When I regain consciousness, every part of my body aches where I've been pummeled. My breasts are bruised and sore in my custom molded kevlar breastplate. I probe the bloodied puncture wounds on my neck and inside my thighs. When I try to sit up, I groan in pain and collapse on the floor with a thud. Something has dragged me back to the thirteenth floor and left me next to Evander's decapitated head.

What attacked me? Why was this creature off my radar when I retired Evander? 

Gritting my teeth, I roll onto my knees and stand up to brace myself against the filthy concrete. I have to get back to my vehicle. Mid stride, I freeze. I can't leave Evander face down in a pool of his own blood. I stagger over to the window frame where shades cover the openings, flapping in the wind like ragged kites. The glass is long gone exposing the room to the elements, but an overhanging arch keeps most of the rain from entering the room. Tearing a section of filthy shroud-like panels from the window's frame, I wrap his head in a bloody bundle. As I stumble into the hallway, the pockmarked walls tilt at a thirty-degree angle.

Come on, Zoe. One step in front of the other.

I stagger to my hover car. A loud noise from behind a rubble of concrete makes me drop the bundle and drop to my knees, sword raised. An undead appears from behind a pile of concrete rubble and lurches towards me. I'm startled by the blush of warmth in his cadaverous, rotting cheeks. He's been reanimated with a large amount of blood. The creature breaks into an unsteady lope, his rabid eyes locked on my neck.  At the last minute, I gather what's left of my strength and shoot upwards, swinging my sword in a concentric arc. His cleanly sliced rotting head lands with a soft thud. The body starts crawling towards his caterwauling head. Before his two undead body parts can unite, I bring my flaming sword down and pin the gaping head to the ground. The mouth snarls and snaps at me until it bursts into flames. Suppressing a shudder, I recover Evander's bundled head and secure it in a cryogenic chamber in the trunk.

Shit, that was close.

With the last of my strength, I open the dashboard to inject myself with healing accelerant from a Trinity med kit. Searing pain burns through my veins and I wince. As a precaution, I use the antibiotic salve to disinfect the puncture wounds. I can't face my superior with Evander's infected status and his decapitated head. They will sanction his destruction. They will order me to dismember and burn the rest of him. This is my fault. I need time to think. I decide to return to my small utilitarian apartment. The power is out again and candles burn in tenant windows as if it's the Middle Ages instead of 2089.

Three hours have passed since I retired Evander. To me, it feels like an eternity. Standing inside my antechamber, I should be de-energizing my sword, but guilt holds me in a vice-like grip. I remember the bewildered look on his face. Did I even question his innocence before I took my partner's head last night?  The answer burns in my heart. 

He didn't deserve what I did to him.

I examine my bruised face in the cleansing room's reflective surface. The pupils of my eyes are dilated, but the irises are still green. I haven't been infected. Yet. Something fed on me, but didn't rape or turn me.

Why? Why didn't it kill me? If I'm going to fight this creature I need to know it's nature.

Few night stalkers have the self control to stop once they start a feeding frenzy—it is akin to a Bengal Tiger walking away from a steak dinner. My Light Sword, a custom katana, lies dormant as a sleeping serpent in the thick shielding bag. I treat it with as much care a wrangler would an irritated black mamba. Fingerprints of dark blood discolor the mercury colored hilt protruding from the bag's mouth—a gory reminder of last night's fiasco—my fuck up.

Perspiration beads my forehead as I pull off my jacket, freeing my arms to handle the sword. Dumping ice into the metal sink, I plunge my hands under the icy water until my fingers are as white and cold as a reanimated corpse. If the sword is temperamental to my touch then this extra precaution will prevent ultraviolet burns on my fingers. I feel the sword cool in my hands as the electromagnetic energy subsides. I lift it from the sink and see Evander's decapitated head staring up at me from the watery depths. His lips are moving, but I can't hear him,

I don't have to hear—I know what he's saying.

Help me.

As the image fades, I press my hands to the side of my face as sobs wrack my chest. Guilt haunts me. He's dead.

Why did I kill him?

I loved him.

I killed him because I loved him.

I swallow my pain and grab a jug of synthetic wine from the kitchen. Drinking isn't a good idea, but it will steady my nerves. Three quarters of an hour later, I've become detached from my emotions. Stripping out of my uniform, I toss the thick, silky fabric into the utility box with my sword and then take another swig of the poor substitute for alcohol. Finished, I kick the nearly empty box into the corner. Protocol requires that I return to the New York field office and file a report, but I've made my decision. I want my partner back.

There must be a way to save Evander.

I will go back to Dredge Towers and create a rift in the timeline of the events. I will change history and never cut off his head. I squeeze my eyes shut as I imagine the repercussions if I'm caught. I will lose not only my status, but also my standing in the faction. Sylex will undoubtedly terminate me from their employment. It's not beyond the realm of possibilities that they will send a Runner, their own version of an assassin after me.

Altering an event loop in space and time is against Guild protocol, but I don't care if I send the planet careening out of orbit and off into space. I activate my sleep chamber and curl myself into a ball. Weightless in the anti gravity cylinder, I twirl restlessly as my nervous system goes offline. The weight of my eyelids become heavy and slowly cover my eyes.

While I sleep, something unbidden slips into my consciousness. There is a blinding light as an image of an ancient sword fills my mind. I awake with a searing pain in my head. Bands of tightening steel are encircling my head. Sweating, I sit up gasping in pain. After five minutes, I'm able to control my limbs long enough to de-energize my sleep chamber. There's a tingling sensation in my palm. Holding it up, I see a red glow in the dark, emanating from my hand. The circular diamond in the center of my palm blinks. The embedded gem is a tracking device implanted by Sylex. It's also a warning that I'm overdue to check in with their Headquarters. I flex my shoulders to try and loosen the tense muscles in my neck. The tingling starts to become a burning sensation. When the gem stays solid for a full minute, I bare my teeth in agony. The pain will grow worse the longer I delay reporting to them. Focusing on my breathing, I close my eyes and distance myself from the throbbing pain. Screw the bureau's directives. With my altered consciousness, I see their manipulative control as clear as day. I would rather have my head explode than bow to them.

Beside me, the Sylex communications unit on my nightstand flashes green numbers. Shadows undulate over the walls announcing the winning lottery numbers. These Outer World lotteries are held by Sylex to appease those waiting to leave the planet. The desperate call these off-world colonies saving life arks, the discontented call them slave encampments for the overlords. Many accuse Sylex of destroying our planet on purpose, but those who complain the loudest never win the lotteries and soon disappear.

I narrow my eyes. Between the cluster of notifications, Sylex's slogan flashes.

<Your world, our vision. Sylex is the future of mankind.>

Rapid words flash in-between the announcements, too fast for the naked eye to see, erupting in coded messages. I stare at the screen. With my altered consciousness, I see it as clear as day.

<CONSUME AND OBEY. The Disobedient will be punished>. The messages flash for a half a second in a repeated subliminal pattern.

I drop to my knees and cover my face with my hands. A veil of ignorance has been ripped from my face. These lotteries are lies. They are a distraction to appease an unsettled population that's being pumped full of corporate propaganda.

Why is Sylex deceiving Terrans?

I look at the gem embedded in my palm. A rush of rage fills me. What else are they lying about?