Invisible Networks #3: PVP, PVself, PVworld

The suited man is anxious, energetic with expectation. "I want to use multiple sources to make sure I have this idea planned out correctly, so I need your services."

I hold back the sigh that's building up in me. "I'll be charging my business rate for this." I'm not enthusiastic to be working with corporate types again. This never goes well if I can't bail out early.

He doesn't seem phased when he reads the price information. It's intentionally inflated to keep these kinds of people out of my hair. And he simply nods. No negotiation, just ready to pay out. I give in. After getting enough information to start the search, I find what I'm looking for quickly. "Ok, I think I've locked on to the server. I'll just pull the file with the most use to see if we have the right one." With some concentration, I'm able to load the document with the latest modification date. I read but don't read aloud.

KingBuilder User Profile
Username: V4peS1th
Account creation date: 05/12/2033
Seed Mode Final Clout Score: 53,586
Branch Mode Final Clout Score: 78,545
King Mode Final Clout Score: 354,290
Staff Notes:
User Upgraded to Branch Mode at 02/04/2036, defeating 14,596 other users in written debate. Third user to receive this promotion. Tachyon stimulant administered at 02/07/2036.
User Upgraded to King Mode at 07/23/2036, upon defeating 2,125 alternate selves in written/verbal debate. All other Branch Mode users lost to alternate selves at this point in time. Override implant installed at 08/06/2036, successful connection to the defense grids of 23 countries.
User takes control of the military and government structures of 60% of Europe, 30% of South America and 80% of North America on 09/07/2036. Casualties within acceptable limits.
User's uplink site compromised by opposing international task force at 10/25/2036. User terminated and neural scan backups destroyed by enemy forces. Estimate 64% of global power structure under user's control at time of death. The failure is a setback and KingBuilder must be rebranded during the second attempt, but user's psychological profile will be useful in fast-tracking the most effective candidates in the next version.

I'm speechless. Horrified. In my years as a professional fortune teller I'd never seen something so drastic occupy such a strong potential future. I'm glad this monster can't read the file in the crystal ball and have his ambitions partially affirmed.

"I knew it! KingBuilder does the impossible and forges the perfect world leader to take control of mankind's destiny!" He's taken notice of my reaction, but is fortunately misreading it.

My mind races. I could lie, but he seems to believe in himself enough to try this no matter what I say. Precognitive crime reports aren't taken seriously, and I have the feeling he'll ignore the law regardless.

I try to lie, to stall. But my voice seems gone as my mouth moves. I know what this will mean for me, but I don't see any other way to properly prevent this future.

As he leans forward expecting my answer, I reach for the revolver I keep under the table . . .

Invisible Networks #2: Ludonymity

The figure in the booth perks up, and speaks to the new arrival. "Welcome to the afterlife! I'll be helping you with finalizing the details of your identity."

The new arrival stops, unsure, then speaks. "What do you mean? This isn't what's supposed to be here."

The figure chuckles. "That's what happens when all the marketing materials you see are third hand or worse. But with a quick review of your life we'll be able to find your name and get you started."

Confusion appears on the arrival's face. "My name? But I already have my name. I'm Ä̸̻̻̫̞͉͉́̀͌̇l̸̞͕͉̭͊̔͘f̷̛̹̽̎͐̽̅g̴̡̧̠̪͇̒͋̉͝ÿ̷̥̪̝̤́̏̓͂ŭ̷̩͍̼͖̫̈́̊͜d̸̨̨͇̙̱̹̊-"

The new arrival chokes on his attempt to speak, collapsing to his knees.

The figure in the booth straightens a bit to make sure the arrival is fine. "No, not those kinds of names. They're too weak, never truly stick to a person because they aren't the person."

The new arrival recovers and manages to stand up. The figure in the booth continues.

"We see what you did to succeed, what you did to rest and what you dreamed of. All these factors shape your true name. So let's see . . ."

The figure in the booth opens an impractically-large book, flipping through it with the expertise of someone who knows the exact page they're looking for.

"Electrical engineer. Technical inclination but doesn't say too much about you. Ah, here we are. Roughly 80,000 hours between various games as your downtime activity, so this is where the bulk of your name will be."

The figure pulls out another book, cross-referencing something the new arrival can't see. "So you're a craftsman at work, but at home you're an explorer. Your Minecraft playtime is noted as primarily spent exploring, very little building. A large portion of your games played fall into the wanderer genre, what your time period still calls 'walking simulators'. You find peace in the sights of vast and impossible vistas, seeking new worlds for little other reason than to see them. Your aesthetic leanings are towards rolling hills and expansive mountains, uneven cloud banks and sunsets of impossible spectra."

The arrival listens, and nods in acknowledgement. "But surely with the sheer population of humanity, there must be hundreds if not thousands of people that share those inclinations, and some who hold the same career. How will the name I get be mine?"

"Because we go deeper. Your most significant memories of games in your youth involved exploring custom maps, exploring spaces impractically large for the intended activities of the platform. You hacked your copy of No Man's Sky to remove the survival mechanics and resource system, because you were that intent on the exploration. Your most viral tweet was 'I need a dating sim that allows me to romance and seduce the Icelandic landscape. Not the people there, just the terrain.'"

The arrival covers his face, embarrassed. "Can we move this along?"

The figure lets a smirk cross their face. "I've already input the rest into the computer. It should be finished in a few moments."

A slot in the booth that the arrival swore wasn't there before produces a sheet of paper. It looks like a combination of fractal patterns and several different matrix barcode layouts. He can't read it, but as he looks into the pattern it just feels right. He opens his mouth to attempt to speak this expression of his true self. "Lllli-"

The figure sharply raises a finger to silence the arrival. "I'd hold off on trying to pronounce that, since you just so recently attempted to say one of your old names. Give it a few hours and you should be fine. You're now registered into the afterlife, and everyone you've held a strong bond with is already added to your connection list. Would you like to receive notifications for when your other connections join us? You can always change this in the settings later."

The arrival pauses, softly smiles. "Yes, I'd like that."

The figure nods, presses a button on an out-of-view control panel, and then a large door that the arrival is sure wasn't there before begins to swing open. "Welcome and enjoy your stay." The figure says.

Invisible Networks #1: "Architectural Interface"

(This is the first of a series of posts taking part in Invisible Networks, taking place throughout February.)

I don't want to be awake right now. I'm supposed to be too important to wake up for these sort of problems, yet here I am sipping unappetizing coffee that's gone lukewarm as I stare at this crisis command room. God, it feels like we should be here because of some rocket launching, not some paranoid nonsense about Foundation.

Everyone else has already been here for a good five or so hours. The room is getting stuffy, and at least one person's deodorant isn't up to task. I'd snap at the person responsible at any other day but right now I'm too angry for even harsh words.

"Director MacHothens!" That's Assistant Director Brown stumbling over to my desk. His suit is a mess and he's too frantic to succumb to the slight intimidation he usually seems to show in my presence. Is that an overstuffed file folder in his hands? Christ man, we have tablets and wifi here for a reason.

"Brown!" My voice is surprisingly firm and calm, despite the feeling quite the opposite inside. "No one was able to give me a straight answer over the phone or on the way to this room, so please clearly explain to me why I'm here at 2 AM on a Sunday and not at home with my wife as I should be."

Brown swallows nervously. Not the intimidation, he probably thinks the news is as bad as everyone is acting about. "Well . . . Ma'am . . . I mean Director. Chuck Thorkin, the CEO and inventor of the Foundation Network Interface, was arrested at 5:37 PM yesterday. One of our monitoring targets we suspected to be a middleman in child-trafficking operations had arrived an hour earlier, and our surveillance equipment . . . we caught Thorkin in the act. Our domestic response team currently has him in custody, but there were press at the scene by 8 PM, as well as sightings of drones that may have been journalists trying to follow the vehicle convoy we transported him in."

"This still sounds like it should be something that waits until Monday for the debriefing." I say, surprised to find I still have some meager scraps of patience to use up. I know there's going to be more, and I won't like it.

"Well this ties into the Foundation Network Interface. It's design as a professional social network is tied into a architectural social model. A social circle is represented through an algorithm that translates the dynamics into an architectural equivalent, with people central to a circle being represented in more important parts of the resulting building. Load-bearing supports and foundations. Most of the process is passive on the user end, since the model is updated by pulling from news feeds and the other social sites rapidly." Brown is starting to talk faster. Maybe he hopes that the momentum will make this awful situation pass more quickly? Same, buddy. "The problem comes from the API integration, which primarily allows stock managers to set up their own algorithms that hook into Foundation and analyze 'social buildings' associated with publicly-owned companies, automatically buying and selling stock based on the perceived stability in the model."

I hold up my hand to have Brown pause while I rub my temple for a moment and try to use the disappointing coffee aroma to mask the room's worse-than-disappointing fragrance. It's economics again. I hate when it's economics. "Go on."

"Well, when we arrested Thorkin he didn't resist, just said that he had the world in a noose and we were the ones pulling it tight. The agent in charge onsite made the call to impose a press blackout and fast-track Thorkin's interrogation. That might have saved our asses if we can ride this storm. Turns out Thorkin made sure that his own status was tied to the ground itself in the Foundation model."

I almost choke on the coffee. This wasn't the curveball I expected. "The ground? Do you mean . . ."

"When it gets out that he's facing pedophilia charges, the algorithm is essentially going to recreate an apocalypse in Foundation. Every building collapsing in moments as the model updates."

"And when that happens, the stock trading scripts will create a financial crash." I finish for him. Maybe it was the right call for Brown to get me in here.

But Brown has that look on his face, sheepishly telling me the presentation isn't over. "Worse. Apparently Thorkin helped a couple billionaires with controlling stakes in other major companies make their scripts even more hands-off, setting up thresholds where the algorithm identifies a company as lost based on the state of it's Foundation representation. At that point it automates mass-layoffs for the affected company. We don't know how many businesses are tied to this, but at our current estimation at least three percent of the american workforce will be fired if this cascade effect isn't prevented."

"Then we take Foundation offline. If Thorkin has orchestrated a national emergency then we can shut down the servers first and get permission to do so after the fact. That better be what everyone else is working on." Algorithmic layoffs? I've heard the dystopic theories of that becoming widespread in the near future, but I didn't think it'd be this fragile and vulnerable.

One of the staff in a sweat-soaked suit shirt suddenly curses, and the rest of the room goes quiet. "Directional-mic drone managed to catch most of Thorkin's arrest and escape the media blackout. We have a squad on the way to take the journalist into custody but it's too late. There's activity at the CNN, NBC and Forbes offices already, and they're not answering our calls."

I echo the curse, and everyone stares at me. "What's the progress on taking down Foundation?"

"Our Arizona team just shut down their last listed server warehouse, but the site is still online. They must have maintained unlisted backup hosting!" Another staff member who fits well in the crowd of disheveled and stressed government workers replies this time. "Cybersec is tracking down the current server locations but the deployment time alone may take a couple hours depending on where they are."

And that's it. We're screwed. Financial depression and riots are certain. I continue to lead the others in trying to mitigate damage, but it feels like a separate person is making those orders, that this isn't real. The only thing that feels sharp in my senses is the overview screen of Foundation as the digital ground begins to crack and drag down every entwined human connection with it.

Fortune Botany

As I passed the craps table, the tumble of the dice caught my eyes. Something about the movement, but I couldn't place it. Then I saw the outcome of the roll, and immediately looked to see how the others were reacting. Nothing unusual, just the highs and lows of gambling on their faces as a few grumbled about "damn sevens always being there for someone else".

One dice showed seven dots, and the other had a blank side on top.

Baffled, I took the next opening to join in the game, making safe bets with the few chips I still had. I was shocked once again when I looked back to the dice, which were now a six and a one as the stickman slid them back to the three unused dice. The shooter of that roll was passable for a casino regular, but I caught a few details that subtly marked her as not entirely used to her wealth. A few stray hairs extending away from what would other was have been a uniform waterfall of black, the slight wrinkling in a pantsuit that should have gone to the dry cleaners yesterday, fingernails that were a day or two overdue for a manicure. Overall she rocked a sharp look, assuming you didn't look too closely.

She seemed to notice my interest in her, and quickly shot me a knowing smirk. When the dice came back around to her, she picked a pair without looking and tossed them with the lax attitude of someone who didn't give in to small rituals of good luck. The same strange movement reoccurred, but I couldn't quite put it into words. The first die came to a stop with eight dots on its upward side, and the second die . . .

There was something in the center, where the dot would go on the one face. But the actual one face was on the side facing towards me, and the emptiness in the center of the top face seemed to refuse my direct gaze. I stopped fighting with whatever reflex kept my eyes from looking at that, and noticed the other gamblers. There was a twitch or two in their eyes, but nothing they seemed to notice. They went on as if the total was a seven, and as soon as those dice moved they seemed to lose those impossible sides. This mistress of impossible odds must have noticed that I saw what nobody else would acknowledge, and beckoned me to the bar when the round ended.

We sat towards the further end, so the bartender wouldn't hear as easily while he mixed our orders. "How did you do that?" I said in a whisper, with a touch of urgency and fear I didn't intend. Despite not knowing what was in the center of a die face that apparently represented negative one, that void in a plane of white was fixed in my mind's eye.

She smiled, apparently amused by my reaction. Not at all afraid that she could get thrown out, or worse, if what I saw reached the casino management. "Do what? Roll sevens for those two rounds? Luck, obviously." She replied with a playful voice. The look in her eye told me she knew exactly what I was talking about.

"You know, rolling . . . other sides that aren't supposed to be there, and people still did the math without acting as if anything was wrong with that." I had to suppress my nervousness as the bartender brought our drinks. Mine was my go-to drink, a traditional whiskey sour, but this stranger's drink was something a cloudy black with a garnish of a grapefruit slice and a lavender sprig. I still regret not catching the name of that cocktail.

She delayed the answer, taking a sip while she seemed to savor my building intrigue as much as the drink. "Just luck." She said with an innocent shrug.

"Bullshit, luck doesn't do that for other people."

"Other people don't share my specialization in botany." She smiled as she reached into a pocket of her suit jacket, producing a vial containing a clover with seven leaves. "It's fairly simple once you know how to grow them."

I stared, confused. Four-leaf clovers were considered lucky by tradition, but that didn't mean anything, and it wouldn't be unreasonable for a mutation of the plant to produce seven leaves. That shouldn't be enough to alter her luck, let alone twist dice rolls into impossible pairings. "What?"

Then she produced another vial. Inside was a clover stem with no leaves to count. But then I caught the flicker. Something transparent that was shaped like a clover leaf was attached to the stem, but like with the negative pip on the die I couldn't force my eyes to focus on it. "The other part is understanding how to redistribute luck. Concentrate it into one clover, and another has to hold the debt of luck that generates. The results are pretty normal with five or six leaves, but the interesting results happen when the burden clover has to grow a negative leaf. I'm guessing reality wasn't quite built to handle that much of a difference in fortune."

"Most people can't see the physical manifestation of excessive luck debt, and their brains won't let them acknowledge the result. You're the first natural I've encountered. It took me a week to train myself to look directly at the distortion." She leaned in unnervingly close. "I keep the work secret, of course. The pair intensify their effect when separated by more than a couple of feet, and that could lead to dangerous results in places that can't soak up that shift of luck. Here, I slip the burden clover into someone's pocket and the worst that happens is that they strike out for the night, and I can continue to fund my research entirely with my own winnings."

I took a moment to process the ethical implications of this, since the rest was well beyond my understanding. "But . . . why are you telling me this?"

She leaned back, shrugged and smiled playfully. "I think you're cute. And I make sure the research is well-protected enough that any investigation will prove it to be as nonsensical as most think it is." Popping the lid off of the 'burden' clover's vial, she flicked it in a way so it landed in a passing man's pocket without him noticing, presumably a result of her luck, though now I was much more vulnerable to doubting everything. She removed the seven-leaf clover from the other vial and placed it in my breast pocket. "Consider your fortune for the rest of this night to be my treat." With a wink, she downed the rest of her drink and walked away, leaving me stunned and gaping.

I'd like to meet her again, but after seeing my results for the rest of my gambling for that evening I can only assume it will only happen if she's the one that considers it lucky to do so.

A Day at the Pet Shop

“Ok, that should do it. Let me check the notes again . . . longitude, latitude, altitude, chrona and fracta coordinates are at target values.” Andrik lifted his hand from the keyboard, self-consciously clasping it to his other hand to try to hide the shaking.. “Huh, you’re right. It’s not that hard.”

“Like I said, the computation performs the task for us. The important part of piloting the transit is confirming its accuracy as it happens.” A heavy voice with a slight rumbling rasp to it replied from behind Andrik. “I’ll have you pilot the next few transits, and consider you trained once you demonstrate consistent adherence to procedure, without showing that irrational fear that the fabric of spacetime will bite you like a snake.”

Andrik took a deep breath to calm himself. “Of course boss.” He turned to face the figure. Many things had frightened him when he first took on this job, and most of that fear had passed. But looking at Annak still gave him a slight chill. Over twelve feet tall and sporting a black and tan pattern in his feathers, Annak glared down at Andrik with eyes that were probably trying to appear friendly but fell short of the goal. Andrik suspected that Indian Eagle owls were the closest analogue in appearance, barring the vast difference in size, but Annak didn’t talk about his kind much beyond what was necessary to keep the staff here from going mad with dangerous speculation. Well, unsettling or not, Annak had a good enough mind for management that his presence didn’t detriment the workplace so much as make it more interesting. “I should get back to my other work.”

Annak nodded, a small movement for him that moved his beak over a foot in an arc that had until recently always startled Andrik. “Since we’re in a stable timeline, the preventative maintenance can wait a little bit. See if Zara needs help with modifying the containment unit. I want to make sure it’s ready by the time we have a lead on the target.” The massive owl turned, stepping outside of the room with a grace that seemed impossible with his form. With ceilings rising twenty feet and doors properly sized to be usable for both humans and Annak’s species, it was easy to feel small in the facility.

-----

Zara took another look at the panel that came out of the fabricator. She didn’t know what she was expecting the result to look like, but the plexiglass panel coming out pitch black actually made sense given its purpose. Since it was a small piece, one foot by two feet and only one inch thick, she didn’t need to use the crane for moving it over to the emitter machine.

Andrik entered the workshop just as Zara started cycling through different light wavelengths on the machine. “Yo Zara, I just ran my first transit!” He walked over to the fabricator, reading over the specs loaded in from when Zara had used it. “What’s the point of black plexiglass? If you’re not supposed to see through it, we have better materials for the job.”

Zara considered for a moment. Everyone was jittery with their first time using the transit engine, so acting confused and replying with Who is Zara? How did you get in here? might be a bit cruel. Existential horror wasn’t going to settle Andrik’s nerves with jumping timelines. She finally settled for casual and polite. “Just like Annak says, we don’t really do anything. And it’s for the best that we don’t.” The emitter completed the tests, confirming the panel was in spec. “This is designed to only allow ultraviolet light through. The target creature is supposedly able to photon drift on the visible spectrum, so this will be the only way to observe it in real time without it escaping the containment unit or damaging the monitoring equipment.” She removed the panel and hefted it into Andrik’s arms. “Here, I need to configure the unit’s camera to match. You’re better at fitting fabricated parts anyway.”

Andrik sighed and went to work on installing the panel. “Photon drifting? That doesn’t sound very dangerous. Think I could convince Annak to let me tag along for this retrieval?”

Zara shook her head. Andrik did need some amount of experience with field work eventually, but he was hired for his skill at maintaining the facility, not for his sense of wildlife danger. “Photon drifting is the only thing we know about it until we encounter it in the field. Being able to ride on ambient light means that it will be able to instantly reposition itself to wherever it can best use its dangerous attributes. Imagine a snake that lunges at you from the front, vanishes, then sinks its fangs into your back before you can even process that it left your field of vision. Given that, it’ll just be you and Annak in the facility, and you know Annak can’t run shop duty.”

Andrik seemed to think about the potential dangers explained to him, then tried to play off the now-apparent trepidation that resulted from those thoughts. “Well, I guess we can’t leave the facility unattended. It’s important work making sure this place doesn’t catch on fire-”

“You’re the one who fireproofed the facility.” Zara cut in.

“-or you know, make sure Annak doesn’t get himself into trouble.” Andrik seemed to realize how weak the justification seemed to be, and focused on getting the panel installed.

Zara ducked down closer to the wiring access to hide her smirk.

-----

Boredom had Andrik by the throat. Or maybe it was bleeding him out. He wasn’t sure what form of slow murder was a good metaphor for what he was feeling as he stood behind the counter, gazing at empty aisles. Smothering? Maybe. He never understood why Annak insisted on having a pet store to act as a front for the facility, especially since very little of what was present could be consistently found across timelines. The afternoon was still early, and he couldn’t close the “store” until what would make sense for a real retail business with real retail business hours.

Just as he felt he was getting the hang of zoning out without necessarily appearing zoned out, the bell to the front door jingled. A jolt of dread passed through him. He wasn’t a people person, and had only tolerated the fast food work long enough to get his master’s degree in electrical engineering. He should be in the back rooms performing routine preventative maintenance instead of reliving the nightmare of customer service.

The customer appeared to be a woman in her early twenties, dressed in what he assumed was american casual wear. Andrik vaguely thought the transit had landed the facility in North America, but he hadn’t taken the time to check. Instincts of good service flooded back into him, urging him to initiate the interaction. “Good afternoon.” Andrik said, maintaining a smile that was more pleasant than he felt. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”

“I’m not sure. My puppy likes to chew up my apartment after I leave for my classes, and I’ve been stumped on how to deal with it. He has half a dozen toys and still prefers to chew the corner of the couch.” She replied, seeming preoccupied with thinking through this problem. If she saw through the Andrik’s false presentation of his state of mind, she didn’t show it. “Is there something that I can spray on my furniture to deter him from chewing on everything? Or something of similar effect?”

Andrik didn’t know. He didn’t have pets in his life, and reacted with wary surprise whenever a domesticated animal showed interest without hostility. “A spray solution could stop the problem, but wouldn’t deal with the source issue.” He said automatically. This was the other part about working the pet shop that unsettled him. Gaps in knowledge were filled in by something else when you were in this room, assuming you worked for Annak. Any question relevant to the store’s subject matter would always have an answer, and Andrik had been told that language barriers weren’t a problem here. He suspected the apron he wore was the source, but he didn’t want to test his theory since the effect was only noticeable when customers were present.

Wondering if this was what spiritual possession felt like, he let the unbidden flow of words tumble out of him.

“That kind of chewing is generally a behavior of anxiety, or just excess energy in general.” He walked over to one of the nearby shelves. It disturbed him that he didn’t know which item he needed to show off until his hand reached for it. A perforated rubber ball was in his hand a moment later. At least he thought it was rubber, but something about the texture was off. “Properly redirecting his energy will help. These are made with a modified rubber recipe that is nontoxic, and provides just the right texture so that most dogs will be content to chew on it over any other material. More exercise and play will also help when possible, but this is a good solution for when you’re not around.” He handed the customer one of the toys.

She gave the rubber an appraising squeeze, looking from it to the price tags. “How durable are these? He’s a Moravian bloodhound, and with those serrated teeth most toys won’t last a week.”

Andrik was certain his eye had twitched. Dogs with serrated teeth? And wasn’t Moravia one of those countries that didn’t exist anymore? Maybe it did here. The things that could slide out of place between the branches of time kept surprising him. “Even serrated teeth will take more than a year to tear these apart. He’ll stay well-occupied with these.”

She smiled, seeming satisfied, and picked two more of the same toy off the shelf. “It’ll be worth stocking up then. I’m glad I saw this place when I was driving by. This isn’t in the online listing for pet supply stores.”

“Verification problems with Google would be my guess.” Andrik said as he walked back to the register. He knew that was one of the common excuses used for the seeming transience of the facility to outsiders, he just wished he was certain that response wasn’t prompted by the apron. With the customer satisfied, he was able to return to a state where he was more certain that his thoughts were truly his own..

-----

Andrik was lying on the couch in the living quarters lounge, mostly-empty beer in hand as he let whatever was on the TV blur into background noise, when he caught the faint sound of the garage opening. As he turned off the TV and stretched, he thought that the van sounded off. A clunk that was heard at the wrong intervals, or something similar that he couldn’t quite consciously grasp. He hoped it wasn’t bad.

And the van looked like it had driven under the beginnings of a rockslide. Dents in the side of the vehicle made Andrik think of someone muscular and angry punching it for traffic violations. As the others hauled away the containment unit, he was certain the sides of it had been flat when he saw it earlier today, he found Zara walking towards him, a slight limp to her step.

“Holy shit. Your photon drifting snake did that?” He was gesturing more towards the van than to her, but Zara seemed to take it as an expression of concern for the crew.

“Not a snake, an armadillo. Little shit would roll into a ball, then conserve momentum from the photon drift to batter predators. We’re fine, a few bruises and some dents to the van. I suspect it didn’t use the full speed of the drift since it wasn’t especially armored, and could easily splatter itself on an unyielding surface if it stopped showing restraint.” She seemed rather cheerful despite how she clearly felt about the animal they just captured. She was even in the mood for teasing. “Did you burn down the shop while we were out?”

“Some of the dog breeds here have serrated teeth.” Andrik’s voice had a hollowness to it, though he wouldn’t have been able to place if it was from this new canine fact, or the condition of the vehicle he was still staring at. He was certain the dents were more than superficial. He’d need to do a full checkup it tomorrow to make sure the sound of something out of place was just his imagination.

The information didn’t seem to phase Zara. “That’s not so bad, and not too uncommon to find in our transits. They’re still just as loveable regardless of that harmless trait.” She started walking towards the interior of the facility as she lazily waved farewell. “Well, you should be back to the job you know best tomorrow. I need to go sleep this day off.”