Author's Note: Some updated-ness. Read, if you want; enjoy, if you want; review, if you want. I'm going to bed.


Chapter Three

Amaya Wendelhall was a dork. She was neither ashamed nor prideful of it; it was simply what she was and had always been. Once, not long before, she'd been embarrassed of her apparent intellect. Now, she simply ignored the snickers of her classmates.

Her hand didn't shake as she held it in the air. Her voice didn't quaver as she spoke, so that her hand was no only seen, but heard as well. That was progress. On her first day as the New Amaya, she'd been nearly catatonic by the end of the school day. By the time she'd gotten back to her home, she'd been a quivering, quaking mess and had solved that little problem by taking a couple of blockers and sliding into the safe cocoon of drug-induced sleep.

She'd white-knuckled through the second day, quivered through third and gritted her way through the fourth. At this point she was merely too numb to be horrified at the prospect of not blending into the woodwork.

She paid little attention to he laughter as her hand flailed clumsily above her head. Instead of relenting with mortification, she held it higher. And struggled to keep a flush to darken her cheeks.

"Lucky you, Amaya," the teacher finally said, her voice as dry as dust. She made a note on her comp. "Looks like you got the job. Be here after school." It wasn't as though Ms. Kowalski had had much of a choice; Amaya was the only one who'd volunteered.

Still, Amaya smiled ecstatically. Behind her thick, round glasses and messy brown hair, the gears of her brain began to turn. Both her bedroom and her basement were already cluttered with chemistry equipment, half-finished robotic models and the winning projects from the city's last three science fairs. She had reached the limits of what she could build with the things she found in the garbage.

But now… the possibilities were endless. Bunsen burners, scalpels and trays, wires and clips! The power was overwhelming, and sat right beyond her sticky fingertips.


All Gabrielle Wright wanted was a big, chocolaty candy bar. She'd spent most of her morning in Testing, and had had to duck out her usual midday lunch off of school campus when a geometry teacher almost caught her in the Lunch Box. She was not going back in Testing for something as stupid as being off-campus; besides, three more transgressions would surely get her expelled, and her mother would quite gladly kill her.

She could've zipped through an InstaStore before sneaking back to school, but she preferred the little deli on the corner by Franklin Tech—despite, or maybe because of, the fact that it was run by François, a rude, bad-tempered refugee who had fled to the United States after the Social Reform Military Coup had overthrown the French government seventeen years before.

He claimed he hated America and Americans, and the SRMC had been dispatched within six months of the army, but François remained, nagging and complaining behind the counter in the deli where he enjoyed dispensing insults and political absurdities, even though he could just pack up and head back to France.

Gaby called him Frank, just to annoy him, and dropped in at least once a week to see what scheme he had developed to try to short-credit her.

Her mind on the candy bar, she stepped through the automatic door. It had no more than begun to whisper shut before she registered something incredibly wrong.

The man standing at the counter had on a black hooded jacket, which masked all but his massive size. Six-five, she ball-parked, and easily two-fifty pounds. She didn't need to see François thin, terrified face to know there was trouble. She could smell it, as ripe and sour as the vegetable hash that was today's special.

The man turned. He had pale skin and the eyes of a very desperate man, though his face was contorted into an angry expression. Even a she filed away her description, she looked at the small, spherical object he held in his hand.

The homemade explosive devise was worry enough. The fact that it trembled in the massive man's hand was a far deal worse. Homemade boomers were dreadfully unstable. The idiot was likely to kill all of them by just sweating on it.

She shot François a quick, warning look. She discreetly tucked the Testing band into the sleeve of her jacket, then, keeping her hands in plain sight, crossed to the counter.

"I don't want any trouble," Gaby said, letting her voice tremble as nervously as the thief's hand. Even then, she marveled at her acting skill. "Please, mister, I got a baby at home."

"Shut up. Just shut up. Get on the floor. Get down on the fucking floor." Gaby knelt, her hand floating to the hilt of her straight-edged razor.

"All of it," the man ordered, gesturing with the deadly, little ball. "I want all of it. Cash, credits, tokens. Make it fast."

"It's been a slow day," François whined. "You must understand business isn't what it was. You Americans—"

"D'you wanna eat this?" the man asked, shoving the explosive into François's face.

"No, no." Panicked, François punched the security code on his safe with shaking fingers. Gaby saw the man glance at the money inside, and then up at the camera that was busily recording the entire transaction.

She saw it in his face. He knew his image was locked there, and that all the money in New York couldn't erase it. The explosive would, tossed carelessly over his shoulder as he ran down the street to be swallowed by traffic.

She sucked in a large breath, like a diver going under the surface. She came up hard under his arm. The solid jolt had the device flying free. Screams, curses, prayers. She caught it quite easily, a high fly. Even as she closed her had around it, the thief swung out.

It was the back of the hand rather than the fist, and Gabrielle considered herself lucky. It hit her high on her neck, below her ear, because she had tried to turn away when she saw the blow coming. She saw stars prancing around her head as she hit a stand of soy chips, but she held tightly onto the homemade boomer.

Wrong hand, goddamn it, wrong hand, she had time to think as she struggled to use her left hand to free her razorblade from her ankle holster, but two hundred and fifty pounds of desperation fell on top of her.

"Hit the alarm, you idiot," Gaby yelled to François, who stood with his mouth opening and closing while she fought to kick the thief off of her. "Hit the damn alarm!" She moaned and grunted as the blow to her ribs stole her breath. This time she used his fist.

He was sobbing then, scratching and clawing at her arm in an attempt to reach the explosive. Blood flowed freely from the deep scratches. "I need the money. I have to have it. I'll kill you. I'll kill you all." She managed to bring her knee up. The age-old defense bought her a few seconds but lacked the power to incapacitate. She saw stars again as her head smacked sharply on the side of a counter. Dozens of the candy bars she craved rained down on her.

"You son of a bitch. You crazy son of a bitch," she felt herself saying, over and over as she landed there weak fists to his face, using the arm he had scratched so deeply. With blood spurting from his nose, he grabbed her arm.

And she knew it was going to break. Knew she would feel that sharp, sweet pain run up her arm, that thin but solid crack as the bone fractured.

But just as she drew in a breath to scream, as her vision began to gray with agony, his weight was off her.

The ball still held in her hand, she rolled up on her haunches, struggling to breathe and fighting the need to retch. From that position she saw the shiny, black shoes that always said beat cop.

"You all right, ma'am? Do you want the MT's?"

She didn't want the med-techs. She wanted a damn candy bar. She drew herself up to her full height, wincing as she felt pain shoot in her ribs. She noted that the would-be thief was in restraints and that one of the two cops she had seen had been wise enough to use his stunner.

"It's Gaby Wright," she corrected with fluid efficiently. "Y'know…the lieutenant's daughter."

The cop nodded in recognition, then scowled. "Don't you have school?"

"Nope," she lied easily. "I'm on my lunch break. We need a safe box—quickly." She watched the cops pale when they saw what she held in her hand. "This thing has got to be neutralized."

"Ma'am." The first cop took the bomb carefully from her hand, and both officers took of for Cop Central, the police station a few blocks away.

Gaby reached down, favoring her bleeding arm, and chose a Galaxy bar that hadn't been flattened by the wrestling match. She began to walk out the door, steadily opening the candy bar one-handed.

"You didn't pay for that," François shouted after her.

"Fuck you, Frank," she shouted back, and kept going.

.
On the outskirts of Eden, there was a mansion. Fortress, more like. Its four stories towered over the frosted trees of Sunny Park. It was one of the old buildings, close to two hundred years old, and was built of stone.

There was a lot of glass, and lights burning in the window. An overlarge evergreen was in the lawn, lightly dusted with holo-lights. There was also a security gate, made of wrought iron mingled with gold, behind which an array of evergreen shrubs and elegant trees were creatively arranged. The driveway that led through the gate opened into a circular cobblestone cul-de-sac that surrounded a whistling fountain.

Even more impressive than the architecture and landscape was the intense quiet. No traffic snarls, no pedestrian chaos. Even the sky over head was subtly different that the one downtown. Here, you could see the full golden glare of the sun and the fresh, pale blue of the skies, rather than the glint and gleam of transports.

At the foot of granite steps, a tall, slender, vaguely beautiful woman stood with her hands on her hips. She was dark-haired, implacably-eyed, nobly-nosed, and dressed in an outdated green suit with a rather old-fashioned tie, with a small but shiny diamond gleaming on the end.

She perused the surrounding grounds with an air of satisfaction, then sadness. The lawn and the bushes were neat and trimmed with care—she had made sure of that personally. But the house seemed cold, unlived in.

The woman bent over to pick up the afternoon paper. She couldn't quite remember how long she'd been doing this—cleaning the house, taking phone calls, making sure everything was kept in perfect order. These chores had kept her busy for many years. Somehow, today felt different.

She leaned forward to brush a few leaves from the front step, and a sudden rush of wind immediately blew them away. She looked up to see a taxicab speed toward the mansion. Like a bolt of lightning, it stopped directly in front of her without so much as a tire screech. The engine coughed and sputtered, a passenger stepped out, and the taxi pulled away, zipping off at the same blinding speed with which it had arrived.

The thin woman looked at the passenger—a broad shouldered, imposing man in a suit. She recognized the face—a face she only knew from the many pictures she'd seen around the house. It was her boss.

"Sir?" the woman asked in disbelief, her misty blue eyes widening in delicate surprise. She instantly snapped to attention and presented the mansion with a sweeping gesture.

Her boss smiled. "How are you?"

The woman relaxed, smiled back. She had eerily straight and white teeth. "Better, now that you're here."

"The place looks nice," her boss responded, looking it over and nodding.

"Just as you left it. Is...is it time, sir?"

"Yes. The time has come. The balance has been tipped. We must take action."

"Brilliant," the woman said. "To be honest, I was getting quite bored."

"Well, now you have a job to do. You must contact them. You must make them aware of what is coming."

The woman nodded silently and opened the large gate for her boss, then swung it shut with a loud clang.


Author's Note: I didn't make it particularly clear what Ms. Kowalski wants Amaya to stay after school for. Really, for nothing. I've no idea how to rework that part, but I wanted to throw this chapter up here. I want to make it clear, also, that Amaya wants to "borrow" some of Ms. Kowalski's equipment. Thus, the reference to her sticky fingers.
Also, "Testing" his short for "Psychological Testing". Just for future reference. If I get enough of these unique terms, I'll make a glossary.

Sayonara.