate the resonance frequency-""The resonance frequency will melt the housing! Are you insane?"

"We can reinforce the housing!" The shouting continued without anyone actually changing their minds. A young engineer with bright orange hair ignored them all, sketching a new weapon architecture across the holographic display for the Commander's approval. The design was intricate, almost artistic. Someone else pointed toward another blueprint.

"Can Steppers use Dream Walk?"

"No. Only Talons."

"Why?"

"Because Talons process beyond the picosecond on baseline. Dream Walk scales that beyond the femtosecond, with the limit sitting at the yoctosecond. There's no point in an ability that lets you appear anywhere you can think of instantly if your brain isn't fast enough to use it."

"So… femboys?"

"…Femtoseconds."

"Missed opportunity." A chorus of groans answered him. Another engineer continued anyway.

"And if that isn't enough, the Canvas Serum temporarily removes the limiter entirely. Infinite processing time. Your chassis might tear itself apart afterward, but you'll never lose a reaction contest."

"What about Steppers?"

"They're alive. Their brains only perceive in microseconds. The suit has to do the work, which means they're effectively blind during Dream Walk. They also can't survive the Canvas Serum."

"So how do they keep up?"

"Their suits predict incoming attacks 1. 5 seconds in advance. That gives them enough time to deploy contingencies or use their sight-based teleportation, which is limited by how far they can see."

"And Operatives?"

"They're different. After years as Steppers, Apis saturates their bodies, making them four times stronger and pushing perception into the nanoseconds. Their systems predict attacks three seconds ahead. They can also be sucked into an invisible wormhole and vomited elsewhere instantly through line of sight or previously tagged coordinates, with the option of leaving a hologram behind." If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"So who gets all these weapons?"

"All of them." The engineer counted them off.

"Steppers get one primary weapon and six gadgets. Refills require a report explaining how they were used."

"Operatives get two primary weapons, twelve gadgets, plus one complete backup set ready for immediate replacement."

"And Talons?"

"They request whatever they want. It gets supplied immediately. They customize their entire loadout, and only Talon suits can transform parts of their own bodies into weapons." The discussion immediately collapsed back into another argument about power consumption. Shamira watched for a moment, chewing her gum. She rolled her eyes.

"Bathroom." She kept walking.... The bathroom was one of the Syndicate's few indulgences. Deep blue walls, warm polished stone, hidden speakers playing soft classical music, and the faint scent of lavender and citrus made it feel more like a luxury hotel than a facility that processed the dead. Instead of stalls, each toilet sat within a curved, softly lit alcove. Every fixture gleamed with Apis-infused technology. Shamira sat down, still chewing her gum, and unfolded a physical newspaper.

APIS BREAKTHROUGH IN CORE STABILIZATION. NEW ABOMINATION CLASSIFIED. HEXAGON STOLEN FROM ASIAN FACTION. CLOCK VIPERLIT SIGHTED IN THREE SECTORS SIMULTANEOUSLY. She snorted.

"Third time this month. Pick a sector, pal." When she finished, the toilet activated, cleaning her with the care of bathing a newborn before the waste dissolved into fine mist and disappeared into the facility's filtration system. She adjusted her clothes and stepped back into the corridor. Passing the employee showers, she heard someone enthusiastically butchering a song. Shamira sighed.

"Get back to work!" The singing stopped.

"Just a second! I'm almost done!"

"You said that an hour ago!"

"I was training! My agility drills ran long!"

"Training isn't an excuse to treat the shower like a spa." The door swung open. A broad-shouldered Stepper emerged, still dripping, a towel barely secured around his waist.

"You're just jealous you don't look this good." Shamira stared.

"Get back to work."

"I'm a Stepper. I work when I'm told."

"Then I'm telling you." He grinned.

"You're beautiful when you're angry."

"Work." She turned away, but he hurried after her and caught her wrist.

"If I die," he asked, suddenly serious, "you'll approve my restitution?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you stop taking two showers a day." He considered it.

"…Deal." Before she could respond, he kissed her cheek, then leaned down to brush a few light kisses along the side of her neck. Shamira sighed, fighting back a smile as she gently nudged him away.

"Stop. We're at work." He looked genuinely offended.

"I was appreciating the tattoos."

"You can appreciate them after work."

"Fair enough."

"When's our date?"

"Saturday."

"I'll be waiting." Beaming, he hurried back toward the showers. She watched him disappear, shook her head, and smiled despite herself.

"Idiot." Still chewing her gum, she returned to her desk.... Shamira settled into her chair with a fresh cup of black coffee, warm against her fingers. She pulled up the next file. The footage was wrong. Blurry. Pixelated. Corrupted by something beyond ordinary interference. Audio crackled beneath layers of static while the image flickered in and out of focus. Mira frowned.

"I can't make sense of this." She reached to close the file when a shadow fell across her desk. She looked up. A woman stood before her, tall, curvy, and generously built. A deep crimson dress embroidered with delicate violet flowers clung to her body with deliberate precision rather than accidental strain, its rich colours shifting subtly beneath the office lights. Bronze skin glowed softly against the fabric.

Short lemon-blonde hair rested in flawless finger waves, framing honey-coloured eyes beneath intentionally shaved, razor-thin brows. A silver lip piercing caught the light whenever she smiled, while pointed ears glittered with matching silver earrings. Conversations faltered. Several men stopped mid-stride, openly staring before hurriedly pretending they hadn't. Others peeked over the tops of their cubicles or around the edges of computer monitors, curiosity momentarily overpowering professionalism. Beautiful.

And unmistakably an Abomination. Shamira's blood ran cold.

"R-Rhizome." The Spore Mother smiled.

"It's good to see you too, Shami."

"What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be down here. This floor's for human operations, engineering, logistics. You're supposed to be..."

"Above?"

"Exactly." Rhizome laughed softly.

"I needed a break. Astaga..." My word... Shamira translated automatically in her head. Rhizome had an old habit of slipping into Bahasa Indonesia whenever she was emotional. Over the years, Shamira had picked up enough to recognize the common phrases without thinking about them.

"How do you know about him?"

"He fought us. The Talons. The Operatives. The other Abominations."

"All of you?"

"Eleven. He slaughtered eight before the fight even began." Shamira blinked.

"Eight?"

"Ya." Rhizome rested both elbows on the desk.

"How've you been, anyway? Still seeing that handsome Enforcer?" Shamira stared.

"You're changing the subject."

"I am."

"You just said eight Abominations died."

"Yes, but you've got a lovely new hairstyle." Shamira instinctively touched her ponytail.

"Thank you?"

"It suits you. Oh! And are you still keeping that little plant alive?" She glanced at the succulent.

"Gerald?"

"That's his name!" Rhizome beamed.

"I always forget. He's adorable."

"You remember the plant but not that eight of you died?"

"They're unrelated conversations." Shamira sighed.

"You're unbelievable."

"I try." Rhizome leaned in conspiratorially.

"Have you heard Lucy from logistics finally accepted Hassan's date?" Shamira blinked.

"No."

"About time. He'd been flirting with her for months."

"Rhizome."

"What?"

"You are literally one of the most dangerous entities in existence."

"And?"

"…You're gossiping." Rhizome looked genuinely confused.

"Well... yes." She smiled brightly.

"Dangerous people deserve tea too, don't they?" Shamira nearly dropped her mug.

"How did he do it?" Rhizome held out a hand.

"Got any gum?" Shamira stared at her for a long moment, then sighed, reached into a drawer, and slid over a packet.

"Thanks." Rhizome popped a piece into her mouth with a contented hum.

"Much better." Shamira folded her arms.

"Now answer the question." Rhizome chewed thoughtfully.

"I wish I knew. He didn't just fight us. He studied us. Outthought us. And when that wasn't enough, he overpowered us." She shrugged.

"He trapped us inside his pocket dimension. I only escaped because Warpfluff punched him out of it."

"So he's still alive."

"I suspect." Shamira frowned.

"Eight Abominations... How does that even happen?" Rhizome slowly blew a bubble before letting it pop.

"Well... I know the Antarctic Faction Abominations are awkwardly built different. Compared to them, almost every other Abomination looks about as threatening as a Gene-User." Shamira almost laughed.

"Gene-Users aren't weak. If I remember correctly." Rhizome rolled her eyes.

"Shami, the weakest Abomination would butcher dozens, probably a hundred Gene-Users without breaking a sweat."

"That much?"

"Easily." Rhizome rested her chin on her palm.

"Gene-Users are terrifying by human standards. Abominations stopped caring about human standards a very long time ago." Mira took a sip of now-cold coffee.

"We need to prepare."

"I already warned everyone. The Magpie Commander. The Talons. The Operatives."

"And the other Abominations?" Rhizome smiled weakly." Mudah-mudahan... hopefully they're fine."

"Wow."

"I don't want to fight him again. If he survives and comes here... I'm leaving."

"You can't just leave."

"I can. I will." Shamira's hands trembled around her mug.

"…Eight Abominations..." Her voice barely emerged.

"I've never even heard of that being possible." Killing one Abomination bordered on fantasy. Eight... She couldn't even comprehend what that meant. Rhizome noticed immediately. Tiny emerald spores drifted lazily from her skin, glowing softly as they settled around Shamira. The tightness in her chest eased. Her racing thoughts slowed. The fear simply... dissolved, carried away by the spores as gently as leaves on a breeze. Shamira let out a long breath.

"…I never get used to you doing that." Rhizome blinked.

"Doing what?"

"Reaching into people's minds." Shamira shuddered.

"You could take over an entire city with those spores." Rhizome tilted her head.

"A city?" She laughed.

"No, Shami. A country. A large one." Shamira's stomach dropped. Rhizome rested her chin in her hand.

"That's about the bare minimum to be considered an Abomination."

"Bare minimum?"

"Ya." She smiled pleasantly.

"If you can't, at the very least, depopulate a country without any relative stress, you're probably not qualifying as an Abomination." Silence settled between them.

"It's been a while," Mira said.

"Two years."

"I missed you."

"I missed you too." After another quiet moment, Mira muttered, "They call him the Antarctic Assassin. The Syndicate's been trying to contain him for years."

"Clearly they've been failing."

"... Yeah." Mira looked at her friend.

"I'm taking a day off." Rhizome raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"If Clock Viperlit comes here, I don't want to be sitting at my desk." Rhizome laughed.

"Itu bijaksana." That's wise. Before she turned, tiny emerald spores drifted lazily from the flowers woven through her hair. They spread soundlessly through the reception hall. Past the security desks, engineers and logistics staff carrying crates and tablets. Nobody even noticed them. One by one, conversations falting for the briefest heartbeat before continuing exactly where they had left off. Except one memory was gone. The discussion simply... ceased to have ever happened.

Shamira watched the spores drift through the entire floor, her stomach tightening.

"You... erased it?" Rhizome glanced back over one shoulder.

"Of course."

"Everyone's?"

"Ya. Everyone except yours." Shamira shivered. Rhizome smiled apologetically.

"It's safer." She gave the receptionist a tiny wave.

"Where are you going?"

"Wherever he isn't."

"Good plan."

"I thought so." Rhizome straightened her dress, adjusted one of the flowers tucked into it, and offered one last warm smile.

"Hati-hati." Take care.

"You too." She walked away. Shamira watched until the Spore Mother disappeared around the corner. The reception floor carried on as though nothing unusual had happened. Somehow... Shamira found that far scarier than if everyone had remembered. She watched her disappear before turning back to her desk. The corrupted footage had flickered out. The monitor was blank. Her eyes drifted to the newspaper still lying beside the keyboard. CLOCK VIPERLIT SIGHTED IN THREE SECTORS SIMULTANEOUSLY. She stared at the headline.

"Damn it." Reaching for her mug, she found it empty. She sighed.