It was an unusually cold day for April, even more so here in the 'Plex. The Dallas/Fort Worth area was notorious for always being at least five degrees warmer than the rest of the state, but someone forgot to mention that to the frigid temperatures.
I looked down at my fingers, noting the bluish tinge under my nails as they curled around my latte. On the bright side, I couldn't feel it. But, it sure would be nice to just taste the coffee for once, I thought as I took a long sip.
Countless points of data flashed across the periphery of my vision: the thermal gradient of the cup (62°C), the ethical rating of the espresso bean sourcing (D-), and a biometric profile of the barista who made it.
I mentally swiped it all away, clearing my internal Heads Up Display, except for the profile.
Her name is Lucy, by the way. Twenty-four. Cute. And apparently into me.
And all I wanted was to taste my coffee.
DAYDREAM LATER.
"So we're not on speaking terms now?" I whispered into my mug.
STAY ENGAGED.
Engaged. Right. All the way until you put me in the passenger seat of my own body. I bet this latte is perfect...
FOCUS, ASSET.
"Ass," I whispered. "We aren't using names either apparently. And why am I wearing a dress? It's forty-five degrees, practically freezing, and I'm sitting on a bench in the middle of a park wearing a dress."
CORRECTION: IT IS 7.22°C. AND I THOUGHT YOU COULDN'T FEEL ANYTHING.
"No thanks to you, I can't. But this." I looked down at the short skirted dress and knee-high, heeled boots. And the goose bumps. "This isn't practical. Like, at all. I can't run in these and I look clueless. You could have at least given me leggings."
CAMOUFLAGE PARAMETERS REQUIRED 'FEMININE VULNERABILITY'. LEGGINGS SUGGEST ATHLETICISM.
I hate you.
I HEARD THAT.
I rolled my eyes. Then, the text vanished, replaced by the other way she communicated. If the text was annoying, listening to her was worse.
"Petulance is inefficient, Elise," the voice whispered.
She didn't speak through my ears. She bypassed the eardrum entirely, vibrating directly against my auditory cortex.
"You are behaving like a child," the ghost in my head scolded, turning my own voice against me. "Sit up. You look like a slouching gargoyle."
"I look like a frozen popsicle," I muttered back.
"They are functionally identical. Now, compose yourself."
I sighed and brought the cup to my lips. My wrist locked rigid as steel.
"Dammit, Ivy!"
QUIET. TARGET APPROACHING. BEARING 090. DISTANCE: 15 METERS. PUT THE COFFEE DOWN.
The invisible grip on my wrist loosened. A red triangle appeared in my HUD to my left, tagging a man walking along the concrete path.
I ignored the tag. I tried to sneak the cup back to my lips—a small rebellion.
My arm jerked. Hard. Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim as my hand was forced down to my lap against my will.
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PUT IT DOWN OR I WILL, ELISE.
"Fine," I grumbled, setting the cup on the bench with a little too much force. "But don't even think about spilling it."
DISTANCE: 9 METERS. EFFECTING CONTROL.
"Thanks for the warning."
I felt the familiar cold sensation wash over my spine—the only thing I ever felt when Ivy was driving. It halted the unfelt shivering instantly, locking my joints and turning me into a passenger in my own body.
My posture corrected itself. My chin lifted. The shivers vanished, replaced by a terrifying stillness.
SOMATIC OVERRIDE: ACTIVE.
"Effective." My voice, her words.
I watched through eyes that didn't blink as the red triangle moved closer. A man in a heavy charcoal trench coat stopped at the edge of the bench. He smelled of synthetic leather and cheap musk. I felt my body shift, relaxing and reshaping into something more timid. Vulnerable. I wanted to retch.
"Bit cold for a picnic, isn't it, sweetheart?" Robert Stroika said, grinning.
His voice was oily, smug. He was sizing up the frozen, helpless girl in the dress.
Another barrage of data points, profiles, and details filled my vision. I couldn't swipe them away this time, so I tried to think about Lucy. Her smile. The smell of the coffee beans.
Anything to not have to watch.
GLUCOSE LEVEL: 89%. STOP IT. YOU ARE BURNING RESOURCES.
The man sat down next to me, uninvited. The heat radiating off his coat was substantial. Ivy began to lean into it with faux hesitation, then stopped and sat rigid—a deer caught in headlights.
TARGET CONFIRMED: STROIKA, ROBERT J.
AGE: 54.
ROLE: SENIOR MANAGER, SECTION 10 LOGISTICS.
JUDGMENT: PROCEED.
"I'm waiting for a friend," we said. "But she's late. I'm worried about her."
The tone was perfectly calibrated: 80% fear, 20% hope. It was a lie I hadn't chosen to tell.
The man smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. He slid an arm along the back of the bench, his fingers brushing the fabric of my light coat.
"Well," he purred. "Maybe I can keep you company until she gets here."
We looked away, only to have her look back at Stroika with a shy glance.
"But I don't know you."
The man's grin grew in what he thought was friendliness, but looked like hunger.
"Well, now you do. I'm Bob. You must be new to Dallas, hon. Where are you from? Are you British?"
Bob. Ick.
"I am. Manchester," she lied.
For the record: I am not from Manchester. Or England. Or even New England. More like Midland... No, it's the Mid-Cities now, but the accent... Yeah. That was a parting gift when Ivy was installed.
STOP IT. GLUCOSE LEVEL: 82%.
"I love the accent," Stroika said, leaning closer. The smell of stale tobacco and mint gum washed over me. "Very exotic for the 'Plex."
His hand moved from the back of the bench to my shoulder. A heavy, possessive weight.
"It is a long way from home," we said softly. "And I'm afraid I'm a bit lost."
"Lost?" Stroika’s eyes lit up. His hand moved to my ponytail, his fingers lightly playing in my hair.
I wanted to vomit, but Ivy suppressed the gag reflex.
"Well, getting things where they need to go is my specialty."
He tapped the breast pocket of his coat. A dull, metallic clink sounded.
Auditory signature confirmed, Ivy noted. Secure Storage Drive, Class A. Target is carrying the payload.
Finally, I thought. Can we hit him now? He’s touching me.
Patience. Let him offer.
"I could take you for a ride," Stroika grinned, his fingers squeezing my shoulder. "Show you the skyline from the Plateaus. Have you ever seen the city from above the smog line?"
We looked up at him. Ivy widened my eyes, dialing the 'innocence' parameter to maximum.
"I haven't," we whispered. "Is it beautiful?"
"It's breathtaking. When was the last time you saw a blue sky?" he said, and he started to stand up, keeping his hand on me to guide me up with him. "My car is just over there."
Target posture: Unbalanced, Ivy calculated. Center of gravity: High. Payload: Accessible.
EXECUTE.
The world snapped.
One moment, I was a shivering girl looking up with wide, hopeful eyes.
The next, my left hand shot up.
A knife hand, striking with the force of a pneumatic piston and landing with a sound like a crushed juice box, collapsed Stroika's larynx.
His hand fell from my ponytail as he stumbled back, clutching his throat.
He tried to inhale, but Ivy had collapsed his windpipe with surgical precision.
We stood. Smooth. Silent. Then we crumpled the man with a thrusting kick to his solar plexus, the ball of our booted foot crushing the sternum.
"Change of plans, Robert," we said, my inherited accent now clipped and cold as ice. "We are skipping the tour."
Stroika fell to his knees, wheezing, his face turning a dark, violaceous purple.
GLUCOSE LEVEL: 62%. ACQUIRE PAYLOAD.
We walked forward. He tried to raise a hand to stop us.
We slapped it away—hard enough to crack the wrist bone—and reached into his breast pocket. My fingers closed around the cold metal of the drive.
"Thank you for the delivery," we said.
Then, Ivy did something necessary, but hateful.
She looked at the coffee cup still sitting on the bench. The one I hadn't tasted.
Combat requires both hands, she stated.
"No," I pleaded internally.
Ivy ignored me. She just turned my body and walked away.
"Please," I pleaded again. "I need it."
GLUCOSE LEVEL: 52%.
The text flashed red. Ivy paused.
Without a word, we spun and snatched the paper cup from the bench, then walked away, leaving Robert Stroika choking on his own arrogance in the middle of the park.
TASTE RECEPTORS: REACTIVATED.
"Happy now?" the voice asked, dripping with condescension.
I drank, savoring the sweet vanilla and espresso and Lucy's smile, finally feeling the only warm things left in the entire world, and disappeared into the grey mist of the park.
