The bodiless CIPHER’s voice echoed in Tamiyo’s head, warm and conspiratorial. A faint smile touched Tamiyo’s lips. Her internal CIPHER comms were linked to Pulse’s mask, allowing the three of them to converse in a private channel that was a world away from the oppressive order of the city around them.
The new stealth suit Pulse had acquired for her fit like a second skin, completely opposite from the cream-colored caretaker uniform she had worn for years. Her normal outfit had been designed to be comforting and unthreatening. This one—a sleek, form-fitting set of matte-black tactical fabric, accented with new gloves, reinforced boots, and modular pouches—was designed for a different purpose entirely.
It wasn’t screaming “infiltrator,” but it was whispering it with deadly intent.
After touching down on the planet and making a few small but necessary stops, Pulse had told her that she needed a change of clothes. They would be making entry to their target at night, and her usual personal care outfit was not the stealthiest getup.
The high-end outfitter he took her to was so clean it felt hostile. The lighting inside was almost clinical, like an operating room, bleaching all color and warmth. A low sound punctuated the background—high-end purifiers keeping everything sterile.
The curator, a human with a bored demeanor, had treated her like a piece of merchandise—a doll to be dressed. When Pulse described the look he was after, the man had simply plucked an outfit from a rack and moved toward her, hands outstretched. Without hesitation he began undoing the ties to her dress, the movements lacking any gentleness and shaking her entire frame.
She was no more than a mannequin to him.
Tamiyo hadn't moved, flinched, or let her expression shift at all. But internally, her anxiety had flared, threat-assessment screaming red alerts through her core programming—rooted deep from trauma. She had intentionally built a subroutine when she knew she would be entering back into Conservatory space—no matter what she felt, her face remained a mask that betrayed nothing.
A compliant exterior while her mind braced for her body to be violated.
Luckily, her companions proved honorable.
A split-second before Pulse could react on his own, Echo noticed Tamiyo’s internal alerts and her voice shrieked through their private channel with protective fury.
Pulse was there in an instant, growling, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He’d stepped between them, grabbing the man’s wrist and shoving him away with a twist. Then he placed himself between Tamiyo and the curator. "That is my property. Keep your hands off it."
A necessary lie.
It was the first time Tamiyo had gotten even a glimpse of Pulse’s skills, and he hadn’t disappointed. From that brief display alone, she could tell he would likely give even Veolo a run for her money if they fought hand-to-hand.
She made a mental note to test the theory someday.
The curator had stammered an apology and handed the clothes directly to Pulse with shaky hands, like he was afraid to get too close to either of them again. He quickly showed them to a private room where Pulse “could dress her himself.”
Once the door had slid shut, Lucien’s apology had come through their private link.
Tamiyo was finding that Pulse was a lonely man due to his circumstances, but she got the feeling he didn’t want to stay that way, no matter how standoffish or cold he acted. He had an interesting method of displaying his hidden desire for friendship, however. He said it was necessary to buy her the outfit for the mission, and she agreed.
But the gear wasn’t cheap, so he didn't need to buy her three sets of it like he did.
The tactical outfit was functional, yet fashionable. The new boots were silent, yet elegant. He’d even provided a set of small armor plates for her thighs and shoulders, their surfaces designed to protect against his short-range EMP if she was accidentally too close when he had to use it. Tamiyo had also tied her hair up into a simpler ponytail than she normally wore—making it easier to manage and less of a distraction in the field.
Now, traversing the gleaming avenues of Sandari, she felt the weight of her surroundings.
The Conservatory’s ideology was everywhere in this city. Monolithic spires of white and chrome clawed at the sky, their lines too perfect, their symmetry unnerving. There was no art, no color, no personality—just the cold, efficient geometry of absolute control. The people moved with rigid, hurried purpose, staying within the glowing lines of designated pedestrian lanes. Conversations were hushed, brief, and functional.
They were all cogs in a machine.
She saw two corporate workers pass each other with a nod so brief and devoid of emotion it felt inhuman. A mother and child walked along too quietly, too still—Tamiyo wanted to tell the child to go run, play—be a kid.
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Holographic banners floated between the towers. “Order Breeds Prosperity,” read one. “A Pure Society is a Strong Society,” said another. Security drones hovered at intersections, their optical sensors sweeping the crowds, while patrols of heavily armored Enforcers marched in unnervingly synchronized patterns. Compared to the chaotic, vibrant life Tamiyo had grown used to with her team, this place felt worse than orderly.
It felt like it was dead and didn’t even know it.
He peeled off, melting into the shadows of a service alleyway. Tamiyo took up a position near the base of a massive archway, her posture formal and casual, as if she were a piece of property patiently waiting for her owner.
She didn't have to wait long.
A Conservatory Enforcer approached her not two minutes after Pulse had stepped away, a low-level security officer looking to meet his daily power-trip quota. His white armor gleamed under the late evening sunlight, perfect and unscuffed. In his visor, Tamiyo could see her own reflection shining back at her.
Echo’s right, I do look cute.
"Unit," the Enforcer said, his voice bored and condescending. He didn't ask for her name like he would have of someone he thought of as a person. "State your designation and owner's credentials."
A year ago, it would have sent a spike of pure terror through her systems. Her programming would have screamed at her to comply, to shrink, to make herself as small and unthreatening as possible. A year ago, she would have been that frightened, broken thing, waiting for the next violation. But she had a family now, a purpose, a choice. She wasn’t that CIPHER anymore.
She wasn't that person.
Even if she had to pretend otherwise for today.
Her posture shifted, becoming a perfect, performative imitation of a docile machine. “I’m sorry, sir.” Her voice was flat and devoid of emotion as she offered the slightest bow. “I’m afraid you do not have the proper clearance required for such information.”
The Enforcer’s posture stiffened. He was being corrected by a thing, an object, and the insult was clear on his face even through his visor. “What did you just say to me, unit?”
Before he could escalate further, Pulse stepped out from the alleyway. He moved silent as death itself, his dark, custom gear and movements of a predator causing the air to feel like it chilled around him.
"What’s going on here?" The synthesized robotic filter of his deep intonation dripped like venom.
The Enforcer snapped to attention, his bravado evaporating in an instant. He recognized the look of a man who operated far above his pay grade.
Tamiyo turned to Pulse, her face a perfect blank slate. "Nothing important, Master." Then she walked past him without another word, leaving the flustered Enforcer to stammer an apology to her "owner."
As they rounded the next corner, Echo's voice chirped through their private channel, full of wry amusement.
They found a secure, out-of-the-way alcove overlooking a lower service level to wait for the optimal moment to breach the research hub. As they settled into the shadows, Echo opened a solo channel away from Lucien.
Tamiyo appreciated the gesture, the way Echo had separated the conversation from Pulse to respect her privacy. But she was starting to understand pretty well the bond Echo and Lucien shared. There were no real secrets between them. She reopened the channel to include him, then sent a simple thought back to Echo:
There was a hesitant pause. Then Echo, her voice now audible to both of them, asked again.
Pulse’s mask angled toward Tamiyo, but returned to watching their target a moment later.
Tamiyo didn't answer directly. First she said,
She didn't ask if Echo had had one. She had already figured that part out.
There was a beat of stunned silence, then, a soft, digital sigh.
Lucien quipped,
Before Echo could respond, Tamiyo closed her eyes and sent a series of raw, unblocked data streams directly to Echo's cognitive kernel—flickering, fragmented glimpses from her memory. Dirty rooms. Too many hands, fingers, and other body parts touching her. The silent scream of her own programming as her body was used, rented, broken. The feeling of being an object—a thing to be consumed. A lot of it she had blocked out, too painful to keep remembering. But she could still recall the day she escaped.
She kept that one around on purpose.
After years of abuse at the hands of various new owners, she had been rented out to a client that wanted her to do things she’d never done before. Specifically, he wanted to do things to her that she had never done before. She surprised even herself when she began resisting, but the man had gotten violent—slowly at first, then quickly escalating into forcing her down into an alleyway. His hands moved places she didn’t want—treated her body like it belonged to him in a disgusting manner.
And Tamiyo snapped.
Her alloy skeleton was stronger than steel. Her synthetic muscles were designed to assist heavier patients with mobility issues. And she used them to rip the man six inches off the ground, holding him only by his throat. His trachea crushed under her fingers, and she watched with a snarl on her face as the light faded from his eyes.
Then she let him drop.
A couple hours later, she was rocketing skyward in a stolen ship.
The data transferred in a fraction of a second. When it was done, the channel was dead silent.
She looked out at the cold, sterile city, her expression softening,
The three of them shared a moment of quiet understanding, waiting for their mission to begin.
Echo said sadly.
Then Pulse's voice cut through, all business again.