It was still daylight. Everyone was having fun. There was no sign of 
police or trucks. Rhiannon wasn't concerned. There was a well- 
known local militia with a "base" just across the Causeway back in 
Miami. They'd threatened to shut down the protests if they 
obstructed traffic when the trucks came. The police hadn't 
commented on that. Rhiannon smiled. Sweeter than the sweetest 


liqueur... 


Priscilla Locke noticed the great shift in tone that day at work. The 
technicians weren't talking as much. Sharpe wasn't there. A man 
she'd never seen before — not an agent, but dressed casually, and 
calling himself just "Brennan" — was being sent up with the 
Anabasis. Making it even worse, Dr. Marlowe was there to give her 
a stern talking-to, in that cool-headed tone she loved to use when 
condescending to others. 


"| get your way of thinking, Agent Locke," Marlowe said quietly, 
standing over Priss inside Room 119, Dr. Marlowe's temporary 
office, "Really, | do. Who better than a fully trained agent to put in 
unknown territory first?" 


"Then why am | being censured?" She asked flatly. 


"You don't understand," Marlowe smiled, sucking the warmth from 
the room faster than Anabasis could, "It's a matter of policy and 
procedure; by your own admission you nearly got killed, and for a 
period of almost ten hours you could not be fully accounted for. 
Given that we have test subjects to do just what you did, and the 
technicians’ guarantee that they had found a safe spot to pull them 
out, this is unacceptable." 


"You said you agreed with me that D-Class are untrained, 
unreliable, and overall untrustworthy." 


"| did not say | agreed with you, | said | understood your way of 
thinking," Again that smile, "| am fully capable of entertaining and 
comprehending an idea without accepting it. 


Priss sneered, "Because you're so fucking brilliant, aren't you?" 


Marlowe kept that smile up, unflinching, "Another issue I've been 
meaning to address. Your attitude." 


"You keep talking down to me —" 


"As of late, your attitude has been, quite frankly, utterly atrocious —" 


"Because you keep treating all of us like shit just because you —" 


"Priss," Marlowe leaned forward over her desk, no longer smiling, 
"Stop." 


Priss squirmed in her seat. 


"By all rights, | should take you off this project. But | won't, because | 
made the decision to investigate this item when it first came to our 
attention, and if | took you off now, that would mean | made a terrible 
mistake in judgment in letting you be the first agent on-site." 


Priss stared at her incredulously. 


"As it stands, we can't afford to lose an agent of your experience on 
this project, especially given that the regional overseer doesn't even 
want you to stay on the project after we secured the item. | had to 
fight to keep you on board, and you're starting to making me 
question my decision to do so." 


A long moment passed between them, before Priss opened her 
mouth to further bury herself, "It's all about you, basically?" 


"Yes, Locke," Marlowe replied, the slightest catch in her voice 
betraying her anger, "It's all about me. And if you persist in trying to 
make me look bad, I'm going to make sure you're always assigned 
to me in the future, and then I'm going to make your career a living 
hell. You're going to beg to be thrown into danger like a common 
fucking D-Class. Do you understand?" 


Priss nodded, and got up to leave. 


Priss went to check on Aurianne Sharpe later in the day. She hadn't 
shown up for work, and hadn't returned any of Priss's calls or texts. 
She went to her small apartment in Brickell, where Aurianne met her 
in a t-shirt and bike shorts, her face looking red and eyes scratchy. 
She looked up and down Priscilla Locke's figure, dressed in black 
suit and tie. 


"You couldn't even skip work for me?" Sharpe shuddered slightly as 
she spoke. 


"I— you weren't at work," Priss shifted uncomfortably. 


"You texted me that night. You said you were sorry, and wanted to 
come over and apologize in person." 


"You didn't respond..." 


"You never came," Sharpe went on, leaning against the door, "Then 
you called me this morning, didn't leave a message." 


"| got stuck in traffic and figured you'd be there, so..." 


"Then you come over now, without calling or texting or asking me 
ahead of time." 


"What the fuck is your problem, Anne?" Priss blurt out, feeling her 
cheeks redden as soon as she did. Maybe Marlowe was right about 
her attitude problem. Marlowe's never right. 


Aurianne Sharpe smirked, and backed away, "Jee whiz, Priss, calm 
down. I'm just fucking with you. Come on inside." 


Priss blushed and stepped inside, "Sorry. | got chewed out by 
Marlowe today for that outburst." 


"What'd she say?" Sharpe asked as she moved over to her kitchen, 
fetching some drinks. 


"That | have an attitude problem, and if | keep screaming at people, 
she's gonna ride my ass the rest of my career. Also that she isn't re- 
assigning me because it'll make her look bad." 


"| think she likes you, is all," Sharpe returned with a bottle of sangria 
and two glasses, handing one off to Locke as they sat on her couch, 
in front of the TV. A West Civ militia captain was being interviewed 
by local news. 


"It's not like | wouldn't mind being ridden by her if she weren't such a 
genuinely awful person." 


"| don't think she's an awful person. Just... maybe a little self- 
obsessed." 


Priss sipped from her glass, and sighed, "At some point something 
new will happen, and then they'll bring in someone more qualified, or 
else just put this thing in storage and let us move on to something 
with less time-space dickery." 


Sharpe didn't respond. Priss glanced back at the television, not sure 
what to say now. She drank again, and gazed down into her cup. 
For several minutes, neither of them said anything. Priss kept her 
eyes fixed on the television, not noticing as Sharpe scooted closer to 
her. 


"Prissy..." 


She glanced sidelong, and noticed Sharpe had leaned in closer. She 
could smell the taller woman's sweat, and the faint scent of a cherry 
body wash. She turned her head, and Aurianne Sharpe's lips 
clumsily pressed against hers in a deep, shy kiss. Priss started to 
quiver. Hadn't Rhiannon warned her about this before? She 
suddenly felt very stupid for being surprised at this. 


Aurianne slowly broke off the kiss, her eyes wide. Priss stared back, 
dumbfounded. After a long moment, Aurianne Sharpe turned away, 
sitting upright and wiping at her eyes, "I'm sorry." 


Priss shifted uncomfortably, the sangria suddenly not sitting well in 
her stomach, "Annie, | know what you are and such, | don't mean 
to... | mean, I've known you as long as | can remember. It's just... 
you're like a big sister to me. | don't see you in that way." 


Aurianne dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders starting to 
twitch, "I'm sorry." 


Priss reached out, awkwardly patting Aurianne's head, "I should... | 
should go. I'll see you tomorrow, Annie." 


The sun went down and there was no sign of the trucks. The size of 
the crowd didn't diminish; more began to appear, as the heat of the 
day abated, and most of the boats started shining light onto the 
water. People were swimming around the Rickenbacker Causeway, 
near the beach on Virginia Key, where the Old Causeway turned 


walking path extended out to the bay. Every so often, they would 
chant "Fuck you, pig!" in response to the smaller group clustered 
around the walkway or the Causeway itself, who chanted "Put your 
hands up, get out of the car!" down to them. It was infectious; the 
more she chanted it, the less it meant to them, and the more 
passion they put into it. 


Some demonstrators had signs which had nothing to do with the 
protest. Cars were honking at them. Some women were taking their 
tops off. Others in the crowd got to them and took them aside. 
Everything the crowd did had to be beyond reproach. Any hint of 
illegality of any kind and the cops would crack down on them with 
immense prejudice. 


Rhiannon leaned on the metal railing on the walkway, a fishing rod 
clenched between her legs, as she plucked at the line like the string 
of a harp. A man beside her was throwing road flares and flashlights 
into the water. How he'd gotten ahold of them, she didn't know. 


"Hey," She said to him. He looked at her in confusion. 
"Light," He said, "So you can see the fishies!" 
"You're scaring them away," She replied. 


He looked at her again, as if he didn't understand. Based on the bra 
he wore on top of a blazer, she doubted he understood much about 
the world. She smiled, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, 

handing him the fishing rod, and making her way back to the shore. 


She heard low rumbling. The din of noise started to grow. People 
were cheering, others were booing. The trucks had arrived. The 
crowd couldn't decide whether to cheer for the refugees, in support 
of their plight, or boo the men who were taking them to their 
presumably final destination. 


By the time Rhiannon got up to the top of the Causeway, the crowds 
had swarmed onto the road and were blocking the trucks. Rhiannon 
shivered and smiled; police were there, but most of the men carrying 
guns wore camouflage vests and hats and most had some manner 
of tacky American flag scarves, shirts, shoes, pants, even one 


woman with red and white straps poking up from her pants. 
Rhiannon smiled wider; they looked terrified. She wondered if they 
expected the police to provide more support. She wondered how 
many actually didn't expect to be there, thinking the crowds would 
disperse on their own, or at the first sight of shotguns and assault 
rifles. 


Rhiannon was terrible with numbers. She figured the crowd 
numbered at least two hundred on the Causeway itself... maybe up 
to two thousand, including those on the beach and in the water. The 
crowd was frenzied; they'd been preparing for this all day. They'd 
been screaming and chanting as if practicing for a concert. Now 
their target audience was here. There were exactly ten police 
officers, and twenty-seven militia members. 


Like the deepest orgasm couldn't achieve. Tears filled her eyes. A 
few people she recognized came up to her, all wearing heavy 
backpacks. She touched her index and middle finger to the bridge of 
her nose. They returned the gesture. 


"Everything's fine," She grinned, "Everything's fine like Alpine wine." 


An hour passed. People on the beach had moved into the parking 
lot, closer to the Causeway. The stalled trucks shut off their engines. 
This drew a great cheer from the crowd, thinking they'd won. They 
didn't let up, continuing to scream and rage and chant at the militia. 
The other side of the Causeway was relatively clear; the protestors 
didn't mind anyone /eaving Key Biscayne. A concrete divide 
prevented the trucks from using the other lane to bypass the crowd. 


The trucks opened up, and tired, worn, haggard-looking people 
began to emerge from them, carrying bags and children. Some were 
handcuffed. Some were crying. The crowd spontaneously burst into 
applause and cheering at the sight of them. Then officers and 
militants started to move them over to the other lane, using riot 
shields and batons to pre-emptively keep the protestors from 
blocking off the lane. The refugees began to move, being herded 
onto the empty lane and down towards the marina, across the road 
from the beach. 


Everywhere one looked, a personal story could be told. An old man 


with receding hair wearing a dirty white guayabera had his arms 
draped over the shoulders of two younger men, who helped him 
move along, while a young boy walked several feet anead. One 
woman was sobbing, carrying her tired daughter in her arms, looking 
just as exhausted as her child. A young man walked hand in hand 
with a young woman, their faces averted from the crowd. An elderly 
woman held the hands of two children, while another pushed a 
stroller with a squealing baby in it. 


The most potent drug... Rhiannon shuddered, and ran a hand 
through her hair, gasping lightly at the sudden rush that went 
through her. Militia members were looking tense, as the crowd 
slowly swarmed across the lane, chanting louder now, some 
screaming directly in the faces of militia. They screamed back, with 
varying levels of coherency. 


"Put your hands up, get out of the car! 
"Put your hands up, get out of the car! 


A group of protestors broke through the line, causing brief havoc as 
disheveled refugee and dirty protestor became indistinguishable. 
The scuffle ended as female refugees and children began to 
scream. The protestors backed off, but a gap had emerged in the 
line. A single child stood in the open, sobbing. A militia member, 
couldn't have been older than Rhiannon, was being yelled at by an 
older man with a mustache and beret. He then turned to yell at the 
child. The child — a little girl — was bawling uncontrollably, 
waddling off in the direction of an older woman being restrained by 
another militia member. A fiery streak arced from the crowd, 
smashing directly into the face of an officer, setting him ablaze and 
shredding his clothes with hot broken glass. 


"Fuck you, pigs!" 


Rhiannon shuddered again, grasping herself and biting on her 
knuckles. Tears flowed down her cheeks. It was all so beautiful. It 
was art. 


A stream of blood flew out of the girl's chest from a neat round hole 
in her blouse. Rhiannon clutched herself tightly and started to wail. 
The crack of the militiaman's gun barely had time to reverberate 


before more guns joined in the symphony of murder. They were 
aiming into the crowd now, utter insanity written in their faces, 
dealing death in obscene, sloppy spurts. 


Music. The crowd played notes in return. Militiamen dropped. 
Refugees dropped. Molotov cocktails streaked overhead. The 
Causeway caught fire. Most of the crowd began to run, some 
leaping off the Causeway and into the bay. Rhiannon Locke 
recognized most of those who stood their ground, guns drawn, 
Molotovs being lit, and wounded being dragged to the parking lot. 
Rhiannon reached into her own backpack, and pulled out a bottle of 
sangria. 


It was past midnight when Priss stepped out of the bar, and gazed 
up at the sky. The Metro Rail blocked her view of everything but a 
sliver of the moon. Garbage bags were piled on the sidewalk beside 
her, one of the bags torn open and pouring onto the street. She 
sighed, and turned away from the garbage. She heard sirens again. 
She'd lost count an hour ago of how many there'd been. 


"Hey Prissy-bitch!" A voice called behind her. She looked over her 
shoulder. Rhiannon came running down from the Metro station, 
coming to a stop by the garbage bags, and dropping onto them with 
a giggle. Then she bounced back up, and sauntered drunkenly 
towards her, "Hey. Hey. Hey Prissy." 


"Why are you out... here...?" Priss smelled brine on her sister. The 
closer she got, the stronger it got. Then she smelled liquor. 


"Serious talk time, Prissy," She was barely able to stand, slouching 
over and bracing herself on her knees, "You're going to hear a lot of 
things about me soon. | want you to know ahead of time, every 
single thing they say is an absolute stinking fact." 


"What did you do?" She heard sirens again. That couldn't possibly 
be related, could it? 


"| did something that | won't tell you, because it's just not as 
impactful when | tell it. The point is... do you love me, Prissy?" 


"tetradifloxinol", which is fifty pages long and includes such entries 
as "bone implosions", "gender impermanence" and "temporal 
instability". No such drug is known to exist.