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Spurious brought his fingers to his face, feeling his freezing skin. The night was so cold, clusters of ice were beginning to form on the stone statues. He knew he needed to go home, but he was frozen. His eyes were still fixated on the robed man who stopped in front of him, slowly pulling his face from his chin.

I’m asleep, Spurious finally realized, as another flash of lightning lit up the dark sky and illuminated the face of the old man.

“Paulo,” Spurious gasped. “It can’t be.”

There was no mistaking it; his old friend stood staring at him, eyes wide and his face pale and gray like the sky.

“They’re coming for you, Spurious,” Paulo said.

“Who’s coming for me, Paulo? Who?”

“You’ll know soon,” Paulo said, turning and walking back down the same stone path.

“Paulo, wait! Who’s coming for me?” Spurious yelled. It was too late, though; Paulo disappeared in the downpour. He looked again at the statue of Governor Lunia and darkness washed over him.

Time: 5:30 a.m. February 3, 2071

Location: Commons Building 21, Apt 14. Lunia, Tisaia

Spurious awoke in a sweat. “Anya, lights,” he said urgently. An orange glow immediately washed over the room and Spurious sat up, clawing at his eyes in an attempt to clear the fog.

What the hell was that all about? Why would Paulo tell me that someone was coming for me?

The dream had to be related to his encounter with the Knights at The Ale House. It’s just my mind, he thought, rubbing his eyes again. The cloud slowly began to clear and he pulled his blanket up to his neck, prompting Anya to change the temperature gauge. He listened to the Biomass-fed furnace flare to life in the utility closet. “Thanks,” he said, laying his head back on his pillow. Anya was very observant, rarely overlooking any of his needs. She never slept, her mainframe only idling when he was asleep.

“Spurious, you don’t appear well. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Anya suggested.

“I don’t need to go back to sleep,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry, sir, is there something I can do for you?”

“Yeah, actually, search the databases and see if you can find anything on the TDU members that attacked the trolley stations.”

“Sir, this is classified information. I don’t have access to it.”

Spurious turned over in bed and stared at Anya’s hologram. “I want to know who killed Paulo. Just see what you can find.”

“Sir, your behavior is irrational. You have no logical reason to seek this information.”

Spurious rolled his eyes. “Anya, you are a machine. You don’t know what it is like to have friends. Paulo was a good man and I want to know who killed him. There isn’t anything irrational about that.”

Anya’s hologram dimmed and disappeared before reappearing on a stand across from Spurious’ bed.

“You are correct. I do not understand human emotion, but I know you have not been yourself and it is my job to take care of you.”

“Then search the databases and help me find his killers.”

“What do you hope to do with this information if I find it?” she asked.

Spurious paused. “Nothing,” he lied. “I just want to know.”

“Very well sir. I’ll see what my resources uncover,” she replied.

Spurious closed his eyes, fatigue washing over him. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Anya, but she was the only connection he had to the State’s archives.

Her blue hologram disappeared and darkness carpeted the room. Spurious yawned and rolled over. Part of him was afraid to return to sleep. He knew he was in a dark place. His past was haunting him both in sleep and during the day, and it was only a matter of time before it caught up to him.

Time: 11:30 p.m. February 3, 2071

Location: Lunia, Tisaia

By day Agrippa worked as an accountant in SGS Finances, by night he drove a Biomass-run automobile, one of the oldest heaps of trash he had ever seen. In fact, it was so old he could vaguely read the UPS lettering on the brown dashboard. Now the antique belonged to his boss and was property of Cyriaca United, a food transportation company.

Following State law, Cyriaca had registered for and received a permit to carry foods deemed healthy by the State. The majority of the foods he transported were grown in State-run greenhouses. There wasn’t much money in this business, but his boss only used the company as a front.

During the day his other driver would deliver foods to State office buildings: cafeterias, markets, and food stands. By night Agrippa would pick up black market food and other fine perishable items and deliver these items to wealthy Tisaian citizens. The job was never dangerous, and the only threat he faced was the possibility of being caught by undercover CRK officers. That, however, was rare, and in the three years Cyriaca had been in business he had never been stopped. Besides, the State knew about operations like Cyriaca’s and never intervened. The government needed his business as badly as he needed theirs.

The night began with a routine drop off just south of Lunia, at a gated community called Silver Terrace. It was on the outskirts of the city, where the wealthy built their mansions.

He looked down at the invoice, surprised to see the strict orders; the customers wanted their delivery dropped off outside a large oak tree on the edge of their property. The money would be waiting for Agrippa in their mailbox. It was a weird request, but not uncommon and Agrippa decided to think nothing of it.

He turned the key and the old truck coughed to life, the Biomass flowing through its veins. The beams from the truck’s headlights tore through the darkness as he put it into gear and bellowed out of the garage.

“Holy shit!” he yelled. The truck fishtailed on the slick cobblestone streets. The tires spat chunks of freshly planted snow into the frothy air, shotgun-spraying the powder into parked cars. Agrippa grabbed the steering wheel tightly with his gloved hands, scanning the dark road ahead as he regained control of the vehicle. The small white flakes melted on his windshield as his truck crawled down the icy road.

In the distance he could make out the outline of several trees. Even with the low visibility he could see they were young and still maturing, not the monstrous oak trees he was looking for. Silver Terrace was known for its forest of mature trees, some of the only ones that had survived the Biomass Wars.

He shifted the manual transmission into a higher gear, listening to the engine groan as the truck increased speed. The border of Lunia was only about a mile away. He knew the route by heart and had memorized each twist and bend in the road.

Within seconds, the white beams from his truck illuminated the black fence surrounding Silver Terrace. He took a deep breath, relieved to be off the main arterial road.

He eased his truck up to the edge of the gate and turned off the engine. He swung the brown door open, splintering the ice that had accumulated around the window into a thousand shards. A blast of frosty air took his breath away as he jumped into the snow below, prompting him to pull his stocking cap over his thinning hair. “Damn cold,” he muttered aloud.

He braced himself for another gust of wind, but instead a voice rang out in the night. “Freeze, you piece of shit!”

Agrippa turned quickly and met the butt of a rifle with his chest. He fell coughing onto the snowy ground, not daring to look up at his attacker.

“Give me the fucking key,” the voice ordered.