disrupter that Chord made for me when I turned active. A thin black strip that used the tracking chips in my striker marks to bypass a house lock, it’s no bigger than my hand. He meant for me to use it to find shelter, keeping me safe even as I pushed him away.
Using it to break into the house of a target was not what he had in mind.
I place it in my bag.
After my bed is clear again, I zip up my bag and carefully set it down on the ground, near the door. Within reach if I have reason to leave fast, in secret.
It takes hours to fall asleep. But it’s not Chord’s dark eyes that haunt me, but pale hazel ones instead. Flat and empty and too much like the color of false gold.
“I want you to erase my striker marks.”
If I wasn’t watching him so carefully, I might have missed the tiny flicker in his light eyes. A lick of flame that’s gone before it’s really there. Irritation, surprise, admiration—I can’t tell.
“Otherwise your answer is no?” the Operator says.
“Yes. Otherwise I’m out. You’ll have to find someone else.”
He continues to watch me. Seems content to say nothing in response.
My foot drums rhythmically against my school bag. Not the bag I need, but I had no choice except to take it when Chord picked me up for school this morning. I turned around and left school grounds as soon as his back was turned, grabbing the first inner ward train here to this café.
The bag is not empty. It’s got the homework I didn’t do last night … and the Roark gun the Operator handed over to me as soon as he sat down. In its neat little case, it could pass for something innocent.
“You don’t need any further instruction on how to use it?” the Operator asked me, watching as I’d tucked it carefully into my bag. His light tone was underscored with just enough annoyance that I could tell it was probably killing him to have to listen to my requests.
“No, I’ve got it,” was all I said. Whatever other plans I had, they weren’t for him to know.
Inside my jacket pocket is my gun. It feels awkward there, the fit not quite right—it’s been a long time since I’ve worn a gun with my jacket, or at all.
“You know I cannot risk asking another striker,” the Operator finally says.
“Then you don’t have a choice, do you?” My hands clutch at the coffee cup in front of me. It’s steaming hot, even through my sleeves. I don’t drink any of it. He hasn’t sipped from his cup, either. The coffees are just props. To make us seem normal, two commuters on their way to work or school.
For the Operator, this means being forced to wear something other than the Board-issued gray suit. He’s chosen a suit of a darker gray, and he’s wearing a fedora to cover his bare scalp. His chest pocket has no handkerchief of any color. It feels good to know that I’ve made a Level 1 Operator do something out of the ordinary. Become ordinary—on the surface, anyway.
“The marks are permanent,” he says. “Our lab does not—”
“Your lab can engineer two people who look identical to each other, set up a minibomb in their brain, and tattoo their eyes with a long string of numbers. If they can do all that, then they can remove striker tattoos.”
His face is cold. “It doesn’t change who you are or what you’ve done.”
I can’t argue with the truth. “I never said it would.”
The customers at the table next to us get up to leave, and one of them—a boy a bit older than me—has to squeeze past the Operator to get to the door.
He’s too close, and the Operator mutters something under his breath at the contact.
“Sorry, man,” the boy says.
The Operator’s only response is to tip the front of his hat down another degree, hiding his eyes that much more. His shoulders stiffen just the slightest. No doubt he’s irritated. Here in the Grid there are always too many people and not enough space. Not what a Level 1 Operator is used to.
“Fine.”
I’m caught off guard by the
Using it to break into the house of a target was not what he had in mind.
I place it in my bag.
After my bed is clear again, I zip up my bag and carefully set it down on the ground, near the door. Within reach if I have reason to leave fast, in secret.
It takes hours to fall asleep. But it’s not Chord’s dark eyes that haunt me, but pale hazel ones instead. Flat and empty and too much like the color of false gold.
“I want you to erase my striker marks.”
If I wasn’t watching him so carefully, I might have missed the tiny flicker in his light eyes. A lick of flame that’s gone before it’s really there. Irritation, surprise, admiration—I can’t tell.
“Otherwise your answer is no?” the Operator says.
“Yes. Otherwise I’m out. You’ll have to find someone else.”
He continues to watch me. Seems content to say nothing in response.
My foot drums rhythmically against my school bag. Not the bag I need, but I had no choice except to take it when Chord picked me up for school this morning. I turned around and left school grounds as soon as his back was turned, grabbing the first inner ward train here to this café.
The bag is not empty. It’s got the homework I didn’t do last night … and the Roark gun the Operator handed over to me as soon as he sat down. In its neat little case, it could pass for something innocent.
“You don’t need any further instruction on how to use it?” the Operator asked me, watching as I’d tucked it carefully into my bag. His light tone was underscored with just enough annoyance that I could tell it was probably killing him to have to listen to my requests.
“No, I’ve got it,” was all I said. Whatever other plans I had, they weren’t for him to know.
Inside my jacket pocket is my gun. It feels awkward there, the fit not quite right—it’s been a long time since I’ve worn a gun with my jacket, or at all.
“You know I cannot risk asking another striker,” the Operator finally says.
“Then you don’t have a choice, do you?” My hands clutch at the coffee cup in front of me. It’s steaming hot, even through my sleeves. I don’t drink any of it. He hasn’t sipped from his cup, either. The coffees are just props. To make us seem normal, two commuters on their way to work or school.
For the Operator, this means being forced to wear something other than the Board-issued gray suit. He’s chosen a suit of a darker gray, and he’s wearing a fedora to cover his bare scalp. His chest pocket has no handkerchief of any color. It feels good to know that I’ve made a Level 1 Operator do something out of the ordinary. Become ordinary—on the surface, anyway.
“The marks are permanent,” he says. “Our lab does not—”
“Your lab can engineer two people who look identical to each other, set up a minibomb in their brain, and tattoo their eyes with a long string of numbers. If they can do all that, then they can remove striker tattoos.”
His face is cold. “It doesn’t change who you are or what you’ve done.”
I can’t argue with the truth. “I never said it would.”
The customers at the table next to us get up to leave, and one of them—a boy a bit older than me—has to squeeze past the Operator to get to the door.
He’s too close, and the Operator mutters something under his breath at the contact.
“Sorry, man,” the boy says.
The Operator’s only response is to tip the front of his hat down another degree, hiding his eyes that much more. His shoulders stiffen just the slightest. No doubt he’s irritated. Here in the Grid there are always too many people and not enough space. Not what a Level 1 Operator is used to.
“Fine.”
I’m caught off guard by the
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