Zachary Rawlins - The Academy

Against the constraints that had been placed on her, against the advice of those who cared about her, and at the potential expense of her own sanity and wellbeing, Mitsuru labored to open the Black Door in her mind.

Twining itself along the chain, her blood followed her commands, and for a moment, the coils of the chain stirred, animated by force of will. Deep inside of Mitsuru, a few of the luminous threads gave way with a high, musical sound, like a violin string snapping, and the Black Door flexed and groaned. She heard the links of the chain jingle as they rose, flowing and intertwining, moving in concert with her will and volition. In that instant, she felt the chain as an extension of herself, a cold appendage, a union of blood and steel. The chain moved like a living thing, swirling around her like a cyclone of blood-slick iron, and in that instant, Mitsuru recalled herself, before she had been diminished and restrained.

And then suddenly there was no more, no further to reach, no reserves to tap; the Black Door was firmly shut, and Mitsuru folded at the knees, and then fell gently to the floor. She cried out, so she would not have to hear the sound of the chain as it hit the ground.

“You’ve turned this place into the goddamn bloody chamber again, you troublesome bitch,” Rebecca said, not unkindly, from the door. “I’m gonna have to take your key away.”

Rebecca pushed the sliding door open and dropped her bag just inside the room, kicking her sandals off next to it. She was a few inches taller than Mitsuru, a shapely brunette, somewhere nebulously between her late twenties and early thirties. Her accent and style was stereotypically Southern Californian, complete with sun-bleached bangs and designer sunglasses, but Mitsuru knew that she’d been born in Argentina, to a Jewish family that fled Buenos Aires for the United States, after a bombing, when she was a child.

Rebecca walked across the room, picking her way disdainfully through the maze of chain and bloodstains, and stood in front of Mitsuru, folding her arms. She was dressed for the field, in muddy fatigues and a black t-shirt soaked in sweat. Mitsuru found herself unable to look her friend in the eye.

“I’m totally serious, Mitsuru. Do you know what would happen if the Committee-at-Large or the Board found out you were trying to use your Black Protocol again? They’d put you down for real this time, instead of hobbling you. Clean this shit up later, okay? We have to meet Alistair in twenty minutes.”

Mitsuru stirred.

“Alistair?”

“I knew that would get a reaction from you,” Rebecca smirked. “It’s so cute it makes me kinda sick. Now go get yourself cleaned up, and meet us up in his office, okay?”

Mitsuru nodded, and stood unsteadily.

Rebecca grabbed her abruptly and pulled her close in a rough embrace. Mitsuru felt Rebecca’s hand briefly run through her hair, and then gently pat the back of her head. A sob escaped Mitsuru’s throat, and then she wrapped her own arms around Rebecca’s waist, and they stayed that way for a little while.

“You’ve got to get it together,” Rebecca said firmly, holding her by her shoulders and looking into her red eyes. “If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for Alistair and me, okay? We put our asses on the line for you — and I’m not doing you any favors, Mitsuru, don’t look at me that way. I know that you’ll make a great Auditor. But like this, sweetie? You’re inviting them to decide that what you couldn’t control then, you still can’t control. And it reflects poorly on us.”

Mitsuru nodded, biting back tears. She knew it all already, of course, but she hadn’t stopped herself. Even when it wasn’t her who would pay the cost for her actions. She wanted so badly to use the abilities that had been forbidden to her again.

Rebecca released her hold and turned to collect her sandals and duffle bag.

“I’ll see you upstairs, Mitsuru,” she said, waving over her shoulder. “Try not to take things so seriously, okay? The world can’t end every day.”

Mitsuru had enough time for a quick shower and change before heading upstairs, through the smoky chaos of the half-full Operations room to the equally smoky back office that Alistair had taken over. She’d replaced the bandages on her hands, as well, so that Alistair wouldn’t notice that she had reopened the wounds.

Rebecca was already there, her hair damp from the shower, wearing loose jeans and a blue UCLA sweatshirt, leaning over a chart laid out in front of Alistair, across the desk. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and Mitsuru noticed the bruises on her neck and jaw for the first time. Someone had tried to strangle Rebecca, and recently, too. She wondered where she had been, and who had been stupid enough to try something like that.

Rebecca was Alistair’s lieutenant, and the Auditors liaison to the Committee-at-Large, as well as a Board member. Mitsuru had been her classmate, many years ago, and knew her to be resourceful, tactically brilliant, and a peerless empath, justly respected by most Operators, and perhaps less-justly feared by almost as many. She was rumored to have once Audited a rebellious cartel completely out of existence, and while Mitsuru didn’t know the whole story, she wouldn’t have been surprised were it the truth.

She also knew Rebecca to be a cheerful drunk, a flirt, a fanatic collector of eighties hardcore punk LPs, and by far the best friend she’d ever had. Maybe the only one.

Alistair looked up briefly as Mitsuru entered, and waved her to an empty chair. Alistair almost never looked tired, but today he looked positively exhausted.

“There’s no way it could be anything else,” Alistair said grimly, turning back to Rebecca, who sat on one end of his desk, tapping a cigarette in the ashtray he had reluctantly provided, “this whole thing was a set up.”

“Why do you say that?”

Mitsuru craned her neck, to see the chart between them.

It was one of the logic boards that they did in Analytics, a two-dimensional representation of a specific probability threading, with the most likely branches indicated by size and interval. Obviously, it lacked the malleability of the more complete digital models, but some of the older Operators liked to work things out on paper. It looked something like a bizarre architectural schematic, or a particularly convoluted electrical line diagram.

Mitsuru could read them, but she wasn’t great at it. She’d gotten used to the Etheric network, and its gleaming, immaculate simulations. But even in this antiquated format, she could recognize the overly precise cuts and joins of manufactured probability.

“What does this mean?”

“It’s weird to see you so emotional, Mitsuru,” Rebecca remarked. “Something about this incident bother you?”

Mitsuru shook her head, alarmed at the obviousness of her lack of composure.

“They must’ve hacked it, Mitzi. Someone sorted through the probabilities, and then eliminated undesirable outcomes, one by one, channeling reality down to one specific set of extremely probable circumstances,” Alistair explained patiently.

“So we can assume that every aspect of the scenario — Mitsuru, the Weir, the kid, North’s arrival, the whole deal — all intentional. It must have taken a lot of effort,” Rebecca mused, leaning over the chart, “but the manipulation is pretty obvious, once you take a hard look at it. This couldn’t have been arranged too far in advance, or it wouldn’t be quite so crude.”

“Or they didn’t know how to do it very well,” Mitsuru pointed out, “maybe they did the best job they could, and it just wasn’t that great.”

“It’s possible,” Alistair allowed, eyeing Mitsuru. “You have a hunch or something Mitsuru?”