Information is Society.
Brass letters, loudly proclaiming their inscribed motto, greeted Cassandra every morning on her way in to work. In many ways, they were the most irritating thing about the place: a combination of old-world arrogance and new-world idealism. They were fitting, though, as those were the two most irritating things about the Seekers.

She was a Seeker too, which was just as much a problem as anything else. Rich kids playing cops and robbers with government money, that’s all they were. There was no risk in being a Seeker, not much to gain, and no real benefit to society. Stable employment in an unstable world, sure, but she would have preferred wandering the streets to rotting in that office.

Which was why, every morning, she would throw her bag at the wall, slump down in her chair, and light up a mint-green ChemCig. They were foul things, really, that smelled of old toothpaste or mouthwash, leaving a trail of sickly green smoke, but she chose them anyway. The tarnished nameplate on the door--Ms. Cassandra Bordeaux--may as well have read “terminally hung-over, leave me alone.”

It didn’t. That was a problem too.
So, whenever her colleagues decided to impose on her, she would have to raise a groggy head off the desk, and possibly even make eye-contact. She remedied this inconvenience with a pair of blackout sunglasses, which were an essential staple of her wardrobe. That in itself was enough to put off most of the silver spoons, who called her all manner of rude names, out of earshot.

She called herself Cass.
All in all, she was a rather imposing figure: quite tall for a woman, with coffee-colour skin and a short mop of black hair. A cig perpetually dangled from her lip, a snarl creeping on the corners of her mouth, and an impenetrable gaze greeted all who dared approach. Through her sunglasses (Ray Bans, probably black market) no one could see her eyes. Her attitude was that of a bored youth, and her stance of an angry warrior. Cass was dangerous; at least, she liked to think she was. Best of all, everyone believed it.

Well, everyone except for Sergeant Opera. He never let Cass forget about it, either.
When she was late, or rude, or disrespectful, he’d be in there busting her ass within ten seconds. Shouting was practically his hobby, along with eating anything liable to clog his arteries. He was a round, sausage-fingered sort of man, with a bloated red face and a bristly moustache.
“Cassandra!” He’d roar, “Your data assessment levels are way below quota!”
And she’d reply: “Yeah, well, so is your fitness level.”
They kept each other in check quite well, that way. Their boundless love hate relationship was probably the only reason Cass had stayed on staff so long.

Regardless, work was work and it still needed to be done. There were registry forms to be verified, unsorted data to be classified, and an infinite sea of new information to be sorted and sent out on to the Network. Cassandra went about “doing” this work by taking her third fag break at half past eleven and never bothering to come back. It was far too good a Tuesday to waste on trivial things like employment. Besides, she was due in for a tune-up, and there was no point in slaving away when her heart wasn’t really in it. Classic excuse for a modern-day set up.

The clinic was about seven blocks from the Seeker’s Headquarters, just outside the borders of the government district. She could have taken the light rail, but decided to walk. You weren’t allowed to smoke on the train, after all.

The streets were damn near empty, aside from the odd panhandler, and a few smartly-dressed young men in overpriced business suits. They were likely new recruits to the government’s operations, because no one dressed well after about a month on the job. Cass was currently wearing black jeans, worn without pause for about three days, a white shirt which had never seen an ironing board, and a gray jacket somewhere between “well-loved” and “threadbare.” She made a particular effort to snarl at the men, who quickly darted to the other side of the street. It was quite a laugh.

It was a spectacularly beautiful day for the city--the smog was minimal, and the sun was making a feeble attempt to shine through the fog. The world was still gray, albeit a marginally lighter shade. Glorious, it was. Absolutely glorious. Regardless, she still walked with a slump of someone exhausted, someone fed up with the way things were going, and fed up with the way things were going to go. She cursed at a reasonably loud volume about the uselessness of it all.

In fact, she was still cursing upon arrival to the Ganymede Shores clinic. It was a wretched old place, with peeling paint and warped window frames, but it was familiar and pleasant. The air was warm and stale, with the faint aromas of copper and anaesthetic gas wafting carelessly around the room. A lazy sun beam languished on the linoleum flooring. Refreshingly, it lacked the “sterile clean” feel of most medical institutions.

Cassandra threw herself into a beckoning waiting room chair, propped her feet up on the ancient wooden coffee table, and briefly considered falling asleep. The mood was just right for that sort of thing, and she hadn’t slept in a hell of a long time. She yawned, stretched and began nodding off, right there in the lobby. An elderly nurse looked despairingly down on the scene, and a young couple shuffled their child anxiously away. She paid them no mind, as this was her day off, and it was no longer her responsibility to care about other people.
“Dr. Smith,” the nurse snarled into her earpiece, “Your twelve thirty has fallen asleep in the waiting room. Can you fetch her, please?”

And, in a flash, a lanky young man came bolting out of the office opposite the waiting room. He had spent enough time in medicine to know not to bother the charge staff.
“Who seems to be the problem, Nurse Waterhouse?”
“A certain Ms. Bordeaux, Doctor.” It was practically spat from her gnarled lips.
Cass was snoring loudly.

Smith sighed and buried his head in his massive hands-- he was a prime example of a recent med-school graduate. He was an unnaturally tall and scrawny man, who looked as though he had been hung out to dry and had accidentally stretched. His skin was so black it was nearly blue, with fizzy hair brought back into a rather fluffy ponytail. For all intents and purposes, he looked exactly like a bizarre species of tree. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he had been fed almost exclusively on black coffee and instant noodles for the past three years. He had no time and no energy for this sort of crap.

“Cass…” He sighed, “Cass, please.”
She gave a slobbery-sounding snort.
“Cass, for Christ’s sake!”

She stretched and scratched her head. For a moment, there was a vaguely confused air about her, but then Cassandra broke out in a broad and toothy smile.
“Isaac, man, what are you doing here?”
“It’s Doctor Smith when I’m working,” he snapped, “and you’re in my damn clinic!”
“We ought to get started, then.”
She stood up, and slumped off in the direction of the office, yawning and muttering about the interruption of her nap. She made certain to flip off the rest of the room before slamming the door. Isaac followed her in with a few hurried apologies.

“What the hell was that out there?” he shouted, whirling around. Cass had all ready flopped into a decrepit office chair propped up against the wall. The mid-day light glinted cheekily off her sunglasses.
“And what exactly do you mean by that? Harsh words could really hurt a girl, you know.”
“You’re not a girl, Cass; you’re more like a man with tits.”
She flicked a cig butt at him and missed. They scowled at each other, but then broke out into broad smiles and embraced each other briefly. It was a quick, masculine touch, but it conveyed the mutual emotion without a hint of awkwardness. They stood together in a musty room, two old friends, meeting in the strangest of places.

Isaac had slung his lab coat over a chair, and slouched against a wall covered in medically-based posters. His hands rested on the countertop, somewhere between the tongue depressors and the sterile instruments.
“So, you here on business or for pleasure?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve got a date with Min tonight.” Cass’s voice lingered a little longer on her lover’s name. She sighed happily. Isaac’s gaze lingered momentarily on her slouched figure, half-lit in this dank old room, with a look somewhere between envy and disgust. It passed just as quickly as it had come, and he smiled again.
“My mod’s been acting up,” she whined, “And I haven’t had more than an hour’s sleep in three days, including that little incident out there.”
“We can probably fix that with a bit of an alteration to your circuitry. Up on the table, please.”

With a sort of dignified laziness, she oozed out of the chair and onto the elevated platform. It was stainless steel, much like her insides. And while he rummaged through the cupboards under the counter, she pulled off her jacket and rolled up her sleeves. He pulled out a bag with a series of electrical wires and a small generator, and also a surgical scalpel.
“We’re going to have to open the wire casing, you know, standard procedure. Do…” the pause was long and heated, “you want to do it yourself?”
She took the scalpel from his hands, without comment. That was her answer.

She held it steady, focused intently on the task at hand. It moved slowly and precisely towards her left forearm, shining steel on milk-coffee skin. There was not a tremble, barely a quiver in movement. This was just as normal as it ever was: nothing unusual, nothing to be frightened of. Under all the tension, she stopped, and she laughed.
“You know, when you put me on the new meds, I thought I was done with all this ‘pain’ bullshit.”
“We’re all self-mutilators, really.” He offered.
She did it with little more than a wince.



~*~*~

The Hall of Peasant Kings was easily one of the trendiest nightspots in the city, if only because it bore no false pretences. Unlike other clubs, there was no VIP list; no special rooms guarded by armed bouncers, no velvet ropes to cordon off the masses. That wasn’t the style of the Hall. It existed for the sole and simple purpose of providing high-intensity, passionate entertainment. Music was to act as a great equalizer--to create a place where even a pleb was on equal footing with the rich and famous.

And it was good music, too: rarely anything pre-recorded or remixed. A live band played there every night, with a sound-system to rival all others, to thunderous applause. Roaring guitars and screaming vocals were frequent, but in no way commonplace. Even the encores had a certain sparkle to them. Each night was unique, glorious and an event to be remembered. Liquid chaos tinted with herd mentality made for a damn good party.

At its head were a few people, spectacular in their own right.
The best bartenders in the business preformed their alchemy there, while the best disc jockeys roused the ever-moving crowds. She topped all of them with a certain flare that could not be ignored. Blood-red hair, dusted red eyes, a near-demonic smile and a sultry voice were little more than accessories to her two true assets… Management skills and business sense.

The club could never have been built were it not for her brains, her determination, her incredible thinking under pressure. Most called her Ms. van Tromp, some called her Minneth, and a lucky few called her Min. Cassandra called her something else.

“Evening, my love.”
“I’m not sure half past two is really the evening, Cass.”
“It’s evening if you’ve been up for three days straight.” Cass slumped into an inviting-looking leather chair behind the bar, where Minneth stood cleaning.
“Consciousness mod on the fritz again?”
“Yeah, I fell asleep at Isaac’s.”

Min shot her a smile that could have boiled a scotch on the rocks, and the sentiment was not lost on her audience. With a glamorous sweep, she reached back behind the bar and pulled out a half-dozen sorts of liquor: the hard stuff. For a moment, there was a flurry of movement, and a swampy drink emerged. It was murky brown and stank vaguely of death itself-- the lemon garnish had all ready begun to wilt.
She extended it to Cass, who tried her hardest not to crumple her nose at the smell.
“Uh, it’s a little too early in the day for me, thanks…” She sputtered.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Min snapped, “And anyway, you said yourself it was evening.”

The room had been painted, and Cass was stuck firmly in the back corner.
After a moment of silent deliberation, she took the offering, and pondered the consequences of drinking such a vile potion. It didn’t really matter what her opinion was, though-- Minneth had given her something, and it was her duty to accept. With a mumbled “Bottoms up, then” she downed it.

Her face contorted as though her legs had just been run over a truck.
She coughed and spluttered for at least a minute, after which Min announced:
“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Through streaming eyes, she wheezed, “What the hell is in that shit?”
“Engine oil.”
“What did you just feed me?”
“Engine oil-- bourbon whiskey, vodka, gin, rum, brandy, tequila and a little cognac for taste. It’s a new recipe I’ve been working on.”

Cassandra looked as though she might laugh, or vomit, but she did neither. She stood up, completely calmly and evenly, picked up her jacket and walked towards the front door, where she proceeded to stagger twice and fall over.
“Didn’t even make it as far as the door,” Min chuckled, wandering over to her fallen comrade, slinging an arm over her shoulders, and hoisting her upright. She was a strong woman by all accounts, but mostly she was enjoying the physical contact. “Oh, well, no harm in that, my little lightweight.”
“I’m still awake, you dumb bitch.”
“Well, don’t be.” It was not so much a suggestion as a command. “You need to rest. I’ll drop you off at your apartment, and you can…”

Any further dialogue had fallen on deaf ears. Her internal clock had finally sorted itself out, or her body had succumbed to the noxious chemical cocktail--it didn’t matter. She was down for the count for at least a little while, and more thankful for that then anyone could have imagined. In sleep, after all, her face had no snarl.

~*~*~
It was born in amongst the ashes of a broken city. As the soot and ashes rained down, it raised its divine and gentle head for the first time. The eyes and face were distinctly female, fully-formed and striking, within seconds of the moment it had entered the world. The form was female too, less a few important and censorable details.

Light emitted faintly from its every pore, glowing comfortably beneath a crumbling building. It yawned, and stretched its pale and luminous body. On its head was a long stream of shimmering silver hair, flowing freely all down its neck and back. With a satisfying snap, two wings opened from its shoulders into the smog-ridden air.

They were curiously industrial, all metal and wire and crackling with pure electricity. At full extent, they were about twelve feet across, with an intricate system of switches and screws manipulating their every move. This being, not quite human, not quite angel, not quite machine, lounged carelessly on the rubble of the building, bearing no mind to the people that lay dying all around it.

It had no concept of life, no concept of death, or love, or hunger. It did not seek acceptance, or dream of unrealizable ideals, or wish to be loved more than anyone else. There was no sense of humanity about it: it simply existed, taking in all that surrounded it. Behind a pair of watery, grey eyes, it recorded--man; thirty-six years of age; given name Michael Langley; cause of death: being crushed beneath iron beam. And next to him, a badly burned corpse was identified as Leah Sanjay, aged twenty-nine, death by burns and smoke inhalation.

The strange creature had nothing to say to this, and nothing to feel. It merely stood up, cast one final glance at the mangled bodies, and drifted pleasantly through the shattered foundation of the building. The streets provided no further solace: fires burned out of control, all of the buildings were battered or reduced to rubble, and the number of dead outnumbered the living a hundred to one. It took all of this in, uncaring and unfeeling, objective as no human can be.

For blocks and blocks it wandered aimlessly, recording the barometric pressure, the temperature, the approximated cost in property damage, and the air quality. Not a tear came to its eye, not when it came upon couples locked in death’s embrace or dead infants in their dead mothers’ arms. This was, as far as it was concerned, the only thing that existed in the world, and it was its job to record it. A duty such as this, written directly into instinct, cannot be ignored.

And really, what was it to do about those who had all ready died? There were too many to deal with, not that it really knew the protocol about dealing with human corpses anyhow. No, it left that sort of thing to the ones who understood it. Such a job was someone’s inherent duty, and it was its job merely to record. So, with a flip of liquid silver hair, it drifted off to study the condition of the sewage system, when it was interrupted by a loud and unpleasant moan.

“P-p-p-lease…” came the voice, in a high-pitched and pained whisper, “H-h-h-help…”
It was a tiny boy who had uttered it, not more than about eight years old, so drenched in blood you could scarcely see his skin. He was leaning fully on the ragged remains of a concrete pillar, coating it the same sickly red as the rest of him.

The curious being considered this request, the first it had ever received.
“How exactly would you like me to help you?” It asked, in an even and smooth-toned voice which could have passed for male or female, depending on who was listening.
“M-m-m-make it stop…” came the bleary reply, as the boy’s legs began to shake and convulse even more.

And, true to its divine word, it did. Everything stopped. His heartbeat, his breathing, and his very essence grinded to an instant halt. With only twenty minutes total spent alive, this creature had killed a small child without batting an eyelash. It turned away from the scene and went off to study the remaining local foliage.

This monstrous creature of infinite beauty, born amongst the ashes of a broken city, who didn’t understand what it meant to be a human… It turned to gaze upon its home, and breathed what was to be the smell of a new era.

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