City of Slow Dreams:  Chapter 7  (by Elliot Bowers)

     The din of the crowd strengthened, loudened.  Janitors came piling into the Fighting ring, a dozen pasty skinned men of uniform height and build, all in blue coveralls and blue hats.  Some of them stood before the wild-haired and sinewy man in casual wear and cape, looked at and regarded this four-foot synthetic-headed cyborg-girl.  Both of those two oddities stood in the Fighting ring, stood to be perused. 

     The Cloaked Man put on an immense toothy grin and crossed his arms, standing straight and proud.  "Heh heh heh heh…"  he chuckled through that grin, taking in the pride from the crowd.  Oh yes, he knew that the crowd was looking at him; he felt them.  This, and some of the Arena janitors were giving him close-up looks.  He was a champ!

    By his side, Alia resentfully ignored the loud and pretentious din of the crowd.  Resentful, because The Cloaked Man was being himself again, letting his ego and weirdness take him away from their own goal of getting out of here

     She took steps, stood in front of that tall grinning caped man—seeing him swelled with pride.  "Cloaked Man, pride bolsters confidence, but large doses are hazardous to body and mind!" she tried to say above the crowd's loudness.  "Such is truth for any intoxicant!"

     He still grinned.   Seeing that he failed to heed her, she moved yet closer.  Stood as close as she could without arching the mechanisms of her neck too far.   

     The synthetic flesh of her fine-featured face bent in annoyance, her dark eyes indignant.  "Cloaked Man…!"  she shouted, pulling back her right hand as if to reach up and slap him.  And finally, he looked.

     "What's that, kiddo?" he asked, loud above the surrounding people-noise.  "Oh I heard.  You don't like the crowd, huh?  You're being a Little Miss Introvert!"   He reached down to put his right hand on her shoulder.   He looked at her, then looked left, using his free hand to gesture to the crowd.  "But just look at all that!  They love us.  Coach was right about the crowd!  I went into the breeze to recover, and I had to come back for them!  The breeze was where I went when I was going and leaving, because it is where people come when they go away, dig it?"

     Alia tried to extract sense from that spate of rant.  Went into…the breeze? The Cloaked Man  went into what he called the breeze.  But, upon his return, perhaps his thoughts still remain wherever he went—wherever that was.  Where did you go, Cloaked Man?  You make me wander in wonder…

      When she just thought of that question, The Cloaked Man looked back down at her.  His smile wilted, face becoming serious.  Now there was that something again in his look—the something that was a hint of the feeling The Cloaked Man invoked during those last negotiations with Coach.

     Alia felt emotionally gripped by that gaze.  Caught in that gaze, she felt feelings.  She felt saddened, felt more miserable, felt slightly angered…  A mix of negative and dark emotions.  And she knew, she knew, that those feelings came from the spirit of The Cloaked Man.  There was more to him than she knew…    

     Holding her with that darkened look of his, he brought down his left hand.  Fingers of that hand then carefully touched the center of her damaged forehead, the split in her synthetic flesh made by the ABD.

     Alia pursed her lips, and she finally had strength enough to turn her head from The Cloaked Man's gaze.  Doing so also detached his probing touch.  This touching, this caressing, she did not need it.  So he took a step away.  Fine!

     One janitor approached, breaking into Alia's entranced state.  Using practiced ease, the janitor spoke loudly with articulation and ease.  "You two, Coach wants you.  Time for tradition.  Don't keep him and that waiting."   That said, the two were escorted out of the grand Fighting ring, janitors close by and following. 

     This, and other janitors set to work removing the remains of the ABD.  They had to use the cable to remove the main hulk, then used shovels and wheelbarrows to port away the scattered chunks from the explosion.  This was standard procedure, though that last match was certainly not standard. 

     An eclectic entourage went through the gated aisle that led to and away from the ring:  three janitors, a short blonde cyborg and a six-foot casually dressed man with that cape.  The gated aisle let to that elevator over at the end.  Them inside, the gleaming gray doors closed.

     Inside this elevator, the doors closed—and the sound of the crowd was much reduced.  The Cloaked Man's grin faded.  He suddenly missed the blast of their cheering.  Oh well…  

     In the periphery of his sight, his staring at the elevator doors, The Cloaked Man noticed Alia staring at the silvery wall—twiddling her solid fingers.  Fidgeting, the cyborg-girl was fidgeting, like the little girl she believed she wasn't.  He then looked down to ascertain this.  Then Alia turned, looked up to meet his gaze.  She very quickly made a down-pointing gesture with her right hand, then went back to looking at the wall—sans fidgeting. The Cloaked Man understood the gesture.  This elevator was not going back up to the viewing office; this elevator was going down.   Where, he did not know. 

     When the doors did open, they revealed the next location—underground.  Down here was a wide florescent-lit underground space—a parking lot, dozens of new cars parked throughout.  There was a brief car-honk from the right.  That was the metal-colored limousine, e-cops around it.  The rearmost left door was open. 

     The Cloaked Man looked around, saw everyone looking at the limousine.  He looked around again, left and right, looking at the size of this underground space.  Just to irritate everyone down here, he made one more visual sweep of the place.  When one of the

e-cops by the limousine broke away from his comrades, approaching Alia and The Cloaked Man, The Cloaked Man nodded and moved in the direction of that long vehicle.  No, no, he did not need to be manhandled (or cyborg-handled) again.  Yes, yes, he would come along for the ride.

     They prodded him into the limousine, through that rearmost door.  He hunched over to get in.  Inside this part of the limousine—the rearmost passenger compartment—was like a beige-carpeted living room in miniature—with soft cushion seats back and front, a round coffee table in the middle. 

     Hands on her slim metal arms, Alia was firmly seated to the right of The Cloaked Man.   One of those trench-coated and strictly dressed e-cops came hunchingly in right after her.  The size difference was almost comic:  petite cyborg elf-girl aside a trench-coated and well-muscled giant. 

     Well, well, well…  Coach was already in here, his bulky and gray clothed form relaxed—legs stretched and big arms across the top of his side of the compartment.  He nodded to Alia and Van.  He flopped up his right hand in greeting.  "Hi to ya both!" said the big man.  He then snapped the fingers of his metal hand, his left, and the limousine began to move. 

     The long luxury vehicle gently rumbled up and out of the underground parking area.  What was interesting was how the passenger windows darkened, and the ceiling-mounted lamp came on.  The Cloaked Man never noticed that feature before, the windows self-darkening.  This made the space inside seem more insulated and private.  But it was now impossible to tell where they were going or how late in the day it was.  Given their prolonged straight movements, movements that were punctuated by very slow turns, they were likely riding through the lanes and streets of downtown Fusion City.

     Alia's anger at her recent rough treatment was now dampened with curiosity at this part of Coach's limousine.  This was a vehicle of luxury, a vehicle of pampering.  For her tastes, it was too pampering.  Before, she rode in the more functionary front seats.  Now, this was a spacious and generous place of the vehicle.  If too generous.  Luxury was in excess:  She had to shift her back and hips to keep her small body from sinking too far into the cushioned seats.   

     The Cloaked Man had nothing to say, for a radical change.  Instead, he was also curious—just looking around.  His mouth scrunched when he saw that something was tucked in the left armrest, something thin tucked in the sliver of space between armrest cushion and door.  He took it.

     It was a pamphlet.  It had information on Fusion City, about the perfection and beauty of the citizens.  And he noticed Coach was looking at him.  Well, Coach wouldn't mind him reading this…       

     Coach cut into The Cloaked Man's thoughts, speaking.  "Folks, I gotta admit, that had to be one of the sweetest set of surprise matches ever!"  He saw that weird man give the hidden pamphlet to the elfin-faced little cyborg.    If I didn't have that video-recorded, then nobody ain't gonna believe it after tonight."

     Taking the proffered pamphlet from The Cloaked Man, Alia unfolded it, began reading it while he spoke to Coach.  The length of her pale hair curtained the sides of her face as her head was tilted down in perusal.  The expression on her synthetic face could not be seen, but the rigidity of her metal body indicated intense interest.  Interest that suddenly grew with each part of the pamphlet…

     The Cloaked Man had to say something.  He did.  "Oh yeah, yeah…  Glad to know that you're interested in our fighting styles, Coach.  Didn't expect that crowd back there to give so much love, though."

     Coach's big head bobbed up and down, smiling.  "That's right, champ!  They loved ya!  That fight ya put up!  Blows to yer chest, a knock down, and ya still managed to whack L-Timmy GS a good one!  The janitors'll take weeks to fix him up—or will just scrap the 'bot.  Didn't know a synth-flesh like yerself had the strength, and ya just look like a middleweight."

     The Cloaked Man smiled, waved a right hand at Coach.  "Aw shucks!  You'd make me blush if I could, all this talk of me being strong and a champ…  Well, maybe I do have strength in excess.  Strength and energy powered and overpowered.  Got that much mightiness to spare and give.  Got so much to give that my opponents have to take it.  No, they can't take it.  Because of that, my opponents go down."

     The Cloaked Man did not know it, but he was being spied upon.  His words were being secretly recorded, then burst-transmitted, to a small subterranean workroom at the Arena.  There, amidst wall-mounted machines and worktables, blue-clothed Arena techies listened carefully to The Cloaked Man's talk of being overpowered.  With that, some of them set to work recalibrating a certain gynoid.  It would be ready by the time The Cloaked Man arrived.  Question was, would The Cloaked Man be ready? 

     Back in the limousine, The Cloaked Man ranted on.  "Going down is not one of my own favorite activities, though.  I'd prefer being dipped in oatmeal and rinsed in coffee to being defeated.  Not that I can be dipped in oatmeal against my will or anything, but the coffee sounds good.  It has to be good, because coffee must be damned good most of the time…." 

     Alia rolled her eyes.  Took in a hissing breath through her teeth.  She tried to bear with The Cloaked Man's rant.  She truly tried.  But he annoyed.     

     "Which reminds," he continued.  "What about serving coffee to the champs and bicyclists?  If there are no bicyclists in Fusion City, then make some.  Begin recruiting people by using paper envelopes and…"

     Coach tried to stay with the twisting and weaving wordiness of The Cloaked Man's rant.  Instead, he just decided to cut through and ask a question outright.  "Hey, about goin' down…  How'd ya come back?  We thought ya was…dead.  Vanished and…  I dunno, vaporized.  Maybe yer autorepair systems backfired, or yer energy systems overloaded?  What happened?"

     The Cloaked Man tilted his head forward, looking at Coach from a slant.  "What, Coach-man, you really don't know about going in the breeze?  All of that time running the Fighting ring and running an entire city of people…  What do you want, Alia?"  Alia had nudged his elbow when The Cloaked Man said people. 

     He saw that she was probably reacting to something she was reading in that pamphlet, and he continued to talk.  "Anyway…   Coach, you don't know about what's in the breeze?  I mean, the breeze is all around.  It blows across all the land, and people experience it indirectly.  It's like an ambiance, only a bit more pervasive.  I can't explain it fully, but I can understand it."

     Coach slightly shook his head, listening to some more of The Cloaked Man's crazy talk.  "Nah," said Coach, "can't say I do know about what's in this breeze yer talkin' about.  What are ya really talkin' about, airborne energy or somethin' for full-body autorepairs?"  That theory sounded whacked to even himself, but it was what he could come up with. 

     The Cloaked Man smiled.  "The breeze as airborne energy?  Hmm…   You could say something like that, regarding the breeze.  Ha ha….  Airborne energy.  There's more than that in the breeze, though.  But I'm not going to tell you.  Oh no, that would be ruining surprises for yourself."

     For some seconds in this part of the limousine, there was nothing but the very slight and faint sound of distant engine rumble as they motored along the street.  Coach looked at the e-cop seated with those two over there; the e-cop shrugged his shoulders.  Coach opened his mouth to inquire, but The Cloaked Man cut him off.      

     "By the byway, didn't we have a deal?  When are we going to get our refurbished gynoid?" asked The Cloaked Man.  He then draped his right arm around Alia's armor-solid shoulders.  "What about little Alia here, too?  Her pretty little face was, like, mutilated.  A split on her forehead.  And her face was somewhat expensive—by Brunswick standards.  It is a shame.  Yes, a shame that a little girl's face is scarred before she reaches adulthood…

     "Wait a minute, wait and never mind that, never mind what I just ranted and listen why.  Why am I talking about her as if she's human?  Not human, she's never going to grow up.  But anyway, when are we going to get the rewards of victory?"

     Coach gave a nod.  "I got ya.  A deal's a deal."  The wide-bodied man then leaned right to press a button on the nearest armrest.  "Yeah, Benny…  Take us over to Fusion Central, will ya?  Guess we'll leave Brennan's Pub for another day." 

     That is, he instructed the driver to take them to Fusion City Central Hospital.  A few more turns, and the limousine was en route in that new direction.  Twenty minutes of this new route, and they were there.

     Fusion City Central Hospital was a three-story building that was wider than tall, wide enough that it alone occupied four city blocks.  People could identify the hospital by both its size and its coloring—the now-traditional faintly green tone.  Only half of its interior space and resources were immediately available for actual care of patients—real- or synthetic-bodied; the other half of the floor space was set aside for technological research, resource management and even a library. 

     The long gray limo slowed to pull up before this vast city building.  Moving with practiced ease, the driver maneuvered the long car into a reserved parking space up front:  a part of the curb defined by a long gray stripe.  By city regulations, that was Coach's parking space. 

     Seconds after the car stopped, the window on Coach's side became transparent.  "Here we are, champs!" Coach said to the two.  "Fusion City Central Hospital, best damned medical facility on the plains!  Especially the best, because we got a ward in there just to treat Arena Fighters.  If there's a better place out there, then I ain't heard about it."  He finished, then smiled directly at The Cloaked Man.  Just smiled…

     Alia had taken to stroking and probing the split in the synth-flesh of her forehead.  More so than ever, her synthetic face felt as oddly unfeeling as a mask, despite as realistic as it looked.  It felt odd, even to her.

     The Cloaked Man spoke.  "Alia, you keep picking at that head wound, and it's never going to get better!" he commented.  He then looked out the window.  "Never mind!  It's going to be made better, given the big reputation of that big building.  Right, Coach?"

     Coach spoke through his grin.  "Hell and thunder, yeah!  That cyborg's pretty little mug'll be fixed flawlessly."  He leaned forward, his voice then evening out.  "And Cloaked Man, could we…talk some business—while that metal-bodied kid of yours gets her face fixed at my hospital?"

     "Sure!  Why not!" exclaimed The Cloaked Man, ignoring Alia's indignant stare.  Kid.  "I like to talk and then talk some more.  Gives me a chance to chant my rant, more of my jazz and pizzazz.  I can dig it!"

     The big and bulky man tapped a second button on the right seat's armrest.  An e-cop opened the limo door, opening into the afternoon-colored sidewalk before the big hospital.  Coach looked at Alia, pointed out this limo with his left hand.  "Go on in, girl, and ask to for a facial.  If ya want, tell'em I sent ya.  They'll really  treat ya right."

     Alia gave The Cloaked Man the pamphlet she was reading before, and he put his in his left pocket—where the pamphlet actually disappeared.  Then, not helping at all, he watched—amused—as Alia got up from the well-cushioned seat.  As the cushion was so soft, it took some conscious effort for little Alia to get up without falling over.  She did not have to hunch over too much to walk out of the limousine. 

     As the small gray-bodied figure stepped out of the vehicle and into warm afternoon daylight, she heard The Cloaked Man say behind her, "You know what?  I'm a touch worried about leaving Alia alone.  Little kids shouldn't be unsupervised, meal-bodied or not."

     Being called a kid!   She turned, fast enough that her pale hair whipped about.  There was nothing wrong with being elfin, being of a small-statured people!  So what, her synthetic physique was that of her race.  Not everyone is giant.

     Over in his limo seat, The Cloaked Man smiled out at Alia.  He raised his left hand, wriggled the fingers at her, an unsaid See you later.  That hand closed the door, closing the limo and leaving the small cyborg out here.

     And the limousine motored away—leaving her in the company of three red-haired nurses out from this hospital.  All of them looked perfectly alike, with their bunned hair and green caps on, all of them exactly six feet in height and with look-alike bodies. 

     Alia looked up at them, they looked back down at her, their smooth and youthful faces smiling.  To the small cyborg, there was something missing in those looks of pleasantry.  Something off-balanced. 

     "Please, come into our facilities, young miss," said the center nurse.  "We always have facilities to serve Coach's Arena Fighters."  Not waiting for an answer from the petite cyborg, the center nurse then took a step in the direction of the hospital.  Alia hesitated for the space of a step, balking at the term young miss, then followed.  Alia wanted to correct the presumptuousness of the nurse, a continuation of the ignorance that seemed spread among the people of this city:  Alia was not a child.  Though never given a chance to mature in a real human or elfin body, her brain was alive for over a century. 

     "Indeed," said the nurse, not at all aware of Alia's ruminations, "what you do to yourselves is sometimes tougher than what your bodies' autorepair systems can immediately undo.  We speed the process and do much more."  

     They entered through automatic doors, into a gleaming, long and vast left-to-right hallway.  In here, florescent lighting gave even tones to the clean walls.  And there was circular receptionists' desk in the middle.  In that circular reception area was a pretty woman, slender and red-haired.  She was wearing a sleeveless blouse, close-fitting green pants hidden by the height of the reception desk—a decorative dressed and made to be decorative.  Her light and slight fingers tapped away at a computer, fingers moving at an extremely rapid clip.  Not human. 

     Alia was escorted to the receptionist desk.  She stood at this side of the desk, ignoring the fingers on her armored shoulders.  Was the secretary so busy as to not handle clients? 

     No, she wasn't.  The receptionist swiveled left, then walked over to the side of the reception desk where Alia was.  Leaning over, she looked down at her.  "Ah, Coach contacted me about our little champion."  Alia imagined that the receptionist said little with a bit too much emphasis.  The receptionist continued.  "I see you have a bit of damage there.  We'll have to give you a facial."  She tilted her head to the left.  "And, would you care to have any other work done?  Since Coach sent you, we could replace your brain for free.  That is, if you're worried about any…"

     "Replace my brain?" shouted Alia, her soprano voice having surprising volume for someone—or something—so small.   "Repairs needed are merely for cosmetics, not mutilation!"  Finally, all this talk about her being small and a kid got to her, built her frustration.  Now, they wanted to be allowed to replace her brain!  Eyes squinting, she shouted, "Oh, you darkened fiends!  Vex you, one and all!

     The three nurses, especially the one holding her, had nervous grins at the outburst.  And the receptionist at the desk had a grin to match.  "But sweetie, brain replacement is a part of cosmetics.  Real brains have been out of fashion since…  Well, since as long as any of us can remember.  Wouldn't you like a sleek, clean crystal matrix instead of the soft and messy brain in your head now?"

     That pamphlet was truth… Alia thought.  She felt those nurse's hands on her shoulders, felt the hands gripping her with gynoid strength.  And now she remembered the extensive material in the pamphlet—the pamphlet in the limousine.  A person of the times, she did not believe all she read; she did not believe what that entertainingly bizarre pamphlet had said about this city.  Now she firmly believed the bizarre twist about the citizens.  Maybe, Alia should have retained the pamphlet—if she had metal pockets on her bare armored physique.

     Perhaps, tact and subtlety was the way to treat this.  Being resentful and spiteful could bring this hospital's security running.  She again remembered that it would not do well to make a public disturbance.  No, that way was a sure way to having her brain mutilated by way of what they called reformation—if not them just replacing her brain outright. 

     The receptionist and the three nurses behind her waited for an answer.  Alia gave one, much more calmly this time.  "No, but thanks given for the offer.  However, mere facial repair is perfectly enough for me." 

     The receptionist's expression now matched Alia's own controlled look.  In an

also-kind voice, she told Alia that they would do that.  "Just a facial?  You want to keep your brain?  Well, okay…  If that's what you want.  We have specialized facilities for simple facials on this floor, nanobot synthesizers and diagnostics for that.  The nurses will take you there."  The receptionist nodded to the nurse that still gripped Alia's shoulders.  The other two nurses followed closely behind as the small cyborg was being led along the wide green hallway, left of the reception desk. 

     Alia's solid bootlets clicked audible as they walked along the hard hallway.   As they walked along, she had to look up to see the plaques on the doors.  All of them so far were marked, SIMPLE COSMETICS.  Door numbers below the plaques.  They eventually came to room SC-107 in this part of the hall. 

     It was a mid-sized and green-walled room.  Along the walls were the necessary    table-mounted white medical machines, but the center of the room had a lean-back and well-cushioned chair.  It was a design descendant of the dentistry chairs from the Old Days, resembling a seat used for dentistry patients.  But in this time period where mouth-cleaning catalysts and nanobot-containing solution are used to flawlessly clean and refurbish real or ceramic teeth, physical dentistry was a dead art, like trepanning and electroshock.  No, that reclining seat was for face repair and refurbishment—for facials.

     This would be the second time in memory that Alia had face work done.  Like in Brunswick, she sat as best she could in the oversized seat.  A nurse came close to make sure the little cyborg was comfortable.  The second nurse moved to get an elastic band,  while the third went to one of the boxy machines to synthesize a new bottle of nanobot solution.

     Alia sat up, head forward, to have her straight pale hair held back with the band.  The first nurse ran a handheld diagnostics device run Alia's electromechanical body.  The third nurse came to the seat, a pint bottle of translucent green solution in her right and a brush in her left.  Alia vaguely knew what it was. 

     The third nurse explained, "This is nanobots in standard solution.  I will just brush some solution onto your forehead, and the nanobots will rapidly do what a body's autorepair systems typically do.  But this solution will be consumed in the process." 

     Brushed onto the forehead?  This was cause for some hesitation.  Just maybe, those nanobots could be configured to eat into the titanium of Alia's skull, and the description could be just a tricking lie.  But then, the plastisteel case hold her brain itself—beneath the skull—would have time enough to activate a small tensor field.  It was similar to the tensor field that held a gynoid's crystal matrix components in their sockets.  There was no worry unless the tensor field contacts in her skull were somehow burned out and not autorepaired during her decades-long autostasis.

     The small worried cyborg let the third nurse apply a thin wet layer of the green solution.  There was some wet coolness on her forehead, and she tensed…  But no, she did not feel any sign of it eating into her head.  No triggering tensor field. 

     Seconds later, the third nurse used her bare finger to gently stroke Alia's smooth forehead.  She looked into that nurse's dark eyes.  "Hmm…  Yes," went the nurse,

"flawlessly repaired.   You have a very pretty face, little one, did you know that?"  Again, being little!  The nurse tapped the tip of Alia's pert nose, and Alia tried not to snap at her.  All of this little person treatment!  Being treated as a plaything and a doll, how deeply infuriating. 

    Then the nurse removed the hairband.  "By the way, the diagnostics scanner we ran over you indicated that your nanobot reservoirs and synthesizers are running below standard.  Did you know that?" voiced the second nurse.  "Your body's nanobot synthesis systems are a bit slow by modern standards, and below par for Arena Fighting.  And if you plan on fighting any more matches, shouldn't you get your autorepair systems upgraded?"

     Alia crossed her arms.  Yes, finally, they were asking her for her opinion on her own health—finally giving her the respect due a person.  "Upgrade?  That entails what?  Need you open my body?"  Her slight and light voice ever-so-slightly quivered with worry.   Did those of this hospital have resources for metal-type cyborgs?  Or, would they damage some of her vital systems in upgrading?

     "Don't you worry, little one," said the first nurse.  "We just give you an infusion of upgraded nanobots—just put it through your chest reservoir.  Some of them are used to transfer software upgrade data to your electromechanics, and the rest self-replicate to take over the function of your current nanobots.  Just an injection into the tiny hole in your chest, and there you go! 

     "But you'll have to stay here an extra ninety minutes while your autorepair systems reconfigure.  You don't want to risk any damage by accidents, so you'll just stay in here."

     Alia considered the information for some seconds.  She trusted the nurses to repair her face, her forehead.  And now, if she trusted them for one and one-half hours more, she could get an autorepair systems upgrade.  If Alia's party was going to face yet more dangers, it was likely best to have that autorepair upgrade offered.  And, it was likely that they were going to face further dangers.   

     "Then," she began, looking up at the three facsimiles in nurse uniforms, "I accept what is offered—the upgraded autorepair system," she said.  The second nurse gave a smile and nod, and all three medical workers made equipment preparations for the procedure. 

     Alia busied her worry-colored mind with thoughts of Van, wondering on about Van being or not being the same after being refurbished.  And, part of her thoughts went to how The Cloaked Man was behaving outside of her presence.  Thoughts of him going to  get their refurbished party member.

     Doing that, getting refurbished Van, was what the Cloaked Man intended to do.   Intention and result, though, sometimes have ways of parting.  Having driven with Coach straight from Fusion City Central Hospital, The Cloaked Man hoped to straight off go and get Van.  

     They pulled up before a certain circular building in downtown.  Then Coach untinted the windows.  And he looked at The Cloaked Man, seated across from him in this passenger compartment of the vehicle.  "Okay, champ!  Here we are!"

     The Cloaked Man leaned forward from his seat cushion, looking outside.  He saw five janitors out there on the sidewalk.  Above and behind those janitors' hats, he could see the wide curving front of the Fighting Arena—the big round building set against the deepening blue of the afternoon sky. 

     He leaned back, spoke to Coach.  "Why in tarnation  are we here?  Didn't we agree to get Van?  Coach-man, I'm beginning to start thinking about you on the way to old-age dodderism.  Where's my robot?"

     Coach's big soft face spread a smile, and he spoke very carefully.  "Hey guy, whaddaya mean?"  He jerked his head rightward, in the direction of the Arena.  "We're here to get what you want.  You can get a gynoid in there."  His real and metal eye tracked The Cloaked Man as he stepped out of the limousine—into the presence of the five janitors. 

     Out in the darkening end of day, The Cloaked Man fell into the suddenly close presence of the five janitors.  The first one on the left spoke.  Spoke and motioned for The Cloaked Man to go into the Arena building.   

     "Come with us, Cloaked Man.  A member of your party is waiting for you. 

Indeedy-doo, sir, it has been waiting around and about for some time."

     Feeling bolstered from that honorific sir, The Cloaked Man walked with the five janitors into the Arena.  They went through the double doors, went left along the cavernous front hall.  Which brought them to the gleaming silvery elevator.  Which, then, brought them down to the gated aisle—and the doors opened.

     The Cloaked Man was taken through the gated aisle, the gate-lined tunnel that led to the Fighting ring.  Beyond it, he could see the glowing grayish white of the ring's flat floor and circular wall.  They were taking him into the ring!  "What in tarnation is this, a setup?" he shouted.  "It is a freakin' setup!  I've been had!  It's all a scam!  Where's my lawyer?  I want my lawyer, and a big pitcher of damned good coffee!" 

     The janitors did not quite know what a lawyer was.  But, The Cloaked Man's other exclamations at least revealed his emotional state—agitation.  "Hey, calm down!" said the second janitor.  "There's a gynoid over there, in the ring.  According to Coach, it's a gynoid you'd want.  Now we go through the trouble of re-using gynoid parts up just for you, tuning it up and all, and you're not even going to go get it?"

     The Cloaked Man opened his mouth to rant, then he heard her call out to him, her calling from far over there in the ring.  "Cloaked Man!  Please help me!  They're going to do something!" 

     What the Hell? thought The Cloaked Man.  He gave a glance to the janitors, saw something in their collective stare.  Those bastards planned on trapping him in the Arena.  And they were using Van as bait. 

     He looked at the third janitor.  "Go give your haberdashers a big smiling blue box, filled with like-colored crayons.  Hard to do, since blue crayons are badasses, but try anyway, right?  Your air filters will love you for it."  And before the janitors could pick apart that statement, The Cloaked Man was off and away down the gated aisle—his cape fluttering behind his long and full stride. 

     With the speed of a wind, The Cloaked Man was in the big Fighting ring.  He whipped his head right and left, looking for Van.  There she was.  Slim Japanesque Van—dressed as before in blouse and slacks—leaned with her back and butt against the wall, hands behind her.  Her dark-haired head was tilted forward, chin on her sternum.  Her now shoulder-length dark hair obscured her face from The Cloaked Man.

     "Come on, Van!  Don't you want to be rescued?  Or are you going to lean against that all day?" he blathered.  "Not that wall-leaning is a particularly bad lifestyle, but you can go wall-leaning later."

     "Come here," said Van, the quietness of the ring carrying her words.  "I have to tell you something."  She then made no move to make eye contact with him.  And her voice was calm and loose.

     The Cloaked Man shook his head once at this goofy behavior, then ran to her.  He  took her left hand. "Van, this is a trap!  And now they're going to do something to us!" he said.  "Let's get out of here!"  He tugged her hand once more, looked at her.  As Van's head was tilted down, his eyes met the top of her head instead of a returning look.  "Gynoid, are you listening?"

     Clank. That was the sound of a big metal barrier slamming into place behind him.  Now unmoving, The Cloaked Man knew that the ring was sealed.  Dang it, too late!

     Van snatched her hand away from The Cloaked Man.  Both hands free, she calmly used them to brush and pat her into its original style, as so her hair flowed behind her ears and over her back.  This revealed her pale familiar face, her now-red ceramic eyes looking at him.  Not quite Van's original eyes…  What did they do to her?

     "You silly organic-brained madman, what are you ranting about?  Well, screw you through and through!  Yeah, you're in for a fierce fucking now!"  She saw The Cloaked Man back off, a look of open-mouthed shock on his red-toned face.  More angrily, she said,  "Whacked-out bastard, did I ever say I wanted to be rescued?"

     His mouth finally worked again, and he said, "Oh, sho-o-o-ot!"  Really, with that toxic mouth, it was not the same gynoid they began the quest with.  Nope, this version of Van was the bait and the trap for this particular setup.  And she had to be the trap, because she suddenly came at The Cloaked Man. 

     He was knocked down, then back on his feet—fists up.  Fists up and angry, because betrayal was something that hurt.  The gynoid's face smiled, her new red eyes with something wicked.  "Did I hurt the synth-fleshed cyborg's feelings with my grown-up words?  Want to fuck and make up?"  She puckered her thin lips and made a smooch sound, pumped her hips once at him.  Then she moved blur-fast again…

     And The Cloaked Man was on his back again, cape sprawled all about, his left shoulder a bit weakened this time.  He shook his head to clear it of ringing, and he saw Van standing above him.  "Sheesh, would you not do that again?  Hmph, and Alia thinks I'm annoying."

     Van raised her right fist, her dark hair wildly about her face and shoulders.  The Cloaked Man rolled to the left and out of the way, and Van's fist slammed into the solid floor of the ring.  Still kneeling, she looked up from the slight dent she made in the floor, getting lengths of her hair out of her eyes with a jerk of her head.  She looked to where The Cloaked Man moved—seeing him get up.

     He moved this time.  With a long stride, he struck with his right fist while Van was still kneeling.  As Van fell backward, he followed with a left kick—knocking her further back and onto her back.  As soon as her back hit the metal floor, Van seemed to bounce back up to her feet again. 

     As soon as the heels of her shoes made contact, The Cloaked Man saw her disappear into that blur attack of hers—immediately before he was smacked in the chest, sending him airborne.  Yet again, he was knocked down.  With his neck and jaw aching, chest feeling weakened, he was slower in standing up from this fall.  Luckily, his previous attacks on Van had actually weakened her; a stronger hit could have killed his body's life support systems outright.

     Up and ready once more, he saw Van standing ten yards away.  Her right arm hung limp.  To get so much speed and strength of that last attack, she must have burned something out!

     Then The Cloaked Man knew why that gynoid was so viciously stronger and quicker than usual:  Her mobility systems were tuned too high, put at an overload setting that could give her immense speed and strength—before the systems overloaded. 

     "Jackass," she began, "that override punch should have taken your crazy head!   "Now I'll have to override again!  You'll die this time, flesh brain!"           

     As soon as Van finished speaking, The Cloaked Man knew it was time to duck.  He did, Van turned into a moving blur again, and he heard a razor-quick swish above him.  That is, where his head was a second before.

     Van stepped back from that attack, moving slowly and awkwardly as now both her arms were now limp and burned out.  "You shit-for-brains freak!  Just die like a good madman!  Let me take cave in your titanium ribs before I eat your damned brain.  Please let me kill you.  Please?" 

     "Never!  Ha ha!" shouted The Cloaked Man, fully realizing what he said was cliché, also fully preparing for another attack.  He reached back, brushing his cape with his fists  to speed up a certain charging process.  This, while very conscious of the strong ache in his chest, his weakened frame.  That meant deep structural damage—pretty scary.  

     Can't worry now!  The Cloaked Man's right fist moved the very moment Van became a moving and attacking blur.  There was a miniature blast of blue sparks.   The bright blueness flickering and being reflected on the circular wall of the ring.  Someone fell, wheezing and hissing, those sounds echoing from the circular walls.

     That was Van who fell, her hands to the hard center of her chest.  She exhaled another burst of static, smoke came from her mouth, and then she went limp.  Her hands falling away revealed a scorched and dry hole in her chest, smoke also puffing from that.  Van was defeated.

     After that frenzied and dangerous fight, The Cloaked Man asked himself, What in tarnation was that?  Not Van!  His fists went down, unclenched.  Fingers relaxed and feeling shaken, and his eyes looked at the ruined gynoid.  Shouted, "That was a darned good prank, people.  Ha ha ha, I can laugh at pranks, too!  Damned funny!  Let's all laugh!"

     But the ring was almost totally abandoned of live audience to hear that shout—a sea of seats empty of everything but air.  The answer was the sound of slow clapping in the quiet.   Sitting in a front-row seat, immediately above the rim of the Fighting ring, the bald and muscular businessman in sunglasses grinned a metal-toothed grin, continued his clapping.  Mr. Janx.  Mr. Janx stopped clapping, and he sat down again. 

     The Cloaked Man turned away from Mr. Janx up over there.  He then heard the way out of the Fighting ring open up.  And in walked a normal-eyed version of Van, her large dark eyes wide and pleading. 

     "Cloaked Man!" she said, running with her slender arms open for embrace.  It looked like Van.  Was it Van?  Maybe…

     …Maybe not.  He leapt right, then tumbled and stood.  Evading Van's hold.  Looking, he asked, "How do I know you're not some tricked-up evil version of Van?  Huh?  I just fought another you.  So are you actually you?"

     Van pursed her thin lips, wondering.  "I know that I'm me, Cloaked Man.  That's good enough.  Anyway, didn't you say you needed me?  Because of what your dream told you?  Don't be that way…" she voiced, approaching him again.

     He raised his right hand, palm up as he stood up from his kneeling.  "Back, I say!  Back!"  Standing again, he reached into his left pocket, taking out an apported gold coin.  On one side was a thick jagged thunderbolt.  The other side had three wavy lines, stylized wind.  Would he trust her?  Let the coin decide. 

     Eyes still on Van and right palm still gesturing stop, he flipped the coin with his left.  The coin went up, flippingly and gleaming…  And it smack-landed in his palm.  A glimpse at the result:  It was thunder-side up.

     "Okay, you can come with me.  I'll just have to assume you're Van," he said.  Van smiled.  And the ring was open now, so the two walked out.  This, while red-eyed and reprogrammed Van lay broken in the Arena.

     Outside the Arena, the Japanesque gynoid and the caped synth-fleshed man emerged into the urban late-afternoon.  Sunlight was becoming tinged with yellow with the oncoming sunset.  The Cloaked Man looked at his now-refurbished ally.  May as well get into the habit of trusting the robot again, he thought.  "Hey Van, you have a better memory than I do.  What's the way back to our nuke bikes in this whacked city?"

     The gynoid called Van turned her head left, looked at him.  "We parked them at Tad's, the restaurant, remember?"  The Cloaked Man shrugged; he did not remember the way back to that particular place of consumption.  It was a big city, and he was only here a day, a crazy day.

     She gave a slight and embarrassed smile.  "You actually want me to lead the way, Cloaked Man?  Okay…  Just follow me; I have stored map data of the area leading to there."

     The Cloaked Man looked away from Van, to look at the western horizon.  He said to her, "Lead the way, but let's run, dang it.  I'm getting creeped out."

     "Why are you worried?" asked Van.  "This isn't like Brunswick.  There are always

plenty of e-cops around.  And the laws are pretty strict."  She saw him give her a look of reproach.

     "At least in Brunswick, we knew what happened after sundown," he began.  "I want you to think around and about what I now say:  Alia and I found out that Fusion City ain't what you think it is.  While you were broken, I found a little pamphlet with info about the people of this city.  Especially, stuff about the immensely weird and

freaked-out citizens.

     "Sunlight is going away, we've just been here a solitary day, and I don't want to know what goes on at night.  Believe me, this place has more worth in dark weirdness than Alia."   That said, they ran.

     And they did run, leaving the Arena behind.  Both of their bodies made of synthetics, powered by microfusion batteries, the two running figures had the endurance of machines.  Their feet covered the miles to the restaurant, arriving at the next location in twenty minutes.

     At the parking lot of Tad's, the two saw more of those omnipresent giants in slacks, dress shirts, and trenchcoats:  the e-cops.  Three of those big e-cops present looked on as The Cloaked Man and Van mounted their nuclear-powered motorcycles. 

     On his vehicle, The Cloaked Man smirked at himself.  "Dang it, what the heck is wrong with my thinking?" he said.  He looked left at Van, her on her nuke bike.  "You never went to Fusion Central hospital, so you don't know the way there, right?"

     Van looked down.  She slightly shook her head, sorry to disappoint one of her human-brained allies.  "Sorry, I don't.  Why, what happened?  Did something happen to Alia while I was…"  Van wanted to say, dead.  Wrong word; robots are not living things, so they do not die.  "While I was shut down?" she finally finished.

     The Cloaked Man began speaking, also noticed approaching e-cops.  Ignoring them, he said, "Alia had to go get her face dolled up again.  She got herself a split in the face—the kid near well got her pretty little head cut open."   When he finished saying this, one e-cop was already nearby.  In that sunlight shone at a steep angle, the tall figure's shadow had significant length.  The Cloaked Man was again reminded of the time. 

     "Please 'scuse me.  You two looking for your little buddy?" voiced the giant in trenchcoat.  The Cloaked Man answered with a nod.  "Coach radioed us.  He said that the metal-bodied little girl of yours is over at Admin." 

     Admin, short-handed talk Administrative Control!  Mind control central!  thought The Cloaked Man.  We're going to trek to that place!  "And where is that, dude-man?  We're still new to your town."   The Cloaked Man reached into his left pocket, just as the e-cop began to give directions.  Out came the stored pamphlet.  "Never mind, officer.  I got myself a map."  He stepped off his nuke bike and gave the pamphlet to his gynoid for scanning. 

     The gynoid took the pamphlet.  She unfolded it and turned it over.  Indeed, there was a small and very high-resolution map of Fusion City.  "Just store the map, right?"  Yeah, said The Cloaked Man.  So she looked at the small map for a second, her ceramic eyes staring.  "I'm done."  Van handed the pamphlet back to The Cloaked Man.

     He took it and put it back in his left pocket, where the pocket-sized apportation field made it vanish.  Then he mounted his own nuke bike, leaned back in the long seat, put his hands on the handlebars.  The vehicle started.  "Let's move.  You get to lead the way again.  We can come back for Alia's nuke bike later—if Alia's okay."

     The two then went on the move again, this time on rumbling and fast-moving

nuke-bikes.  The Cloaked Man's cape fluttering and Van's long dark hair doing the same.  And now, The Cloaked Man was becoming more agitated as time went on; the sun was really going down.  He was steadily worried about Alia, wondering if he was already too late.

     Administrative Control was a proud fifty-story office-style tower of a building, and it had a full city block to itself.  In ancient wording, it was a skyscraper—a real rarity in this point in history.  Van and The Cloaked Man never saw one before; The Cloaked Man himself was shaken.  What if that oversized building collapsed while they were in it?

     The two party members stopped their vehicles outside the building.  While putting down the kickstands of their nuke-bikes, the two were by two e-cops.  The Cloaked Man got off his nuke bike.  "We're here on big business—with Coach."

     "We thought so," said the first e-cop.  He gave a toss of his left thumb, indicating the building behind.  "Just go on in.  The secretary will know, so she'll trigger the elevator for you.  You're going straight to see the man himself."

     Still somewhat shaken and stirred by that big building, The Cloaked Man steeled himself and walked beyond the e-cops—went to the building, closely followed by Van.  The doors swung open, automatic. 

     And the two walked into the gleaming atrium of a lobby.  It was a classy and impressive lobby, done in ancient and grand style.  Statues of rugged-featured businesspeople were along the marble walls, and the reception secretary's desk was between four fluted columns.     

     The Cloaked Man looked an around this immense place, looked up at the high and

far-away ceiling!  Van gave a look to the red-haired and conservatively dressed  professional at the desk, and she nodded.  Van led The Cloaked Man to the elevator that took them forty-nine stories up.

     It was a tall and prolonged ride, the elevator slightly whirring on the way up.  The Cloaked Man moved over to the side.  Van just stood in the middle, ever so slightly swaying.  As they continued their ride up, The Cloaked Man wished that gynoids did not have to sway at all, sway a little more than real-brained people.  Nah, it wasn't her fault that gynoids had slightly worse balance.     

     The elevator doors finally opened into a hallway that stretched left and right, tall doors before them.  Other than the four security guards in simple blue uniforms, this hall was empty.  The Cloaked Man said nothing to the guards; they said nothing to The Cloaked Man.    He let go of Van's hand and reached for the tall brown doors. 

     The tall brown doors opened into an immense enclosed space, the size of an auditorum.  There was a wide real-wood desk at the very far end of this place, a fat figure seated behind it, and a much thinner and smaller blonde figure seated before it.

     The Cloaked Man made a striding run for the desk, Van running at his side.  Over there, Alia heard the sound of approaching running.  She stood and turned, her synthetic face holding slight surprise.

     The party was back together again.   The Cloaked Man lifted Alia.  Holding the little cyborg in a full-bodied hug, lifting her small self off the floor.  She was fine...

     Certainly, she was fine!  "You ungentlemanly oaf, do release!" she shouted, indignant and appalled.  But The Cloaked Man still clenched her.  "Must I inflict damage?" she asked pointedly.  "Is this brutality?"  The Cloaked Man finally put her down.  She began to stroke her pale hair back into place, her large dark eyes not meeting his.  "Nearly a mere hour out of your presence, and you react as if I were lost for decades.

     "And while you sought our restored gynoid-friend," she continued, "Coach and I had parlance.  Mutual conversation of issues and interests, as with duscussion of his deep and long power over Fusion City.  The answer holds explanation."  

     The Cloaked Man looked at Alia, then at Coach, then at Alia again.  Alia extended  a sleek metal arm.  Pointing to the right.  She then pivoted as so she pointed at Coach.  "Communicate, Cloaked Man," she said, her synthetic face concerned.  She then sat down, carefully crossed her armored legs, waiting.       

     The Cloaked Man looked over the desk, looked to Coach.  "You've got Alia convinced of something, Coach-man, and she doesn't sound like she's been mentally changed any.  Yep, she still talks like her same creepy self."  Alia gave him a look; he ignored it, of course.  "So what did you say to her?"

     Coach, resplendid in his immense reclining seat, comfortable in long-sleeved athletic shirt and floppy gray pants, leaned back and away from the desk.  He was a very casually dressed man in an extremely elegant office setting.  "Whaddaya talking about?  I ain't need to touch a pretty hair on her head.  She's the most calm newbie I ever met—didin't  need reforming."  The big man put his hands on his paunch.  "Anyway, let me tell ya what I told yer little buddy here.

     "She kept askin' about why Fusion City is the way it is, so I told'er.  I told'er about why I'm in charge of this whole damned town:  because nobody else wants to be in charge.  From the beginning, everybody in town was too busy going for beauty.  Ya know what beauty means?  It means being beyond perfect and practical.   And because the city was made perfect with cyborg and robot, made with people like yer  friends, the humans wanted to be beautiful.

     "So humans started wantin' to be more than perfect.  Wanted to be beautiful.  People started undergoin' all sorts of cosmetic surgery.  And as ya know, body replacement technology can replace anything with myogel muscle tissue, rubberoid, titanium, electromechanics, and all that.  Yeah, everything's replacable. 

     "And ya found and read that pamphlet I gave ya, right?  That's right, I purposely put in the limo for youse all to find and read.  To get the truth..  And ya know the truth now."  Coach then used his hands and arms to boost his bulk up from his large reclining seat.  Standing, he leaned forward and supported himself with hands on the desk—using both his metal and real hand.  "Almost every human in Fusion City wanted to be so damned perfect that they even replaced their brains!  Everybody in Fusion City calls him- and her-self human, but that's just talk.  They're all fully synthetic now.  They're all robots. 

     "And they're all robots that jus' want to spend most all their time being the beautiful and more-than-perfect people that they think they are.  Goin' to their advance hypno-education classes to get fancy educational degrees.  Goin' to their perfect little office-based jobs.  Hell, everybody has an office."  Coach's eyes then narrowed, his big face very serious. 

     Speaking lowly, he continued.  "So guess what?  So long as they can be beautiful and live beautiful lifestyles, the synthetic people don't care who or what runs them.  They don't even care if a set of super-computers keep'em all in check.  And they don't care who helps keep that computer runnin'."

     Alia tilted her head to the side.  "Indeed, by deeds, such is where Coach intervenes.  An uncontested maintainer of a society-wide regime.  Being the only being with his original brain and a largely organic body, he rules—has ruled for a century.  Maintaining Fusion City."

     All eyes the standing man in the cape, he let out a breath.  "Un-freaking-believable.  Coach-man's got it made.  Got a whole city to himself to rule."  He looked at Alia, seated and small.  "I think I know you, Alia.  And I know you don't make friends with people too easy.  But Coach won your friendliness pretty easily.  Why?  Huh?"

     Alia's dark dollish eyes darkened yet more, her small mouth pursed.  A second.  "To be sincere, it is because he is the last of his people.  As others around him lost their brains to aspects of the times, he retained his own." 

    The Cloaked Man shrugged.  "Big whoop!  I still got my original brain!  I'm

synth-flesh, but my brain's still alive.  Difference between you and me is how your body is armor-solid from the neck down.  Your cute little head looks normal, though, like…"

     Alia snapped up, suddenly standing just two  feet from The Cloaked Man.  Her right hand was up, the tip of her metal finger thrust to point just centimeters from his nose.  "You failed to understand!" she shouted, her soprano voice loud and echoing throughout this vast office.  "To reaffirm the fact, my brain is not truly of normal humanity.  Elfin.  My brain is elfin; I am elf.  This, though classed as human.  My people were declared part of humanity, though not truly and fully of humanity.  That much, I remembered recently.

     "Also, as far as I sense and know, I am the last of elfin kind.  Know and remember that, Cloaked Man."  That said, Alia moved back to her seat and sat down.  Back in her small and soft voice, she continued.  "Coach is also a last survivor—like myself.  In a land where others have died or become different, he retained who he is.  Retained his actual being.  He did not succumb to darkening times."

     The Cloaked Man nodded.  "Good enough for me, even that shouting."  He turned, his caped back to everyone at and around Coach's desk.  "Yeah, whatever, doll.  I don't like it.  Everyone in this city really being androids and gynoids—just pretending to be human. Coach has it good, being able to rule the city for himself…  All to himself…

     "But I'm leaving, heading back on the road to got to the City of Slow Dreams."  He put his left foot out, black shoe making a sound.  Then he put out his right foot, another click of shoe-heel.  With audible steps on the hard marble-gleaming floor, he crossed the floor and went to the tall doors. 

     Over there, he stood for a second, hooked his thumbs in his slacks pockets.  He turned, looked across the vast office space as the window-granted sunlight darkened.  "I'll be down by the nuke bikes.  Alia, Van, do what you want, but I'm leaving to get out of this

city before it really gets dark." 

     The Cloaked Man was on his nuke bike, waiting.  Little Alia and taller teenage-looking Van emerged from the building, coming out into the sunset-colored sidewalk and streets.  Buildings all around. 

     Van moved to her nuke bike.  "Alia, need a ride to your nuke bike?" she asked.  Van nodded, and she sat behind Van.  Van very carefully leaned forward; sitting as so there was space in the seat for Alia to sit in. 

     Alia did not take up too much space, anyway.  She put her small machine hands on Van's shoulders, holding, and they went to get the third nuke bike.

     Without incident, they obtained that third nuke bike—the one especially modified for Alia's petite form.  With her on it, they were all again mounted and ready.  The Cloaked Man revved his nuke-bike's engine, and they left from the northern city limits.  Three mounted nuke bikes roared out onto the plains, and so the party left Fusion City—no one saying anything as the day finally darkened into night.