09: Gospel in Chrome

“Do you smoke?" Nico hesitates, then leans across the table and accepts the cigarette with two fingers, the way they do in the movies. He's surprised it's the real thing, greenhouse tobacco rolled in crisp paper – a luxury. The Northpoint fixer leans across the table after him, chasing him back, flicking her gold zippo and lighting his smoke. She's got a flair for retro. Nico has never smoked before, but he inhales anyway, fighting a cough at the sour taste.

“We're nearly done here, I promise," the woman says. She's a lean German Shepherd in a black suit that fits her like fur, two carbon-fibre lines of augmentation running down the sides of her face. She's smiling softly at him, the way people do when they're trying to show how restrained they can be with their pity. It's almost convincing. “Last bit is a formality, just sign this, bio-sig."

The other one, a deer who hasn't sat down since they started, reaches over Nico and places a wafer-thin smart tablet before him, the text scaled too small to read properly. Catching sight of the red panda's raised eyebrows, the deer sighs. “Standard NDA, kid. Can't have every gossblog and subnet in AC blabbing about this." There's an edge to his voice, he's playing bad cop, just like Alaska said. “You understand."

The German Shepherd nods, since she's good cop. “Terror attacks like this, they're designed to make people panic. The more we talk about what happened, the more power we give them." She lets him see an eye-roll toward the deer, then whispers. “To be honest, it's better for you this way. You really want news networks following you everywhere, bugging your house, sending people undercover trying to trick you into talking? This protects you, I'd be glad for it, personally."

Nico makes a show of acquiescence, letting his eyes fall and his shoulders slump. He puts the cigarette to his lips, sucks the sour smoke into his mouth and exhales quickly, without letting it touch his lungs. He clears his throat, half acting, half not trusting his historically honest tongue. “Oh, of-of course, yeah. Mother would hate that." He laughs nervously, and the tablet beeps as he presses his thumb to it.

“Good," the woman says, relaxing. Their work is mostly done, if Nico chooses to talk now that's between him and the merc they send to kill him. The fixer deftly passes her partner the datapad, falling back in her seat and giving Nico her best 'what a day' look. The fur in her neck is stained with the Neodox Church logo, the white ink shimmering under the fluorescent lighting. “I spoke with Yuri's replacement earlier, someone they flew down from the Luna office. Organised ten days off for you starting today, half-pay." Next she shakes her head, and the appalled expression conjured forth is so clearly forced it makes Nico want to puke. She doesn't care, she's scared more than anything else – but they all have a role to play in this little pantomime. “I just can't imagine it, the fire, then the riot… escaping all that only to be run off the road anyway. Your head must be spinning."

The deer scoffs loudly, rounding Nico's chair, the leather of his jacket squelching with the broad swing of each arm. “And executing Kisaramoto-san right in front of you? Scum, just trying to scare us into submission. If I could get my hands on those bastards…"

“André." The German Shepherd shoots her partner a sharp warning look, and he pretends to back off. It's all very well-rehearsed, and so, satisfied, the woman gives Nico that pitying look again. “The fact this happened to you is extremely unfortunate, and regrettable. I can't imagine, really. But it's important you don't forget what we talked about; trust me, it'll be best if you forget this whole thing, put it behind you, and move on. Nothing good comes from dwelling on what happened, you understand." Bad Cop turns back from the window at this, his glare at Nico serving as punctuation for the threat. It's far more than necessary and rather heavy-handed, even for these two. Nico's been at Northpoint for years now, he knows the game.

The duo are projecting strength, assurance, and an overly blasé approach to the whole ordeal – but for Nico their overblown theatrics only serve just how shaken the higher ups must feel about the attack. The fact they paid him off with ten days leave is the final nail in the coffin, corporate only pays out when it's scared it has something to lose. Nico fights a small grin. They replace Yuri himself faster than handsoap in the bathroom, but the genie's out no matter what the higher-ups tell themselves, and they all know what it means.

You're not untouchable.

Nico plays his role perfectly. He smiles courteously and shakes their paws, averting his eyes and taking part in all the other little corporate rituals. He accepts their business card and says he'll call if anything comes up, though all three of them know he won't.

Outside a six-wheeled autocar is waiting, unmarked save for a slick Mercedes-Benz ornament at the tip of the hood. He makes sure to look appropriately impressed by the smooth cream leather as he slides into the back, running his narrow fingers along the seat and wowing silently for the hidden cameras. As the autocar pulls out into the main street, he sinks down against the backrest, and watches absently as Anchor City slides by his window.

He expected to feel regret. He's surprised now, alone in the back of the autocar, that he feels almost nothing. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and is almost disappointed to find he looks the same. No grizzled edge to his jawline, no haunted stare in his eyes – his is the face of a killer, but it looks just like all the other ones.

Ever since that night he's felt detached, like he's watching a historical atrocity, committed to people he doesn't know in a country he's never heard of. The near-constant anxiety he once felt has abandoned him, leaving only muted sensations and vague impressions of emotion in its wake. There's a perverse sense of loss there still though, buried deep, a grief for The Way Things Were that runs sharp enough Nico almost wishes he could muster the energy to hate losing it. Before, his life was unpleasant and tedious, but there were rules and expected outcomes – life was safe, predictable, even if it meant he was stuck playing the part of a lonely pathetic mess.

But now everything is different, he's somebody else and anything could happen, the old Nico is as dead as Yuri Kisaramoto.

“Could you stop here, please?" His own voice takes a moment to register in his ears, but the auto is already slowing, the facsimile-driver display giving his best digital smile. There is no driver seat in a car like this, only a cheap LCD screen, so Nico just shrugs. “I'll only be a minute, not long."

He leaves his workbag in the car and ducks across the road, throwing up an apologetic wave to the car honking at his intrusion. As he reaches the other side, Nico looks up, vertigo swimming in his throat at just how completely the church dwarfs him.

The headquarters of the Neo-Orthodox Church is monolithic, jealously hoarding its plot of land all to itself, a true rarity for Anchor City; almost every entity outside the Big Five must give in to subdivision for survival, but apparently the faith trade is a cut above that. TIME's July release had put the Neodox Church as the seventh most successful non-legacy body in the city from 2129 to 2132, a controversial place since it indicated that the financial wheelers of the world viewed it more as a business than a 'true' religion.

Nico doubts that it's anything so deliberately cynical, though that won't stop Reverend Luther from getting his mileage out of it. He attributes ignorance rather than malice to the view most non-believers held of the church. Ever since atheism's meteoric rise in the late twenty-first century, people had struggled to truly understand the purpose of religion, even if they found themselves a part of it. Nico didn't blame them, for anyone born after the 2070's it was difficult to conceive of anything that wasn't, at its core, a business.

Not that his own view of the church was particularly charitable – they literally sold subscriptions to heaven, it wasn't out of the goodness of their hearts.

Styled with the essence of an ancient gothic cathedral, then flavoured with the leftovers of futuristic brutalism, the Neodox Central Church is a thing of metal and glass. It's a building of concentrated religious imagery, peppered with entoptic subscription deals and recognisable celebrity faces, the steel beneath the holograms boiling down to little more than angles and edges meant to invoke an idea of tradition without exactly emulating it. All around it the corporate towers of the Deakon district loom, though in their effort to blend in they've become almost unrecognisable to the untrained eye – all the while Revered Luther's holy tower sticks out like a chainsaw in a drawer of steak knives.

Through the front doors Nico is greeted by the scent of over-purified air, poorly masked with a layer of diffused mint. The church isn't as busy as he'd expected, but then again, why bother to visit in person when the Neon God is everywhere? It flows through the pipes, permeates the canals, the fibre-optic cables of the city all pulse with the constant beat of salvation. To feast of the city's vices is communion, the consumption demanded by life itself an act of worship.

At least, that's what the premium adverts say.

Nico's always found it a strange tenet, but some people don't need ritual and sanctimony to belong - for most the idea of actively serving a god is a relic better left buried in the twentieth century.
These people pay for the peace of mind Luther offers, they want to be saved, to belong, but without having to actually do anything for the effort. 'Why should peace be painful', is one of the movement's more popular slogans for a reason.

And, naturally, ceremony is on offer for those that require it, for a modest premium.

The crowd, thinly dispersed among the pews, is a varied bunch. Nico watches them as he glides down the centre aisle, footsteps echoing on the tiles, the sound bouncing up to high ceilings and sheer walls. None meet his deadpan stare as he studies them, all somewhat aware but wilfully ignorant of the shadow in their midst. Once Nico might have been terrified of them seeing him, but not now that he's transformed, now he's only curious.

He sees an old goat, weeping stoically as he whispers empty promises at a stained photo. A pair of owls mutter in prayer at the fringe of the room, one Neodox-branded bible spread between them. At the back of the room sits a middle-aged rhino decked in Gucci and Supreme streetwear, her horn a chromatic shimmer in the dim church lighting. She's panting heavily despite the cool air, fanning herself with a paper fan sporting the Burger King logo.

What are you doing here? He wonders, pausing as he reaches the front of the hall. Does he think religion has something to offer now he's suffered? Is a part of him seeking absolution, or is he merely curious? At the corner of his vision Clancy has a notification pop up with Alaska's profile pic, but Nico ignores the message for the moment.

“Come to browse salvation?" Nico jumps at the intrusion, and whirls to see a young clouded leopard in long, flowing crimson robes. Her paws, both shiny implants, are clasped together before her stomach, faux candlelight catching on their edges. “I am Sister Maya, is there anything I can assist you with?"

Nico starts to wave her off, then pauses. She looks even younger than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Small vents like that of a muscle car's exhaust poke out from her neck, and her large irises are tinted like electronic ambergris. “I didn't know the Neodox movement supported such intrusive augmentation," Nico says. It's something he would have never dared utter before. “Reverend Luther doesn't seem to have any chrome, in the ads I mean."

“He doesn't," Maya replies, “but that's not to say the Church is against it." She turns away, looking out as if seeing through the walls of the church and into the city itself. “Anchor City is life, and the Neon God pervades every aspect of it. There is gospel in chrome, and it's our path to find it, then show others the way, whatever form that may take."

“They force you to get it?" Maya turns back at this, and Nico half expects indignation, but she only laughs. Nico shifts uncomfortably. Where has his icy detachment from the fixer meet gone? There's a sliver of anxiety lining his insides, curling in on itself, it's almost as comforting as it is confusing.

Not quite so transcendent now, are we?

He looks to the stained glass windows, Christ on the cross, the lance of Longinus reaching bloodlessly through his ribs and out his back, a holy skewer. “How do you know I'm not already a believer?"

Maya points to the entrance, and only now Nico sees just how much tech is jammed in around the frame. “We have a database of all our followers, and each face and ACID chip is scanned as a patron enters." She pauses, and gives him a look much like the Northpoint fixer had, only less practiced – pity, but intentionally slipping. “Let me guess, Mister Mercier, your only exposure to religion has been feed memes and twen-cent historical records?"

Nico blushes, once again glad for the red fur of his face. “I mean, the ads for this place are everywhere, heard Luther talking about how we need to eradicate all the tethers, that kinda thing."

Maya starts walking deeper inside, and Nico follows. The corner of her eyes catch him. “So you know the shape of the book, but none of the contents, am I right?"

He nods slowly as they pass by a huge glossy statue at the front of the room. It's vibrant red, like the blood in a comic book, built in the almost-crucifix visage of the old religions. A cross, with a diagonal line through the stem. There's no dancing around it, Neodox is not a new religion in and of itself, it's a reinterpretation of historical faith, picking and choosing its totems as needed, weaponised intertextuality. People need to feel like they belong to something with legacy, and through the lens of time all discrepancies can be explained away.

Maya goes on, looking down at the dozens of fake candles shimmering beneath the 'cross'. “In the old days, all believers were flagellants. They were told that to suffer and strain is the path of the righteous, that God could only be found in his temples. It was a litany of idiosyncrasies, and I believe it is why faith fell so drastically out of vogue."

“Maybe people just wisened up, decided they didn't need to believe in an all-powerful being? Maybe civilisation matured." Nico doesn't know why he's arguing, he doesn't even know why he's here at all.

Maya's look says it all, and he shrugs. She exhales slowly. “God is everywhere, in everything. What people need is support, harmony. They need to feel an emotional and spiritual backbone, something greater than themselves that they can submit to. We seek not to rob people of their vices and pleasures, but instead to help them curb the destructive nature of addictions and indulgence. Tell me, do you watch pornography, Nico?"

Nico stammers, and stops in place. The question came so effortlessly out of nowhere he can't think. His face is suddenly hot enough it's a wonder his fur hasn't starting singeing. He turns, and realises they've moved entirely to the side of the church, near several rows of free-standing holographic art pieces.

Maya laughs. “I'm a third-grade confessor, you know. I have confession lock implants, meaning anything you say to me here in the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment cannot be repeated."

“And if they strap you down, cut out your kinks and then ask? What then?" Nico looks away, her eyes are too earnest.

“I suppose that would work," Maya pauses, “but do you really think someone is going to forcibly vivisect me just so they can know what kind of porn you like? Wikipedia cookies already have that data, they don't need my wetware for it."

“I… I suppose not." He bites his lip. “In the movies confession happens in a box, is it… does it still work in the open like this?"

Her smile is so genuine and pitying it aches. “Of course, that's only a fabrication for the films, something people expect to see. Aren't you listening? He is everywhere." She steps slightly closer, cocking her head. “Well?"

Nico sticks his paws under his arms. “I mean, doesn't everyone?" He murmurs the words, and is instantly reminded of when he was sixteen and Mother tore through his feed history, pulling up all the strange things a horny sixteen-year-old looks at and demanding 'well, is this what you LIKE Nicky?! Filthy boy.'

He shivers, and Maya laughs. “Yes, most do. It isn't shameful, in moderation. Do you watch it often, what kinds?"

“How is this relevant?" He shakes his head. “I know what you're doing, getting me to reveal something personal, trying to break down my walls so that you can sell me on a subscription service. I'm sorry, I'm not interested in your pay-to-pray pyramid schemes."

“I'm only making a point." She continues to stare at him, and Nico sighs. “You came in here, didn't you? You're obviously looking for something, since you've started talking why not answer? If you're as resolute and you say, you'll just leave afterwards and neither of us will remember this conversation."

He grinds his teeth. Fine, she wants to know? He'll admit it, if only to prove her trick won't work. “Every… other day, I guess. Lots of different kinds, but usually, I mean, like, always guys only." Maya waits. “I like rougher stuff, being tied up, gagged, blindfolded. Is that enough?"

“Do you think it's harmful?"

“Harmful?"

“Yes," she hesitates. “When you're lying in bed, going at your business and looking for that perfect video… do you feel fulfilled? Or just emptier."

“This is a stupid conversation, it's a means to an end."

“Ejaculation," Maya nods knowingly. “But still, you consume this because you're lacking something, something vital. In the Neo-Orthodox Movement, we seek to remove you of these strings. We rob the vice of its power over you, and then you are left to freely engage with it as you wish, because you have support, you have our trust and aid." She leans back against the wall, a casual motion that shifts her in Nico's mind from 'priest' to 'person'. When she speaks, her tone has lost that airy demeanour of the faithful, and she sounds like anyone else at a bar. “Okay, picture this instead – Anchor City, America as a whole, is ravaged by drug abuse. Hexadryne, amphetamines, that apex strain coming out of South America? So many people need the drug, it makes them feel good, but it takes a heavy toll, rewires their brain to hold serotonin and dopamine, their happiness, hostage. Some people make a mistake, they try it a few times too many as a teenager, or they go through a traumatic experience and they try to find something to block the pain.

Imagine if we could save all those people, Nico. Imagine if we could take them, and instead of stealing the things that make them feel closer to whole, we replace that with the love, and trust, and security of the Neon God. A dangerous car speeding recklessly down a highway, ready to crash any moment, and we replace the driver with a policeman." Maya pushes off the wall, taking Nico's arm. “They are free to engage with the substances if they wish, God lives in crackdens and Memory Parlours as much as this church, but why would they want to pollute their body like that, if the same need is being met with us?"

“It doesn't work that way," Nico insists. “It's chemistry, not… not need. And what about tethers? The one vice you don't allow, what about them? Would I still be getting the sales pitch if I was one too?" He flexes psychically, just because he can. Briefly, he remembers the overstrained strength he felt in the car, tearing the steering wheel from Bryce's paws. Killing him.

Never did anything that strong before then.

“Tether abilities are not a vice or pleasure," Maya's voice is colder now. “They are a perversion of our image, and with Luther's guidance… we will cleanse them of their imperfections."

“The fuck does that mean? All I hear is fascist undertones and master race."

“It means we'll find a cure. Has anyone ever told you you're dramatic?"

“Genocide? That the cure you got in mind?"

Maya rolls her eyes. “You've been watching too many superhero movies. No. With science, with chemistry. So many people think God is oil to the water of science, but if there is gospel in chrome there is harmony in advancement."

“What the hell are you even saying?" He wants to grab and shake her. “This rhetoric doesn't make any sense, it's just nonsense overloaded with buzzwords. What does your Neon God even want? My PayPal information?"

“To save you."

Nico's angry now, it's broken through his numbness, and he's sick of talking in circles. “I killed two people."

Maya's face remains impassive. “We can purge all sins here. You don't have to be afraid."

“I'm not fucking afraid." He sighs, teeth gnashing. “I killed two people in almost cold blood. I'll kill more, you don't care?"

“Maya, is everything alright?" Nico freezes at the new voice behind him, realising how close he's gotten towards the young woman. He steps back, smoothing his shirt, and glances back.

A tall lion with broad shoulders and a flowing mane stands before him, dressed in a black suit with a purple tie. Nico opens and closes his mouth, unable to resist noticing how large the lion's paws are. Reverend Luther, leader of the Neo-Orthodox Church, smiles without letting it touch his eyes.

He looks like a corporate rat.

“Young Master Nico Mercier, welcome to my church."

“You're him."

Luther laughs, a deep resonant sound that echoes in his chest. “Of course, I must tend to my congregation. I see you met Maya," he nods to the leopard, who bows. “She's one of my brightest up-and-comers. Truly someone that believes in saving every soul she can touch." He turns, gesturing towards a doorway. “Would you like to come further in? We could discuss your trepidation, perhaps sign you up for a trial? Anything can be forgiven, and eternal salvation with Christ is only an account away - any time, any place, for any one." He sounds just like the commercials, it's dizzying.

Why did I come in here?

Nico's head swims, and he flails, desperately reaching for the detachment of earlier. He closes his eyes. Nothing is different, he's the same, isn't he? Deep down he'll always be like this, and these two can see it.

“No, no I really must be going." He moves to step past, but Luther stops him with one gigantic paw, which cups his chin and lifts his face to meet the lion's eyes. The man is a full head and half taller than Nico, and the red panda can't help being reminded of when he first met Ahab. Luther's lips are split in a warm smile, and his tone remains friendly, but his eyes… his stare bores right into Nico's skull, and he suddenly feels as if everything else has been completely stripped free of him. There's nothing else to hide, Luther can see it all.

“If you ever need us, we'll be here." His tone is perfectly cheery and conversational, but his face is deadpan.

“I won't," Nico replies.

Then he leaves, storming back through the pews without looking back at Luther or Maya.

The Northpoint autocar is still waiting outside, and after he climbs inside he shuts his eyes and lets it take him home, not bothering to play act for the cameras. At least now they might think he's repentant, laden with survivor's guilt, that he needs religion or something.

Why did you go in there? Why? What could you possibly have accomplished? Did he feel like he needed absolution from the murder of Bryce and Yuri? No, he doesn't. They deserved to die, and Ahab told Alaska he was glad it had been done. Nico's a soldier now, and they're at war with the Big Five.

He suddenly wishes he could be at another rally. To slide into the crowd and feel the cheering certainty of them all once again. To reassure himself.

At home Mother is awake, but busy meeting with some kind of dating simulacrum. Nico gives her a quick look to make sure everything is alright, then retreats to his room.

Finally he checks his messages, and sees four more have come through since he ignored Alaska's first.

[How'd it go, you alright?]

[You know you're so dramatic, what did the rats say?] Nico had called Ahab and Alaska after the crash, and they talked him through the new story. They told him how to act, what to say when the Northpoint trauma crew arrived. It was Alaska's idea to claim they'd been run off the road by rioters. Nico had spent hours waiting, slugging around the mud, jumping from place to place to make the footsteps confusing. He found a river and tossed the gun and jacket, then rehearsed his story. Northpoint took him home, gave him a quick physical and two nights rest, then had their interview.

It had all gone so smoothly.

Was it supposed to be that easy?

Nico checks Alaska's other two messages.

[You there Red, everything alright?]

[I'm coming over, be home.]

Even as he's reading them, another message pops through. [Yo, I'm downstairs, your geotag has you here. Let me in.] Nico makes a mental note to disable the share feature, then goes to the door to wait.

The knock comes two minutes later, and he opens it to see the young wolf leaning against the door. He's wearing a plain shirt and an olive canvas jacket, a beanie pulled low over his head, pointed ears sticking out two holes cut into the side.

“Shit, don't scare me like that," Alaska snaps, sliding inside and making for Nico's room. Nico turns back, feeling undeserving of that much concern. “God, you're so boring when you're busy making yourself feel bad."

He follows the wolf to his room then quietly shuts the door. Mother is busy with her headphones, but he didn't need the hassle of her finding him with a boy here. “Yeah, I guess."

“They buy it?" Alaska laughs, “I mean obviously they did, because you're here and not a bloody smear at the bottom of Northpoint tower." He slows, licking his lips. “You surprised me Nico, and that's hard to do. I mean, flatlining Yuri and Bryce just like that? Ice cold, y'know, no wonder they didn't believe you did it, I hardly do."

“Didn't even seem to occur to them," Nico admits. “Think they were just worried I'd sell the story to some gossblog."

“Nothing the Big Five hates more than looking weak."

“They replaced him though, Yuri I mean." Nico shakes his head, sitting on the side of his bed. “Right away, got a guy flown down from the moon, for fuck's sake."

“It's how it is. It's why half-measures are worthless in the long fight, there's always another drone." Alaska steps closer, then sits on the bed right next to him. Nico sucks in a sharp breath, feeling the warmth of the wolf pressing against him, almost not daring to acknowledge it. He glances across, watching Alaska's wrists. Thin but powerful, hexagonal-stamped carbon-fibre glistening like oil in the warm lamplight of the bedroom.

“They gave me some time off, trying to buy my silence I guess."

“Ahab's wondering if you'd do some talks."

Nico recoils, pulling his arms into himself as he looks at Alaska in horror. “Talks? About what, assassinating Yuri Kisaramoto? You know what'll happen if a corpo agent infiltrates that? Porsche Castillion will knock on our door and bifurcate us both, that's what." Alaska always seems so sure, but at the same time he's naïve. Nico wishes he could somehow make the wolf understand the corporations, just how dangerous they really are.

“We have psychonauts of our own, you know." Before Nico can argue further, Alaska goes on. “But, no. I don't think he wants you to go and talk to troubled teens about how you iced a high-ranking Big Five drone, Leviathan is strong, not stupid. More generally I think, he means anyway, about what it means to be a soldier, about what you felt in the moment, without specifics."

Are you the Maya to Ahab's Luther, then? Nico immediately feels guilty for the thought. The Neodox Church was a glorified corporation selling god, Leviathan was trying to actually save the city, to set it free. They weren't the same.

“When do I feel secure?" Nico asks, looking to Alaska. He watches the sinews of the lean wolf's neck as he swallows, considering. “I mean, when do I stop doubting myself? I keep wondering if it wouldn't have been better to just go along with what they want. Like, Ahab can't really do all this, so what's the endgame?"

“Ideally, you never do." Alaska shifts, and Nico's breath catches as he feels the wolf's hip nudge his own. “You should always doubt yourself, never follow blindly, otherwise you'll become just like Yuri and Bryce in the end, chasing a carrot you can never reach. Doubt means you're alive. Do what you think is right."

“I don't know what to do."

“This city is anathema to free think, so get out of it." Nico looks up, frowning. Alaska's face is calm, he's easily slipped into his confident persona, but a small sliver of unease crosses his features.

“I just got away, and look what happened." Nico scoffs.

“Don't be stupid," Alaska says, “that 'getaway' was so heavily corporate it would be worse than going to the office. Look, Leviathan has a script-jockey retreat just a few hours outside the city. Most of my work for Leviathan's in cyberspace, if someone gets burned by corpo ICE we go to ground there. I think it's in use now but the cabin has a few rooms, and he'll be neck-deep in code anyway."

Nico searches for the right thing to say, it's as close to an invitation to run away as he's going to get from Alaska.

“Or don't, whatever, be boring." The wolf rolls his eyes, and makes to stand. Nico shoots a paw out, grabs his wrist as he's standing.

“No," he says quickly. Alaska frowns disdainfully down at his paw, and Nico realises he's touching actually touching Alaska like that and yanks his limb right back, the boundary cross too much. He made this mistake with Jalan, he won't make it again. But it would be nice to be near the wolf anyway. He pulls his traitorous paws into his lap, one thumb rubbing the other palm, his pads still remembering the cool but firm touch of the mechanical joints and synthetic fur. “Getting away would be good, I'll go, if you want."

Alaska flashes a smile. “Good. Pack your things, tell your Mother, we can leave right away."