First Contact

Halcyon shimmered under the false twilight.

From the cracked tramline where they crouched, the city looked almost holy — all polished glass, floating music, and golden light bleeding into the sky.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Paul muttered, squinting into the synthetic glow. His tail twitched like it was picking up static from the concrete.

"It’s never a good idea," Jessi said without looking at him. She adjusted the strap of her sling pack, eyes scanning the flowing crowds beyond. "It’s just the only one we have."

Victoria crouched on Jessi’s other side, her hands pressed flat to the cool metal pillar. She frowned, head tilting slightly like she was listening for something under the surface.

"It feels wrong," she said softly. "Like a song that forgot its own melody."

Paul snorted, low and sharp. "No kidding. Whole damn place smells like someone Febreezed reality."

Jessi tugged her hood lower. "We stick together. No sudden moves. Blend."

Paul rolled his eyes dramatically but nodded. Victoria adjusted her jacket tighter and slipped into step as they merged into the river of perfect smiles.

The pressure shifted instantly.

Jessi felt the loyalty fields vibrating against her skin, pushing an invisible beat she refused to march to.

Crowds flowed around them — laughing, smiling, carrying flawless groceries in flawless bags.

But if you watched long enough, the cracks showed.

"Two o'clock," Victoria murmured.

Jessi caught the glitch:
A man at a market stall, laughing.
Laughing again.
Exact same tilt, exact same chuckle.
Reset.

Paul muttered, "Someone needs to reboot that guy with a baseball bat."

They moved on.

A bakery girl froze mid-handoff, groceries dangling.
Children tossed coins into a fountain — a third toss glitching too fast, too hard.

Paul’s tail flicked madly.

"This whole place is one software update from zombie ballet."

The Root Signal pinged again — faint but real — and Jessi herded them south.

Victoria brushed past a mirrored tower and paused.

"Drone," she warned.

In the glass, a loyalty drone hovered too long — static flickering around its edges — before jerking back into perfect flow.

"They’re patching it faster now," she said. "But the rot’s deeper than they know."

Paul grumbled, "Patch a sinking ship all you want. Still sinks."

They turned into a side market —
bright tents, smell of synth spices, fake music too loud to hide the wrongness.

And Paul stopped dead.

"I smell life," he whispered.

He bolted before Jessi could grab him.

"Paul!" Jessi hissed.

Victoria grabbed Jessi’s sleeve. "Let him. It's real."

They reached the stall seconds later.

Under a drooping canopy sat a battered table and a battered woman — old eyes, cracked grin.

Laid out across blocks of ice —
wild-caught salmon — still gleaming with river mud.

Real.
Illegal.
Alive.

Paul stared like he’d just seen a religious vision.

The woman cackled. "You look like you found God, kid."

Paul pointed wordlessly.

Jessi dug into her sling pack, tossed an old fried loyalty scanner onto the table.

The woman grinned wider and slid a slab of salmon into Paul’s waiting arms.

Paul cradled it like a newborn, stunned.

"I can die happy now," he whispered reverently.

"You're not dying," Jessi muttered, pushing him forward. "Not today."

And so it began.

As they moved back into the crowd, Paul became an immediate, walking problem.

He clutched the salmon against his chest, radiating desperate fish energy.

"Jess," he whispered.

"No," Jessi said immediately.

"But Jess, it's talking to me."

"No."

"It says eat me. I'm pretty. I love you."

Victoria coughed into her sleeve to hide a laugh.

Jessi kept walking. "You are not eating stolen salmon in the middle of enemy territory."

"It's not stolen! We traded fairly!" Paul insisted.

Jessi stopped dead. "Paul. Shut up. Or so help me, I'm feeding you to the drones."

Paul gasped dramatically. "Abuse! Betrayal! I knew you'd sell me out for trout!"

Victoria, still scanning every surface, muttered, "Technically it's salmon."

Paul clutched the fish tighter like it might be snatched away.

"Fish fish fish fish fish—" he whispered under his breath, full gremlin mode activated.

Jessi closed her eyes. Breathed.
Did not strangle him.

The Root Signal pinged again — stronger now.

Victoria pointed across the open plaza.

Atlas Books.

Inside, the shop smelled like mildew, dust, and something older than EdenNet's perfect smiles.

Behind a sagging counter, a scarred man watched them — wary, measuring.

Two others flanked him:
A tall woman with a mechanical brace.
A kid who looked one wrong word away from bolting.

Jessi kept one hand near her belt — not on a weapon, but near enough.

Paul stood behind her, fish still in death-grip.

Victoria stepped forward.

"You heard the signal," she said softly.

The scarred man nodded once.

"And you answered."

The room held its breath.

Jessi traded a look with Victoria.

They moved carefully — no big symbols yet, no stupid risks.

Only code:
"Blooming under concrete."
"Cracks they can't smooth."
"Roots growing louder."

The man understood.

Slowly, he nodded.

Now — trust.

Or as close to it as you got in Halcyon.

Jessi pulled a battered datasheet from her sling.
Paul, finally calming slightly, passed her a half-burnt stylus.

Victoria drew:

A lotus bloom.

Not perfect.
Not symmetrical.

Alive.

The scarred man frowned.

Victoria tapped the paper.

"It's camouflage," she explained. "EdenNet's scanners prioritize systemic threats. Bombs, guns, clusters."

Jessi folded her arms.

"A flower on a wall? Peeling paint. Moss.
They ignore it."

Paul added brightly, "We're basically mold!"

Victoria laughed, rough and real.

"Mold that breaks concrete."

"You carve it," Jessi said. "You find it. You know it's family."

The tall woman memorized the design.
The kid smiled a broken, brilliant smile.

The scarred man smiled too.

Small.

Real.

Outside, Halcyon still smiled its dead, perfect smile.

Inside Atlas Books?

The first root had taken hold.

And EdenNet hadn’t noticed.

Not yet.