24991201 | 0012

  ESS Supercarrier Ascendant Prime | Persian Gulf | International Waters

  25°15'38.14"N

  51°53'23.20"E

  Darkness.

  Silence.

  The comforting darkness of sleep.

  The the quiet black of closed eyes.

  The comfort of weightlessness.

  It pressed against her.

  Wrapped around her.

  Held her in a cold, endless embrace.

  A sound.

  Thud.

  Distant.

  Thud.

  Muted.

  Thud.

  A soft, rhythmic tapping.

  Rain against glass.

  Fingers tapping on glass.

  Fluid.

  Water.

  She regained consciousness.

  She realized it slowly.

  She was submerged.

  Suspended.

  Floating.

  Her body drifted in warm suspension fluid, limbs weightless, senses dulled.

  Her thoughts returned.

  At first her thoughts came sluggishly, then her thoughts came back all at once.

  Hamad International Airport.

  The Church.

  Awareness surged.

  Her eyes opened.

  Blue light flooded her vision.

  Curved glass.

  Translucent walls.

  A glass tank.

  Soft biomedical luminescence refracting through pale liquid.

  She was inside a tank.

  A med-tank.

  Recognition followed memory.

  Hamad.

  Gunfire.

  Pain.

  Impact.

  Extraction.

  Darkness.

  The Ascendant Prime.

  The Supercarrier.

  Admiral Mercer.

  She was in the med-bay.

  Her gaze drifted upward.

  Above her, distorted by liquid and curvature, silhouettes moved along a gantry. Technicians in pale grey and white uniforms.

  They were looking at her.

  Faceplates.

  Diagnostic pads.

  Floating readouts that scrolled in soft amber glyphs.

  One of them noticed her movement.

  He leaned closer to the glass.

  Their eyes met.

  He waved.

  He pointed upward.

  Swim up.

  Shirley exhaled through her rebreather.

  A burst of bubbles.

  A breathing apparatus was fitted snugly over her mouth and nose, feeding her oxygenated fluid and recycled air.

  It pulsed gently in rhythm with her heart.

  She flexed her fingers.

  They obeyed.

  A good sign.

  She has all her fingers back.

  The Harbinger.

  The Black Sword.

  She kicked up.

  Her body responded immediately, powerful and precise despite six days of inactivity. Muscles fibre bundles activated in smooth sequences.

  Synthetic and organic fibers harmonizing perfectly.

  She rose up.

  Bubbles streamed past her shoulders as she ascended the cylindrical tank. Light intensified near the surface, refracting into pale rainbows.

  The surface broke around her shoulders.

  Fluid sloshed softly as the upper hatch irised open.

  She pulled herself up, wet hair slicked back, water streaming down her skin in rivulets.

  The breathing rig disengaged with a soft hiss.

  She removed it and set it on the rim.

  Air filled her lungs properly for the first time in days.

  Cool.

  Clean.

  Filtered.

  She inhaled deeply.

  “Stand upright, please.”

  She complied.

  She stood still, as water ran off her naked body.

  “Raise your hand, please” the technician said, indicating the hand that was severed.

  She raised the hand.

  He then walked her through some simple hand gestures, wrist rotations and joint exercise.

  “Any discomfort?”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  She shook her head.

  He then inspected her chest and legs.

  He asked for her diagnostics again.

  “No discomfort.” She replied.

  “Welcome back, Miss Tempess.”

  The technician extended a thermal cloth first, then a robe.

  “Good to be back,” she said.

  She toweled herself down and draped the soft white bathrobe over her frame.

  It was thick, absorbent, lined with heat-regulating fibers.

  Comfort.

  “One moment, Miss Tempess.”

  The technician approached her professional.

  He thumbed a flashlight on.

  He checked both her eyes.

  Retinal scanner flickered.

  Biofield sweep.

  Neural coherence check.

  He nodded.

  “Vitals stable. Cognitive alignment within baseline parameters. Motor function optimal.”

  “All good?” Shirley replied hoarsely.

  Her voice sounded like she’d been screaming for hours.

  The technician smiled faintly. “You might want to get lubricant for your vocal modulator.”

  “I can think of some way., she said seductively in her husky voice.

  The technician was taken aback.

  She blew him an air kiss as she swept past him.

  She stepped onto the gantry.

  She descended into the medical bay.

  A cathedral of glass and steel.

  Banks of tanks. Surgical pods. Regeneration cradles.

  Diagnostic arrays humming low with blinking diagnostics.

  The Med-bay of the Ascendant Prime was the most advanced mobile medical facility.

  It still took everything they have to put her back together.

  Admiral Mercer stood at the base of the stairs.

  His uniform immaculate as ever.

  Hands folded behind his back.

  He fell into steps next to her.

  “Good to see you out of the tank,” Mercer said as she descended.

  “I reeked of septic,” Shirley replied, sniffing her hair. “where’s my luggage?”

  “You tore it apart, if I recall,” Mercer said flatly.

  “Oh.” She said.

  “We did manage to retrieve your guns,” he continued.

  She nodded, sniffing her armpit as she crinkled her nose.

  The medical personnel turned to regard her.

  They walked slowly through the bay.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Six days,” Mercer answered.

  She stopped and blinked. “Six?”

  “You were… extensively compromised.”

  He keyed a panel.

  A holo-window opened between them.

  Diagnostic schematics rotated into view.

  Her body.

  Rendered in wireframe and layered color.

  Fractures.

  Burn lines.

  Neural lattice stress fractures.

  Synthetic muscle tears.

  Cortical overload.

  Reactor sheath microfractures.

  “Terminal impact trauma, Fréchette and AP rounds,” Mercer explained calmly. “Multiple penetrations. Severe kinetic shock. Partial system cascade. Your right-side actuator cluster was nearly slagged. Neural buffer almost cooked itself trying to compensate.”

  “Sounds unpleasant,” Shirley murmured.

  “Your core was overheating,” He snorted. “You lost thirty-seven percent of your internal redundancy and eighty-percent of your supercoolant and synth-plasma. Another thirty minutes and we would have been scraping you off the tarmac.”

  She frowned slightly. “Then… how did you—”

  “Dimitri.”

  She looked at him.

  “Your friend in Vietnam,” Mercer said. “He came through. A transit corridor through Chinese-Russo Federation airspace. Old Cold War-era air route. Narrow. Decrepit. Unused for hundreds of years.”

  Recognition dawned.

  “His great-grandfather’s maps,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Mercer nodded. “Without that corridor, the Ascendant Prime would’ve never been able to reach you in time.”

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  “I’ll thank him,” she said softly. “Properly.”

  “He’d appreciate that,” Mercer replied.

  They reached the central corridor.

  Glass walls revealed the planet below: clouds drifting over darkened continents, city lights flickering like wounded constellations.

  “Executive le Fay is waiting,” Mercer said.

  “Can I at least get a pair of panties first?”

  Admiral Mercer did not reply.

  Shirley sighed.

  They entered the meeting room.

  The door slid open.

  Inside, a compact war-room awaited.

  Curved table.

  Embedded holos.

  Tactical overlays frozen in standby.

  Two figures were already seated.

  Kurt.

  Back straight.

  Arms folded.

  Expression unreadable.

  And Illeana.

  Boots on the table.

  Hands laced behind her head.

  Grinning like she’d just won a bet.

  Illeana’s grin widened when she saw Shirley.

  “Well,” she drawled. “Look who’s finally here.”

  “Good to see you too, Illy.” Shirley replied.

  Illeana leaned forward.

  “I gotta say, though—six days staring at you floating naked in a tank? Best assignment I’ve had all year.”

  Shirley crossed the room to her.

  Looked at her.

  Illeana grew quiet.

  Shirley leaned in and kissed her.

  Illeana’s eyes flew wide, trying to not fell out of her chair.

  Shirley released her, smirking.

  “Ewww, you smelt of septic!” Illeana rubbed her lips with her sleeves.

  “I thought you’ve been waiting all week for that,” Shirley whispered huskily.

  “You desperately need to get laid.” Illeana hissed.

  Kurt cleared his throat loudly.

  “Are you back to full operational status?”

  Illeana groaned. “Romantic as ever, Kurt.”

  Shirley met his gaze.

  “I’ll live.”

  Kurt nodded.

  Mercer shook her head slightly as he eased into a chair. “If you all are quite done.”

  A tone chimed.

  The central console activated.

  A voice filled the room.

  Calm.

  Measured.

  French-accented.

  Filtered slightly.

  “Shirley.”

  “Morgana,” Shirley replied. “You’re late.”

  “Executive le Fay,” Kurt corrected her, glaring at her.

  Shirley pouted.

  “Paris time,” le Fay answered. “Indulge me.”

  “I don’t even have panties on,” Shirley said, “but yes, I’ll indulge you.”

  Kurt glared at her.

  Shirley ignored him.

  “Your recovery appears satisfactory,” le Fay continued, unfazed.

  “Define satisfactory,” Shirley said.

  “You survived extensive damage, unprecedented.” le Fay replied. “For the first time, I truly fear we could not put you back together.”

  Illeana looked at her.

  Shirley shifted.

  Kurt remained still.

  Le Fay’s voice softened marginally.

  “You frightened a great many people.”

  “I’m here now.” Shirley said softly, “the worse is behind us.”

  “Do not be frivolous,” le Fay warned. “Your exposure has destabilized three markets and one government.”

  “Only three?” Shirley smiled.

  A pause.

  “I’m glad your humor remained intact,” le Fay observed.

  “Too many new parts.”

  The meeting room lights dimmed.

  Le Fay’s voice remained disembodied, precise, Parisian, awake long past civility.

  “Allow me to bring you up-to-speed on the current situation.”

  The central holo flared to life.

  Kurt, Illeana and Shirley turned.

  They watched.

  Hamad International Airport.

  Terminal 6.

  They’ve seen it a thousand times.

  On loop.

  But for Shirley, this is her first.

  The first footage.

  Slow-motion.

  Security feed angle.

  On every major holo network.

  Watched by millions.

  Shirley mid-stride.

  Her cheek split open.

  Chrome.

  Synthetic lattice glinting beneath torn flesh.

  One storm-grey eye.

  One luminous blue.

  Gunfire flashing.

  Muzzle bloom reflected in exposed chrome.

  Her eyes are cold.

  Machine-cold.

  The holo froze on the frame where her face was most visibly torn.

  No one spoke.

  Illeana did not joke.

  The holo flickered.

  The second footage.

  A civilian capture.

  Shaky.

  Vertical orientation.

  Kurt’s roaring in through the frames on his hypercycle like a missile.

  He flipped the bike in mid-air.

  Impact.

  Metal folding like paper.

  The security walker staggered.

  Illeana let out a low whistle.

  “Damn.”

  The footage replayed the impact.

  “My man,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I’m wet.” Shirley said.

  Kurt did not look at them.

  Did not smile.

  Did not react.

  They watched as Kurt took the walker apart.

  Dust.

  Sparks.

  Flames.

  Kurt rising from the walker

  The third footage.

  Extraction.

  Grainy zoom.

  EVECorp personnel forming a wall of black around Shirley.

  Her body broken.

  Carried.

  One eye still glowing faintly.

  The Ascendant Prime hung in the air.

  A flying citadel.

  They loaded her onto the dropship.

  Ramp sealing.

  Lift-off.

  The feed ended.

  It began again.

  Looping.

  Relentless.

  The holo flickered and le Fay returned.

  “EVEMedia’s DeepMind scrubbed approximately eighty-seven percent of auxiliary footage within the first forty minutes.”

  The holo shifted to cascading deletion logs.

  “Civilian uploads. Alternate angles. Audio captures. Thermal overlays.”

  The feed returned to the three clips.

  “These three,” le Fay continued, “propagated beyond containment parameters.”

  Kurt’s jaw tightened slightly.

  Illeana leaned back, arms folded.

  “Peer-to-peer sharing,” Mercer added quietly. “you went viral on every socials, forums.”

  “Wildfire. A feeding frenzy,” Shirley murmured.

  “Yes,” le Fay agreed. “the media ate well that night.”

  The holo zoomed into Shirley’s torn face again.

  Le Fay did not soften her tone.

  “In a single moment, the Church dismantled years of narrative architecture.”

  Another loop.

  Gunfire.

  Chrome.

  Impact.

  Extraction.

  “You were curated,” le Fay said. “Refined. Positioned. Presented.”

  “Cover model,” Illeana said lightly, “EVECorp’s It Girl.”

  “Yes,” le Fay replied. “Our media darling.”

  The holo shifted.

  Images of Shirley at galas.

  On yachts.

  In couture.

  In interviews.

  Perfect skin.

  Perfect smile.

  Perfect myth.

  Then—

  The tear.

  Chrome.

  Blue light.

  “All gone,” le Fay concluded. “In six seconds.”

  Shirley said nothing as she looked at the images.

  “So,” she said quietly, “what’s our next move?”

  There was the faint sound of a glass being set down in Paris.

  “We adapt.”

  The holo changed again.

  Three rotating facial projections appeared beside Shirley’s current biometric render.

  Subtle variations.

  Different cheekbones.

  Different jawline.

  Different eye hue.

  “Minimal surgical alteration,” le Fay said evenly. “We change your face.”

  The room stilled.

  Illeana tilted her head.

  “New season. New look,” she said.

  “New face. New name.” Illeana remarked softly.

  Kurt’s expression darkened slightly.

  Shirley turned slowly toward the holo.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  Le Fay’s voice remained calm.

  “You are already exposed as Synthforged. Your biological aesthetics are no longer a strategic or aesthetical asset.”

  Illeana shrugged.

  “She’s not wrong. It’s not like the face is… real.”

  Shirley’s eyes flicked toward her.

  “What?”

  Illeana lifted her hands defensively.

  “I mean biologically. It’s engineered. Designed. Optimized—”

  “Stuff it.”

  The word was flat.

  Illeana blinked, then smiled.

  Le Fay’s tone did not change.

  “It would reduce recognition probability by sixty-four percent.”

  Shirley turned toward the ceiling speaker.

  “That goes for you too.”

  “Tempess— “ Kurt began.

  “Great stunt with the bike too, Kurt.” Shirley said.

  A brief pause.

  Then—

  Le Fay laughed softly.

  A genuine sound.

  “Very well.”

  Shirley stood from her chair.

  The holo reflected in her eyes.

  “Changing my face won’t fix this.”

  She gestured to the looping footage.

  “The Church didn’t hate me because of my perfect symmetry.”

  Silence.

  “They hated me because I exist.”

  Kurt nodded once.

  Illeana’s smirk faded.

  Le Fay regarded her steadily.

  “Then what do you propose?”

  Shirley stepped closer to the holo.

  The frame froze again on her exposed chrome.

  She studied it.

  “That,” she said, indicating the projection, “we can use.”

  She turned back to the table.

  “The Church hunted me, not knowing what I am.”

  Le Fay did not interrupt.

  “The Harbinger called me,” Shirley continued. “Babylon.”

  She paced the room.

  “They wanted a symbol, an icon.”

  Illeana’s brows rose.

  “You’re not going to hide.”

  Shirley turned to Illeana then.

  “No.”

  “You’re not going to rebrand.” Le Fay interjected.

  “No.”

  Kurt spoke at last.

  “You’re going visible.”

  “Yes.”

  The word settled into the room.

  Le Fay was quiet for a long moment.

  Then—

  A soft exhale.

  “Very well,” she said.

  A faint smile in her voice.

  “We will do it your way.”

  The holo dimmed slightly.

  The three clips continued looping.

  Shirley watched them once more.

  Unblinking.

  “They wanted the Whore of Babylon,” she said.

  The Ascendant Prime drifted silently above the Persian Gulf.

  “I will give them a Babylon they will not soon forget.”