Quoted By:
>>How likely am I going to be coerced into spitting out what we know without payment? Or forced to labor towards tasks we have no desire to work towards?
“…the unit does have netrunners,” Harper says after a long pause. His tone is quiet, like he’s trying to weigh how much truth you deserve to know against how much he ought to give. “It’s just that most of them…didn’t survive the Cataclysm.”
Your hand drifts to the back of your neck, fingers ghosting over the faint warmth of your modem.
“I won’t lie and tell you it won’t come up,” he continues, eyes still on the storm rolling across the horizon. “You’ve got skills the regiment could use, and you aren’t so chromed up that they need to worry about you going cyberpsycho.” His mouth quirks into something that doesn’t quite reach a smile, nor his eyes. “So yeah…the chances of being asked or pressed into service aren’t exactly zero.”
Pressed. You roll the word in your mind, tasting it like something foreign and unpleasant. That’s what you they it when it isn’t voluntary.
You’ve only just woken up…you’ve only just been <span class="mu-i">born</span>. You’re still trying to figure out the mystery of who you are – what you are. The thought of being strong-armed into anyone’s designs, benevolent or otherwise, feels like shackles closing in on you before you’ve even found your footing.
“At least you won’t be stuck peeling potatoes,” he offers.
You don’t have it in yourself to even laugh at his joke.
>>How likely are they to rush to raid the Project Butterfly facilities without including me?
Harper gives you a queer look. “Unless they’ve got a ship to get out to the Atlantic Trench, or a VTOL to get themselves to the Appalachian mountains…they would’ve gone to Richmond first. Hell, maybe even Svalbard. Assuming the Seed Vault hasn’t been lost underwater.”
But his tone softens. “I can promise you right now that the 111th is too busy with their own immediate concerns to suddenly drop everything for Project Butterfly. So, you don’t have to worry about anyone running roughshod or competing against you in that way.”
>>Line break
You have no further questions. The rest of the journey to Hampton passes in quiet contemplation. Harper drifts to sleep, upright against one of the crash seats. It isn’t long before he’s out like a light, snoring softly in synch with the way the water laps and sucks at the pod’s hull.
He’s given you much to think about. Almost too much. The answers he offered only spin more questions, like a string unraveling into threads you can’t braid together.
But you’ll have to wait and see.
You settle back into your seat. The modem hums faintly, a soft resonance under your skin like a second heartbeat. You run a self-diagnostic, half-expecting to uncover hidden chrome beneath your flesh.
<span class="mu-i">Nothing.</span>
(cont.)
