Angelo's was exactly what Cole needed. Loud and blessedly free of weeping masks or invasive scans.

  The joint survived multiple corporate buyouts. The sign stuttered Authentic Pre-Collapse Pizza between pink and dead. The air smelled of basil. Garlic. The sharp tang of non-synthetic cheese.

  Underneath that, Cole caught other scents. Organic oregano, tomatoes, the yeast-and-flour smell of dough that hadn't come from a printer. It was a dive. But the authenticity wasn't a lie.

  They seized a corner booth. The kind with cracked leather and a table that wobbled if you leaned on it wrong. Walls were plastered with Pre-Collapse ghosts. Beaches that didn't exist anymore, cities that were now crater lakes, people smiling without visible augmentations.

  In the adjacent booth was a couple. The woman's arms covered in serpentine chrome that writhed with its own intelligence. Her partner watched the arms like they were snakes in the grass. Cole recognized the model. Medusa-class neural interface tentacles, designed for multitasking but notorious for developing their own opinions about what tasks were priority.

  "Two slices. Pepperoni. Heavy load," Ashley told the counter kid. "And whatever solvent you pass off as beer."

  "Double it," Cole said.

  "Beer's beer," the kid said with a shrug that made his mismatched servos whine. "Two slice specials. Fifteen minutes."

  "That'll do," Ashley replied.

  They sat in silence while waiting for the food. The adrenaline from the simulation was finally fading, leaving Cole feeling hollow and shaky.

  The pizza finally hit the table. Cheese bubbling. Pepperoni sweating grease. The scent profile alone justified the trek. Ashley folded her slice in a perfect New York style. She took a bite, pulling a golden string of cheese.

  Cole pulled out a fork and knife.

  She stared. "You are not serious."

  "Keeps the grease off my fingers. This arm's actuators are sensitive to oil buildup."

  "You could just... wipe your hands?"

  "You could just eat pizza like a normal person instead of folding it into origami."

  "This is how you're supposed to eat it. It's traditional."

  "Traditional from where? The mystical land of pizza protocol?"

  "New York. Pre-Collapse."

  "That was over a hundred years ago. I think the statute of limitations on pizza etiquette has expired."

  She balled up a napkin and pelted him. "You're impossible."

  "I chose to keep my arm functional."

  "There are sacrifices too great to ask of anyone." She smiled. "Next you'll tell me you drink beer with a straw."

  "Only the light stuff."

  "Monster."

  The food was legit. Sauce had the acidic bite. Cheese had tensile strength. Pepperoni brought actual heat, not just salt and red dye #4.

  An old man at the counter was arguing with the kid about prices, waving a credstick like a weapon. "Fifteen credits for two slices? Highway robbery! Back in my day—"

  The kid interrupted. "You want real ingredients, you pay real prices."

  The old man grumbled. Authorized the transfer. He shuffled past the booth. Cole caught a glimpse of his neck—surgical scars in a pattern that suggested military-grade neural enhancement. Another veteran of the Rift Wars, trying to pretend he was just a normal old man complaining about inflation.

  The woman with the Medusa arms suddenly stood, her augmentations flaring out like an angry octopus. "I said no onions!" she screamed at her partner. "You know what onions do to my chemical balance!"

  Her partner raised his hands defensively. "Baby, I didn't order—"

  One of her chrome tentacles whipped out, knocking the pizza box off their table. The entire restaurant went quiet for a moment, then returned to their conversations. Angelo's first rule: mind your own business.

  Ashley took another bite. "Relationship goals."

  "At least they're communicating," Cole replied dryly.

  "Those missionaries," Cole said eventually. "You really go to Lucent cathedrals?"

  Ashley shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. "Sometimes. Mostly for the quiet. My parents were believers. Thought the Domains were divine gifts, sacred evolution, all that." She took another bite. "I never bought into it the same way they did."

  "But you still go?"

  "Habit, I guess. Or maybe guilt. They wanted me to be more involved." She wiped her hands on a napkin, deflecting. "What about you? You looked ready to punch that guy for scanning your Sequence."

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Cole cut another piece of pizza. "I don't like being scanned without permission. And I don't trust them."

  "Bad experience?"

  "My mother died in a car crash. My father? Died in a factory collapse in the lower districts—structural failure, cost-cutting, the usual corpo bullshit. Three different churches showed up to the memorial. Swarm, Lucent, Forge. All offering 'spiritual comfort' and pamphlets about how tragedy brings us closer to our true Divine path."

  Ashley's expression flickered, something complex Cole couldn't quite read. Sympathy? Guilt? She looked down at her pizza.

  "They used grief as a recruitment tool," Cole continued. "Told me my parents' death was part of a larger plan, that I could honor them by following the Divine path. The Lucent priest actually said, and I'll never forget this, that their deaths were a gift, freeing me to pursue power without earthly attachments. Such confidence in beings that showed up out of nowhere explaining the bare minimum."

  "That's..." Ashley paused, choosing her words carefully. "That's horrible."

  Cole took a sip of his beer. "When my parents were buried, no space deity brought them back. No Domain ability reversed time. Just two bodies in the ground and me scrambling to pay rent and feed my sister."

  The silence stretched. Ashley traced a finger along the edge of her plate, leaving a clean line in the grease.

  "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That they used your grief like that. To recruit."

  "You sound like you've seen it before."

  "My parents' church did the same thing. Funerals, disasters, anywhere people were vulnerable." She met his eyes. "It's why I stopped going regularly. Felt too much like... predation."

  Cole studied her. "But you still visit the cathedrals."

  "Because walking away completely would break my mother's heart. She still thinks I'll 'find my way back to the light." The bitterness in her voice sounded genuine. "Some battles aren't worth fighting."

  "Fair enough." Cole took another bite. "So you don't believe in the divine gift bullshit?"

  Ashley hesitated, just a fraction of a second. "I think... the Domains are what they are. Tools. Weapons. Whether they came from gods or lab experiments or a cosmic accident doesn't change what we have to do with them." She finished her slice. "Kill to get stronger. That's just survival with extra steps."

  "Agreed."

  "Besides," Ashley added, her tone lighter now, "if the Lucent Church really had all the answers, they wouldn't need missionaries with weeping masks to scare people into joining."

  Cole almost smiled. "That's a good point."

  "The mainstream churches at least pretend to be subtle. Those splinter sects..." She shook her head. "They're what happens when faith becomes performance art."

  "How do they even operate openly? You'd think scanning people on the street would get them shut down."

  "All the Domain churches, they all have corporate backing now. Tax breaks, political influence, the whole infrastructure. They operate like businesses with theology departments. But the splinter sects? They're what happens when true believers get kicked out for being too zealous. The mainstream Lucent Church teaches that light reveals divine truth. The splinter sects believe they ARE the light, and everyone else is darkness that needs purging."

  "Can’t believe the city just lets them operate so freely"

  "As long as they don't kill anyone publicly, yeah. Freedom of religion is one of the few laws Forge City actually enforces. Keeps the churches from going to war with each other. Again."

  “Yeah, remember my mother telling me about when the Swarm and Flesh churches had a theological dispute about whether individual consciousness was sacred or an obstacle to evolution. She almost got caught in that street war that left a couple hundred dead. Didn’t dare to step outside until the Corps brokered a peace treaty that basically said: believe whatever you want, recruit however you want, just don't make it the city's problem. Anyhow tomorrow night's the real show."

  "Nervous?"

  "Should I be?"

  "The Grand Mirage has killed people for less than what we're attempting. But I’m confident we can pull this through. You’re so close to perfecting the tagging.”

  The counter kid brought their second round.

  "Can I ask you something?" Cole said.

  "You've been asking things since we sat down."

  "This one's personal."

  Ashley raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Why me?”

  Ashley's expression softened slightly. "You're the type who tries even when the odds are impossible."

  They left Angelo's as the afternoon was dying, the sun finally giving up its fight against the smog and surrendering to an early twilight. The streets were shifting from day crowd to night crowd. Office workers heading home, dealers and muscle heading out.

  "One more simulation," Ashley said as they walked back to their building. "I want to see if the food helped clear your head."

  "Really? Now?"

  "One more. I need to see if you've internalized it."

  They made their way back through the shifting crowds. The missionaries were gone from the intersection.

  Back in her tactical suite, Cole settled into the neural interface chair. The familiar sensation of the connection washed over him, and suddenly he was standing in the Grand Mirage again.

  "Same scenario," Ashley said. "But this time, don't think. Just move."

  The sim loaded. Cole leaned against the bar. No flight plan this time. He ordered a whiskey. The neural feedback simulated the ethanol burn perfectly. When Ashley's win triggered the chaos, he didn't twitch. He finished the drink. Set the glass down. It was the heavy, resigned motion of a man whose parlay just busted.

  Then he moved. Not toward Calder, but toward the bathroom. It was a natural path that would take him right past the table. As Calder stood to leave, furious at his loss, Cole was already there. Just existing in the way.

  Calder bumped into him, hard. Cole stumbled, genuinely off-balance from the collision. He reached out instinctively, grabbing Calder's arm to steady himself.

  "Whoa. Easy." The slur was subtle. Just enough to sell the impairment. "Floors are slick. You know?"

  His hand stayed on Calder's arm as he regained his balance, patting it apologetically. The tracker activated.

  "Watch it," Cross snapped. He brushed past, focus locked on his own anger.

  The simulation ended.

  "There we go." Ashley killed the terminal. "That's the Cole I need tomorrow night."

  She powered down the main bank. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we do final preparations. The tournament starts at nine PM, but we need to be in position by seven."

  Cole nodded. The exhaustion was deep. It lived in the marrow and the metal alike. "Thanks for the pizza. And for not making me run another thirty simulations."

  "Thirty-one," she corrected with a small smile. "But who's counting?"

  Cole made his way back to his apartment.

  The apartment felt pressurized when he entered. Like the walls had crept inward while he was gone. The bed looked like the only truth left in the city.

  He stripped off the jacket. He winced. The movement pulled at the new hardware still trying to shake hands with his nervous system. Tomorrow night, he'd find out if all this preparation, all these modifications, would be enough.

  He set an alarm, though he doubted he'd need it. The anticipation would probably wake him before it rang.

  In the dream state, he was still in the sim. Endlessly bumping into strangers. Loop. Repeat. Loop. Repeat.