erintoknow

Rivka Abrams was not surprised when the fire alarms went off. Nor was she surprised when the explosion rocked the Praxis Laboratory three seconds later, having already braced herself against the wall. No doors blew open, no glass shattered. A quick mental scan of the lab’s inhabitants revealed two dozen panicked and evacuating employees.
The health and well being of each were subsequently confirmed using the internal security cameras, accessed through the AR implant in her artificial left eye.
That was a disappointment. The lives of a few lab coats were more than a fair trade for the advantage such a tragedy would provide her argument in both the public media and in the Praxis boardroom. That had been the whole point of steering security away while she puppeteered the saboteurs inside.
Trust a bunch of tech phobic hippies to fuck up making a bomb. Rivka would have to satisfy herself with whatever dollar amount of damage they had done. The bottom line was the only thing that mattered to the board anyway.
Damage assessment would wait. It was time to make an exit.
Rivka never walked anywhere when she could saunter there instead. The clack of heel against tile. The sway of hips. It was a complete artifice but an enjoyable one. Calm. Collected. A true leader arrives exactly where they mean to, exactly when they intend to arrive there.

Step one, pick a direction and walk in it until you couldn’t any further. Boston, it was quickly becoming apparent, didn’t follow any sort of sensible grid pattern. Wonder how the locals managed it.
Enter step two, keep an open mind to all the buzzing thoughts around you. It takes a little work to hold everything in your head just right, but this was a basic infiltration technique Rivka had drilled into you. You were just… repurposing it a little. Expanding your vision beyond just your own eyes. Working out a little mental map of your own.
It’s a bit like… Radar? Rivka had struggled with this too, in training. How to explain it. There simply wasn’t the language yet to explain a whole new kind of perception that hadn’t existed two decades ago. One of the many unforeseen side effects to using nanites on people. Ending up with telepathy, or whatever you wanted to call it, without going insane supposedly marked you as one of the lucky ones.
Can’t say you feel all that lucky. Given everything. It’s not like nanite surgery had ever actually fixed what was wrong with you in the first place.
By the time you find and get across the bridge to South Island, it’s solidly night out, the sky light up from below by the city glow. The buildings across the bridge aren’t as tall as downtown, but they’re no less crammed together. You keep your head low, avoid eye contact with anyone else milling around on the street.
Stomach growls at the smell of food, and it would appear you’ve found yourself a street flanked by multiple restaurants. Intentionally? Unintentionally? Not always clear which feelings are yours. But it’s your stomach making noise, so guess you must actually be hungry.

You shift position in your seat, the dull ache of an oncoming headache beginning to loom. Too many people. Too close close together, too many buzzing thoughts, feelings. And right after all that work trying to tune specifically into Chelsea’s. It’s too much. It takes effort to push it all back, to keep it from crowding out everything else.
If you were sitting alone, you might be able to risk taking a dose of tetradoxin, smother it all out. But Chelsea is way too keyed in, and you don’t have it left in you to try and redirect her long enough to do anything.
Case in point: Chelsea is watching you now. “You okay?”
You don’t know how to answer that question. Settle for shrugging again. “Y-you?” You ask, to turn it around on her. Trust people to love talking about themselves.
“Me? I’m fine. You look like you need an advil or something through.” She starts to search her purse.
You shake your head, try not to immediately regret the movement. “It–it’s um, it’s okay. Really.” You try not to keep you face neutral. Will her to believe you. If working Chelsea has taught you anything, it’s that you need a lot of more practice controlling your face still. Rivka was right, tests with a bunch of lab techs don’t measure up to the real thing after all.