QQ Writing Club

[TanaNari]

So I just had the world's dumbest idea for a fanfic and I'm trying to decide if I want to do it or not:

Click to shrink...

I don't know if it would work as a whole fanfic, but... you could probably make a pretty hilarious short fic out of it.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Starting this Saturday, I'm going commit myself to writing at least 1,200 words a day on my novel, Sys Admins vs. Cryptic Souls.

Probably need to write more to meet my two-month completion goal for my novel, but it's a start.

I'm not starting just yet since I've gotta finish up some outlining.

(I saw this thread was dormant, but I wanted to do the challenge. Please don't smite me, mods.)

 

[Audrey Frost]

I'm going to make it a late night tonight to finish this outline so I can start plugging away on the draft.

I'll shut up now so I can get to it. XD

 

[GiftofLove]

I'd forgotten about the writing club. This brings back some memories.

Feel free to post commitments in here if you'd like. It's what the thread is for, so I doubt the mods mind.

If there's interest in restarting the writing club challenges, I'm willing to return to actively managing the thread. I can't make any promises on the banners we used to give out as rewards, though. It's been quite awhile, and I'd need to check in with the admins to see if they're willing to keep giving them out.

 

[Audrey Frost]

I'd forgotten about the writing club. This brings back some memories.

Feel free to post commitments in here if you'd like. It's what the thread is for, so I doubt the mods mind.

If there's interest in restarting the writing club challenges, I'm willing to return to actively managing the thread. I can't make any promises on the banners we used to give out as rewards, though. It's been quite awhile, and I'd need to check in with the admins to see if they're willing to keep giving them out.

Click to shrink...

I'm definitely using the thread to stay on task, so I'm appreciate that you and the mods have got the time.

Now for commitments, I've got good news and bad news.

Good News: I wrote my first 1,200 words, though much that is for the end of the novel since I immediately knew how I was closing it out and wanted to get it in a document while it was fresh in my head. I'm also low-key scared of rushing the ending towards the end of my two month deadline, so this is insurance against that. I was a little bit of a lazy fuck though, since I stopped exactly at 1,200 words because ...

Bad News: I'm still working on my master outline, which will help me write this novel faster and stay on track, because I don't have a whole lot of spare time to get this done properly. This weekend is going to a drop-dead effort to put this to bed.

That's pretty much my progress at the moment. If anyone is interested, I'll post very rough draft excerpts in spoilers here as I go along, but the finished product is going to have its own thread.

Getting at back it now.

 

[Audrey Frost]

I did the standard 1,200 words this morning, before resuming the outline after tackling some non-writing stuff today. I've got enough surviving hours in the day to finish this outline, which mean I'm free to just worry about drafting next!

I'll share the progress with y'all soon.

 

[Audrey Frost]

I did another 1,200 words ... for a random scene ... for about three hours after work, but I'm going to chillax for a bit before resuming the outline, which I added a plot twist that I wound needed chart out more fully. Finally, I'm seeing the end of this.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Busy night tonight, so the lone highlight is finishing the daily 1,200 words.

I'm looking to start accelerating the progress tomorrow.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Finished 2,335 words last night then went into a coma, but I got carried away by the scene didn't finish my outline.

Gonna button that up tonight.

 

[Audrey Frost]

I strictly cut myself off at 1,200 words tonight because I need to get this damn outline done, so I'm dedicating the rest of the night to it.

(I'm also considering just posting here every two days or so, since I'd rather not spam the thread, be under the gun to report every night, and I'll have more time to focus on writing.)

 

[Audrey Frost]

Managed to do usual 1,200 after work in a couple hours, but I'm going to up the ante from here on our.

I'm wrestling this outline to completion today.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Spent some time in the writing wilderness.

I did finish the outline, I've got a roadmap for the story to guide the most pantsing I've done ever, but I had to rework a few details and that took longer than expected. Since I didn't do much writing during that time, I couldn't count that towards the challenge here, so I'm back at the foot of metaphorical mountain, lol.

Anyway, 2,398 words is my count so far tonight and I'm thinking of doing a writing marathon tonight to make up for lost time.

If you want a sneak peek of my very rough first draft so far, here it is. Keep on mind I'm just getting words on the page right now for massive editing later.

Spoiler: Incomplete Sucky Chapter 1 Draft

Wakefulness hits me with the softness of sledgehammer. I'm sore, lethargic, my body's feeling like it doesn't really wanna move this morning. It being in motion seems an impossibility. I'm the kind of tired that you feel deep in your bones that weighs you down, makes you think you'll never get out of bed again.

Recently I've been feeling that way a lot.

My comforter pulls me down in bed, reminding me of how Amani used to roll on top of me to pin me from getting up, trying to me under the sheets with her for a few more minutes.

"Can't you call in sick?" she'd tease me up close, her smile making her morning breath worth it.

Beneath the covers her curves tempt me everything I'm leaving behind.

Actually, I'd already left it behind, with the only souvenir from that time being the note she left me in our, my flat, after taking everything that was hers away.

All that's ahead of me is the same old cycle with work and waiting for work to come around.

So I get on with it.

Throwing off the blanket with more force than necessary to get the blood flowing in my arm, my back cracks as I sit up. Pins and needles prickle my toes, which I try to scrunch away. My fingers My fingers tingle, so I flex them too. Poor circulation is probably to blame.

Stretching might help, but who am I kidding I'm barely good enough to make it to the bathroom. Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I press pins and needles in my toes into the warm fibers of my heated brown carpet that Amani always said was ugly, but has held up since I parted ways with the agency and went private sector.

Stubbornly, the pins and needles still seethe on my soles. Inspired by their persistence, I hoist myself off the bed and it's stuck across the bedroom to the bathroom, digging my heels into the carpet while dragging my soles to exorcise the prickling possessing my feet. Just before the bathroom, a shiver runs up my legs as my soles touch the cold hardwood of bedroom flooring, then the clammy ceramic tiles of the bathroom.

Residual sleepiness and gunk in my eye have me walking wobbly to the sink. Light switches on, the bulb brightening just enough to not be blinding to my bleary morning eyes.

A tired man looks at me from the mirror. All my imperfections make themselves known. Insurgent gray hairs stick out from the black ones in low Caesar cut, however hard I try to cut them out. Extended crunch time at work has hung bags under my eyes. Dried cracked skin I used to get up early in the morning to hide from Amani peaks out from my mostly manicured beard. Some beige scales flick the brown skin I've lived in or with since birth. Bloodshot eyes take a hard look at all this.

Well, I'm not going to become more beautiful moping in front of the mirror. Snap out of it.

"Cold," I ask the sink, running my hands under the faucet as the stream of ice cool water falls from it. Cupping my hands, I catch it, splashing it over my face. The chill jolts me awake. Just what the doctor ordered.

I keep lapping the water on my face, washing away the grime in exchange for the new day's load. Blinking away the dampness, I peep at the mirror.

"News," I burble at the mirror through the water.

Today's AR news feed flashes up in the corner of the mirror. Within the inset, footage comes on of a swarm of underwater observation drones hovering above what I know is the severed trunk on a deep data transfer cable.

Which is concerning, to say the least, since those cables are the backbone of the modern Net, alongside other insignificant systems such as the global economy, or the parts those at the top of tend to think about.

Bracing for the bad news, I break my toothbrush and toothpaste out of the cabinet behind the mirror, fastening the door back in place so I can brush my pearly white while watching the fallout on the feed.

Doing its best impression of these days would call a generic American female, in that language, the anchor's AI-generated voice runs down the damage, newscast neutral.

"- aggravating tensions in the South China Sea." Not a great start.

Putting the paste to brush, I stick both my mouth and start scrubbing.

"Amid a heightened standoff between NATO and SCO forces in the South China Sea, the sudden failure of an American-managed sub-sea quantum relay hub has introduced a new complication to the equation."

Onscreen, cue a cut to footage of a fleet of Chinese naval vessels in formation on the ocean. In spite of my Navy years giving me more than a good look at these ships, I widen the news window with my free hand while brushing my back teeth.

"The US alleges the cable was sabotaged by a state-sponsored Lethal Autonomous Weapons Swarm, which official claim have been sighted in the region. China denies this, claiming it was a natural failure or a faulty maintenance operation by contractors responsible for the cable's maintenance."

No surprise there, though the current administration here could be bullshitting, lying motherfuckers that they are.

My tongue slide slickly over the lower teeth I've just finished, so I spit the toothpaste in the sink to circle down the drain, to the sewers down low.

"Both NATO and SCO are maneuvering fleets to physically secure surrounding area."

That would be pure showboating. Neither us and our allies or the Chinese with Russians and their other rump states in tow wants to escalate to direct kinetic war. So everybody will use proxies. Either software agents for cyber warfare or underwater autonomous drones babysat by some poor canned sailors in the submarine, like I used to before I hit my limit.

Still, this is bad and could become worse. There's an appetite, maybe even a hunger, in the East and the West to be top dog, the undisputed dominant hyperpower on planet just like the US used to be before we assed out that advantage we had last century.

To get back to that time, we've dusted off the Monroe Doctrine and we've been backing the most brutal right-wing autocrats across the Americas for more than a century to lock down the Western hemisphere.

On the other side of the globe, the Chinese bought out the bankrupt Russians right after Ukraine fell. With the resources of Russia and the bread basket that was Ukraine, the People's Republic leveraged that to get most of mainland Asia on side with a chunk of Africa following, especially when the Equatorial crop failures set in.

Now the Cold War has settled on this status quo between the two blocks where they occasionally snipe at each other in deniable ways while picking off the remaining smaller unaligned nations slowly being forced by climate change to choose a side.

And that is bad, but the wrong people or property catching a stray quick change all that.

Even a miscalculation or misinterpretation of events could spark something, like, say, unexplained activity in the South China Sea such as local network outages or seismic data anomalies that could be interpreted by overworkerd military and intelligence personnel on hair trigger as a sign of enemy action where there is none.

"Cut the feed," I tell the mirror. I can't remember what the newsfeed was saying for the last minute anyway and I'm not going to be able to probably hear it in the shower. They're directed vodcast speakers you can buy that allowed directly on your ears and beam the sound to them so you could hear them over a hurricane, but I never find it in me or my wallet to blow money like that. In my mind's eye, Mom nods approvingly.

The newsfeed dies, taking someone's stereotypical female new anchor voice with it.

Inside my bowels, an impatient shit nags me for release. Obligingly, I flip up the toilet seat lid and park my ass on the porcelain seat. A few seconds straining Has me done with the business, which plunks into toilet bowl water. Flushing and forgetting, I step into the shower. My first foot in slips, but I steady myself against the shower wall.

Whew. Close call.

Nearly had a "I've Fallen And Can't Get Up" Moment there. The fall got my heart rate up and I'm thinking the blood rush is blurring my vision a bit, but otherwise no worse for wear.

Catching my breath, I climb into the shower and wave my hand for the spray. Warm water gushes from the shower head at the perfect temperature thanks to the sensors in the stall.

Dousing my head in the spray, I reach for the Head & Shoulders without looking, crack the top of the bottle before turning over to squeeze the shampoo out in my hand. Still sleepy, I let the water run over my face to wake up, then slather the Head & Shoulders on my scalp and where the dry patches were under my beard. Soapy foam breeds under my finger tips as I massage in the shampoo. The shower head adjust itself to spray a stronger flow on my face and scalp to rinse off the foam, moving on to sprinkling the rest of me after.

Completely wet, I put my hand down under the body wash dispenser and its sensor drools the clear gel, which I wipe on my thick washcloth, smushing into the fabric for absorption. Working methodically, in a slower-paced version of the procedure I used to follow in Navy. Rub down each arm for a minute. Burrow into each armpit with the soapy washcloth to banish body odor there, since I have can be a bit more fragrant than I like to admit. Scrub down my chest like a washboard. Dig into my belly button to get any dirt as weird as it always feels. Reach behind my back to clean it which Amani did for me when we showered together. Polish the old rear end. Bend to suds up my legs, scrouging between my toes and under my soles while I'm down there. Extra body wash goes on my washcloth to soak my junk for a thorough cleaning since it does get gamey. Then stand around for the shower hose me off, wash residue and dirt whirlpooling around the shower drain.

Altogether a nice fifteen-minute experience.

Back on the boat, we used to call this a Hollywood shower because of how long and glamorous a luxury it was to us on a sea tour.

At sea, standard practice was the Navy shower, or a combat shower if you're nasty.

It goes like this.

You turn the water on for about 10 to 30 seconds to get wet. On the mark, you shut water off. As quick as you can, you scrub down with soap and shampoo. Once you're good and soapy, you turn back on for 45 to 60 seconds to rinse everything off.

If you're doing it right, this all takes less than two minutes, start to finish.

Can't say I'm happy with how everything in my life has shaken out, but one of the joys of being a civilian is taking your time. Compared to the service, it's like you have all the time in the world.

"Shut off the shower and put on the dryer," I shout over the stream.

The spray cuts off immediately in the Dyson dryer kicks in, blowing in from vents in the ceiling and from the tops of the walls in the stall. Breeze sweeps through the shower. In less than a minute, I'm bone dry.

It's chilly, with the bathroom turns up the heat as I step out the stall. My foot lands wrong. Somehow I misjudged the raised bar of shower. The hamper keep from hitting floor. Lucky break.

Walking out the bathroom, I head back to the bedroom, to my closet. Today's supposed to be a long one for Friday.

Sometimes I'm forgetful, that's why Google keeps track of my schedule for me, but I don't need it to remind me about the cryogenic thermal cycle and quite a bit calibration recharacterization slotted in today. If you're thinking that sounds complicated that's because it is. All week I've been low-key agonizing over the maintenance and this is probably gonna eat up my entire weekend, to which my direct report would say this is why they pay me the big bucks.

Might as well wear something comfortable if I'm spending the weekend at work.

Choosing carefully, I unrack my favorite brown cargo pants with extra pockets which are useful for carrying small tools and cables, a flannel shirt with rollup sleeves for the cool server farm or warmer office, a black zip-up hoodie, and a leather fleece jacket to layer on top of it. For footwear, I pluck a pair of black Skechers sneakers since I see much standing in my future.

Not exactly a coordinated outfit, but a benefit of work in the tech industry is being able to roll into work looking like bum.

Adequately accessorized, as Amani would have put it, I toss the clothes on the bed and place the Skechers at its foot.

Fishing out and snapping on some Under Armour underwear from my drawer, I quickly slip on everything I've laid out with the speed that would make a drill sergeant proud. Fully clothed and feeling fresh, I walk out, bedroom lights dying behind me. Winding around the hall, I jog down the stairs, foot falls landing as heavy as punching back blows. A few stairs feel a little shaky might have to check those when I get back home. Wouldn't want to break my momentum right now.

I plot a direct course through my living room to the kitchen. Not that there is much to navigate around besides the cheap IKEA furniture I bought just to have some. Just a coffee table to put things down on, surrounded by the two armchairs and sofa I purchased purely so I'm not sitting on the floor. On the wall facing the sofa sets a super-sized smart screen that I occasionally watch YouTube videos of the esports games I miss.

This place feels a whole lot emptier since Amani moved out.

Don't know why I keep bringing her up, torturing myself like that. I mean I know why. I miss her. Except that doesn't change that she's gone, for good, and I need to get good with that.

Life is moving on.

Moving on to the kitchen, I pick a pot out of the dishwasher, finished running from last night, on my way to the sink where I fill it with tap water. Shuffling it to sit on the stove, I turn the hot plate under it up to high to save time.

Could kill time while waiting for this water to boil. What to do?

My preview of the news was bad enough that I'm not eager to turn on the kitchen screen for a sequel. Usually I let the car drive me to work so I don't need to listen for the traffic report and the brokerages I use for investing are on point enough that I'm not qualified to second guess their quantum processors' positions in the markets. No legit investment outfit has humans managing portfolios.

Decision-making is for machines. Humans just explain the aftermath.

Though you still need sys admins with those machines, if they're on a network, so that means job security for me. Robots haven't retire me yet. Yay.

Only small bubbles are drifting up from the bottom of the heating pot for now, so I take down the ceramic mug Amani gave as a gift one birthday that says, "My Favorite IT Worker", and a Lipton's tea bag from the box in the overhead cabinet. Due to being falling down tired, the pep from the shower is wearing off, I grab the paper bag the Domino's sugar is packaged in and pour out in my mug enough to give an elephant diabetes. Should keep me wired for the morning.

Shutting the bag back in the cabinet, I drop the tea bag in the mug on top of the sugar, leaving the string and tag hanging over the lip. On time, the water in the pot begins boiling, rattling on the hot plate.

Switching off the electric stove, I grip the pot by its handle and tip the steaming water into the mug. The excess I dump into the steel kitchen sink, which thermal shock from the hot water causes to buckle with a crack. I place the pot back on the stove. No need for it to go in the sink. It only had hot water so it's clean for cooking dinner or whatever meal I have when I get back. Probably instant ramen to keep things simple.

I pick up the tea mug. Warmth tickles my knuckles, but the handle is encouragingly cool to the touch. Plucking a spoon from the plastic cup where I keep some eating utensils since amani is not around to chide me otherwise, I stir the sugar and the tea blender-quick after throwing the tea bag in the trash can.

Dipping my pinky into the tea to feel the temperature, then sucking the sweetness off it, I down the drink, not so much enjoying it as fueling the machine for the morning. Flipping open the dishwasher, I place the mug and spoon in an empty rack, leaving them together inside to await dinner's dirty dishes.

Would have loved to get something more, but I don't wanna run late and it pays to leave time for the unexpected.

On my way out the kitchen, I pull my Meta augmented reality glasses out of my pocket. In the left hand side of my vision, the heads up display says it's only 5:33 AM.

Decent cushion for any traffic. On top of that, I'm all paid up on my bill for priority routing in self-drive mode with the municipality. As long as I let the car do the driving like a good little responsible citizen, The city of Detroit's smart brain for traffic management will guide my Tesla to its destination along the fastest possible route, even if it has to hold up lower tier subscribers.

As I glide through my living room and scoop up my laptop bag from where I dumped it on the sofa last night, the glasses cycle through their boot processes for higher functions. Sorting spam from my mail and calls while flagging the most important incoming. Surfacing high interest news content from mere clickbait. Remembering weather to remind me of any necessary undone tasks before I run out the door. That type of thing.

Shouldering laptop bag, I open then close the front door behind me, letting the smart home system lock me out.

Out in the driveway, the Tesla's already pulled out of the garage, waiting for me.

Weather's looking to disappoint today.

Sky above is uniform gray, promising rain in hours.

"Meta and Google forecast predict heavy rain late this morning," My glasses inform me ever so helpfully via bone induction.

Going back into the house for an umbrella would be the smart play here, but I'm already outside and halfway across the lawn to the car in driveway. When I get to work, I'll just be quick about getting inside.

At my body's length between me and the Telsa, the left side door extends open from its black body.

I come around from the left to enter, but stop mid-crouch.

Not quite across the street, about diagonal from my house, there's a black Tesla Suburban sedan parked In front of the Reeds' place.

Something's up. The Reeds drive a Ford Intrepid SUV In every house on the street has a garage, which the HOA gets on our backs about using so we don't block the road.

I'm also the only early riser on the block. All my neighbors either have more reasonable working hours or are blessedly retired. I know Howie's still working for the city as a civil engineer until he hits retirement age at 75, but Sable works from home as a Google contractor, as a soul supervisor, I think.

All the above distills down to no reason for a sedan parked in front our their house at 5:53 in the morning.

I'm going to be late for work. I'll have to stay late for work as a result. But I write my own performance reviews as CTO, so I can cut myself some slack, though I'm gonna get an earful from the team when I come in fashionably tardy.

Also the Reeds kept an eye out and lent me a hand when I first moved into the neighborhood after accepting LogiCore's job offer. They showed me around, helped me unpack what little I had, and hooked me up with the HOA. If they caught me outside during the summer or hadn't seen me in awhile, one of them would come knocking and invite me out to iced tea on their porch.

Nosy neighbor or not, I owe them some concern.

"Keep the engine running," I tell the Tesla, walking away toward the Reeds'. Don't really know what I'm walking into, come to think of it. "Activate your dashcam," I call back to the Tesla.

"Keep it focused on me."

"Already done," The Tesla assures me.
The paranoia of being a black man in America might be getting the better of me, but Detroit has taught me that if some shit goes down, you need to have it on film rather than have faith the powers that be will take your word.

Crossing the road, I pass behind the Tesla Suburban to get a good look at its license plate.

"Google Security," I whisper, summoning the app on my glasses lenses. "Scan this license plate and tell me who it's registered to."

Except that's unnecessary by the time I finish the command.

"Cancel that last."

I've lived on enough bases to clock that the sedan has a military license plate.

There's only two reasons a military vehicle would roll up to a house and a residential neighborhood off base.

Either the Reeds are being investigated or questioned, most likely by the Navy Criminal Investigative Service since their Caleb is a Marine.

Or the Reeds are receiving a death notification.

I stop short of the sidewalk. Let me think before I do here.

It's one thing if the Reeds were in trouble, I'd break down a door and take a bullet for them.

Still, what am I doing here?

Paying respects and comforting them? There would be Casualty Assistance Call Officers sitting walking them through the worst day in their son's life and they may be and no condition to talk to anyone else.

Or am I only avoiding the awkward, refusing to repay even a bit of the grace gave me when I wasn't just the new neighbor on the block, but freshly separated from the service and adapting civilian life in a world that wasn't an abstraction viewed through screens and socials while I was on base anymore.

 

[Audrey Frost]

This morning I managed to vomit up 2,102 words, which brought me up to a grand total of 4,500 words then.

I've been working mostly non-stop since then, this weekend I'm using for relaxing, so I have more to add. I'm just being lazy and not counting the words up across chapter documents.

Here's some more for the first chapter draft, which I'm currently on:

Spoiler: Further First Chapter Progress (Getting There To The Second, Slowly, But Surely)

The thermal cycle and calibration recharacterization can wait, though I'm an asshole for leaving it to the rest of the team like a stereotypical supervisor pushing work off onto subordinates. Gotta make it up to them later.

But for now, I'm where I need to be. Or so I tell myself.

Maintaining a healthy and safe distance from the sedan, just in case its smart systems might mistake me for a threat up close, I step onto the sidewalk, standing just to the side of the path to the Reed's porch, hiding my hands from the morning cold in my jacket pockets.

Best to not barge in. I'll let the CACOs finish with the Reeds, then offer condolences and see what I can do afterwards.

Technically, the Reeds haven't told me about Caleb's death, but I don't think they'll hold that against me, all things considered.

Me waiting around out here right next to a military sedan to tell them I'm sorry for their loss might be invading their privacy and any wishes they might have to be left alone to cope with the grief given minutes ago. If that's the case, they'd be well within their rights to tell me to fuck off.

No. This is just me trying to weasel my way out of having a hard conversation with them about the son they just lost.

Excuse rejected. Just commit and sit tight.

Around me, The neighborhood is silent and empty as usual for this hour, making me feel more conspicuous standing about out here.

I'm not worried about the HOA were some of my nosier neighbors assuming I'm casing the street for a break in later, but I don't like loitering around out here looking like an idiot either.

I also don't want to draw attention to the reeds loss if they don't want it.

I'm hoping the officers finish up soon.

Actually, that's an asshole thought. The Reeds are just finding out that their son died God knows where and I'm out here wondering and they're going to have the time to see me. Who the fuck am I that they need to operate my timetable -

Chimes and a creak yank my attention to the Reeds' doorway.

It's open, one CACO holding it while another one walks out with his piss cutter tucked under his arm.

Both men, white and maybe Midwestern, wear statue somber expressions and the regulation Service Alpha uniforms, resembling more highly tailored semi-formal suits you'd see on executives rather Dress Blues.

Howie emerges from the house, taking over the doorway from the CACO holding it, who whispers and nods to him before descending the porch steps with his partner, his own piss cutter in hand.

Making their way along the paved path to the fence gate where I'm waiting, the men seat their piss cutters on their heads, fixing the soft olive-green caps in place with practiced precision. They eye me, neutrally, and I give them a space to open the gate and pass through, metering off a single respectful nod to them. Surprisingly, they return the favor, possibly paying a due a fellow Marine, not breaking pace to continue to their car.

I look onto the porch, where Howie watches the CACOs enclose themselves in the Tesla Suburban, waving once weakly. Waving feels ridiculous, given the circumstances, as if I'm passing just say hello on a day like any other. In the moment, it felt right to wave. I want him know I'm here, for him, if he needs me.

By the way, if you've got any criticisms of the draft, I'd love to hear them. That's part of the drafting process after all. Be brutal too.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Today was busy and I had to shop for some stuff ahead of July 4th and the heat dome, so I only got this done tonight.

Spoiler: Tiny Chapter 1 Tidbit

As I climb the rickety porch steps, a man steps into view behind Howie. The man's fit frame fills out a Service Alpha uniform almost the same as what the CACOs wore. Dark brown hair is shorn into a Caesar cut tight on his scalp. His skin is light beige, a blend between Howie's dark brown and Martha's lighter beige. He has his father's black eyes, which stare at me with a half bemused look As the man Throws up his hands As if revealing himself, like I'm the guest of honor who just showed up to there subdued surprise birthday party.

Ironic, since Caleb is looking real decent for a dead man.

Yeah. It's a lot to process, Caleb says apologetically. still wrapping my mind around it myself.

I bet. Freshly reincarnated casualties need at minimum months Of psychological counseling Before the department of war even considers reassigning them to active duty, even with all the hot conflicts around the world right now.

Howie rests a hand on Caleb's shoulder. We're right here with you son. You've got a lot to figure out, but you are my son and I need you to know that, no matter what.

He squeezes Caleb's shoulder. Caleb's own hand reaches over his shoulder to meet it, patting his fingers while his head bows a bit.

Like an ass, I've frozen on the final step of the porch. Instead of gawking more, I close the gap between me and Caleb. He extends a hand for a handshake And I clasp it, using my other arm to bring him tight for a hug. We rock slightly.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Sitting for writing session now.

I'm looking to get the bulk of this rough draft finished by the weekend, given the time I have off.

 

[Audrey Frost]

A bit more of what I wrote yesterday.

I'm looking to use my time off to get most of the rough draft finished during what will be the long weekend for me.

Spoiler: More Progress

Delete that. Where do I get off questioning Caleb's humanity, while pretending I'm not, without even the decency to do it out loud?

Is that really what I'm questioning though?

Intellectually and viscerally, I know that while Caleb is no longer human, he's a person who thinks, feels, and is self-aware. He doesn't deserve to be treated the same way I am and have all the same rights, and respect, as me, whatever few they may be these days.

Caleb isn't a just machine to me, regardless of what the anti-reincarnation nuts have to say on the issue.

He's a person who just happens to be in a prosthetic body he remotely operates from the processing platform his mind is run on in data center somewhere.

That's a mouthful, but the truth doesn't stop being true because it's wordy in delivery.

What bothers me is that as intellectually and viscerally as I know Caleb is a person, I know that this person I'm hugging isn't Caleb.

He is a copy of Caleb's mind, scanned sometime before his deployment or prior to the action that killed him, that is s puppeteering this prosthetic body now.

Caleb holds me out from him, easy to do with the muscle fibers in his arms.

For a second, I wonder if he heard my thoughts, which is fucking stupid since even though we have functional brain mapping and mind emulation, we've yet to invent telepathic mind reading, as much as the government would like it.

Besides, he has a small smile, sad and subdued, as he lets go of me.

"It's good to see you man," I say and I mean it.

"It's nice to be back here in person, if not the flesh," Caleb says, nodding. "Though am I here in person If the server running me is somewhere else?"

"I'll take this over the alternative," I try to assure him. Howie looked like he was about to say something similar before I beat him to it. He steps closer to us, interrupting the awkward silence starting to settle between us on the porch by saying, "Why don't we take this inside?"

I really shouldn't, I'm behind the clock more then the Tesla might be able to make up, but follow Caleb in anyway, one hand on his back. Howie silently shuts the door behind us, bringing up our rear down the hall.

Family pictures hang on the hallway wall. Caleb's high school graduation photo, him decked out in full gown and cap, Howie and Sable standing proud on either side of him.

Happy 4th in advance.

 

[RonniFaww]

Starting this Saturday, I'm going commit myself to writing at least 1,200 words a day on my novel, Sys Admins vs. Cryptic Souls.

Probably need to write more to meet my two-month completion goal for my novel, but it's a start.

I'm not starting just yet since I've gotta finish up some outlining.

(I saw this thread was dormant, but I wanted to do the challenge. Please don't smite me, mods.)

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Click to shrink...

That's an ambitious goal! 1,200 words a day is no joke, but it's the perfect way to build that momentum. *Sys Admins vs. Cryptic Souls* sounds like a killer premise—is it more of a tech-thriller or are you leaning into supernatural horror? Honestly, the outlining phase is usually where the magic happens, so don't rush it. Are you a "pantser" once the outline is done, or do you have the whole plot mapped out beat-by-beat? Either way, best of luck getting that first draft finished!

 

[Audrey Frost]

That's an ambitious goal! 1,200 words a day is no joke, but it's the perfect way to build that momentum. *Sys Admins vs. Cryptic Souls* sounds like a killer premise—is it more of a tech-thriller or are you leaning into supernatural horror? Honestly, the outlining phase is usually where the magic happens, so don't rush it. Are you a "pantser" once the outline is done, or do you have the whole plot mapped out beat-by-beat? Either way, best of luck getting that first draft finished!

Click to shrink...

You look new here, look who's talking, I am too, so welcome to the Writing Club and QQ too.

But I'm writing, or attempting to write, a psychological dystopian cyberpunk thriller set next century in a future United States where people can upload their minds to quantum computers to in theory live forever, which of course is abused in practice widely and wildly. This ranges from using uploaded "souls" as indentured workers even after they've died, soldiers having to pay off their own reincarnation in prosthetic bodies through perpetual tours of duty, the dead having to work as NPCs in VR environments to survive in the digital afterlife, souls being traded as commodities on the market, and only the rich being able to afford what most people would consider heaven in the digital afterlife.

The plot follows Marcus Wright, who is a systems administrator hired by a digital afterlife to be their infrastructure manager, As he's forced to solve the murder of a trillionaire thought to have been immortal in the simulation while coming to terms with being newly uploaded himself.

There's more going on in the plot, but I don't want to spoil everything for anybody who might read the story.

I have the plot outlined, though I'm pantsing a few chapters since I had some additional ideas. I'm gonna have to increase my daily word count a bit too, though I'm looking to knock out this rough draft next week, tops.

I've also got to say thanks for the encouragement to everybody who's been egging me on to complete this so far, including you Ronni.

Hope to hear more from you here.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Here's some more progress on Chapter 1. I've got some more I'll post between tonight (though that's questionable) and tomorrow (way more likely).

I need to sharpen up the dialogue here, but I'm just getting word on the page right now.

This has really turned into NaNoWriMo, lmao.

Spoiler: Yet More Chapter 1

Another where the three sit around a campfire, bright against whatever dark forest is still surviving now. Next to that, Caleb leans on a Harley-Davidson electric motorcycle, sporting shades with a leather jacket and jeans. Then there's Sable pinning Caleb's rank insignia on his collar at his promotion ceremony, for making Private First Class, as Howie beams, dressed in his Sunday best.

Happy family photos. What are next ones gonna be?

Sable, wearing a gray T-shirt she must've been woken up in with white fishnet slippers, waits at the end of the hall for our procession, ushering into the living room. She throws her arms around me as I pass her. I reflexively reciprocate. There's a warmth to her body I didn't feel with Caleb.

Awkward thought. Why am I thinking about how warm her hugs are compared to her son's. What a weird metric for humanity. Intrusive thoughts are working overtime in my head today.

Stop. Just focus on what Caleb, Sable, and Howie need.

That's why I'm here, right?

"You're an angel for coming," she says, squeezing me tight.

"I was concerned if I'd be intruding," I half-confess. I'd be fronting if I didn't admit to those doubts and that I debated coming here.

"Bullshit." Sable always had a mouth her she wasn't afraid to use. "To us, you're family, so our door is always open. Many would've just walked on by. Most, even."

"Not me," I half-life, more to let her know I'm solid than puff myself up.

Giving me a final squeeze, Sable lets go, holding a hand out to sofa chair For me to sit. I almost tell her I can't stay long. Instead, I eased down onto the sofa chair, folding my hands as I settle into it. Howie is seated in a sofa chair on the far side of the couch where Caleb is sitting alone. He doesn't want to sit next to Caleb? No, he just was just leaving room for Sable to sit next to Caleb, who clip-clops past me on the burgundy carpet to do, gathering Caleb's left arm in hers and intertwining their fingers.

Should really stop making assumptions. I'm not here to see shame where there isn't any.

Silence that followed us from the hallway sits heavily in the living room. Prosthetic bodies can be hard to read, especially if the soul in them isn't used to wearing one, but Caleb looks like he'd has a lot to say, but is watching his words as if they could kill, his mouth mashed up while Sable still clings to his arm, possibly too taken by having her son back from grave express anything else besides "Thank you." Howie stares at both of them, tears at corners of his bloodshot eyes. Taking this all in, I nod understandingly, like I actually have a fucking idea of what any of them lost, what they're feeling, or where they go from here.

We look at each other searchingly, waiting for someone to speak.

A braver part of me would say to that we don't need to talk now. We could sit in the silence and be comforted by each other's presence. Being with other people you who care about you and care about what you do can when the right words won't come to mind.

Only that'd be too awkward and I'm too much of a coward to say it aloud. Plus it'd be pretentious as hell to tell them if they had things to say, which given that they're a family dealing with the death of their son and the sudden arrival of his robotic doppelganger, is safe bet. Who am I tell them what to say?

Caleb bites his lips as if that'll seal them. I could try to make this less awkward. Thrown him a lifeline.

So I ask him what is either the best or worst question to ask in the circumstances. "Caleb, how are you feeling?"

The question is so simple I feel like a dumbass for posing it. But with all he's been through, there's a basic rightness to it.

Caleb rears on the couch, blinking and squinting, surprised. Quite possibly I might have been the first person not in uniform to put to question to him and care about the answer, since his parents might not have gotten to while the CACOs were visiting.

"Considering I was dead, I'm good," Caleb says, hesitantly, as if convincing himself in process too. "Great, now that I'm home on leave."

"I don't wanna play psychologist here," I insist despite that being what I'm doing. "But maybe you should consider more than your death since you're alive."

Caleb's forehead knots in confusion. I take that as a sign that I need to start making sense

"Hear me out," I propose, continuing on before he can doubt further. "You did die. You gave your life for country. There was a time when that would be the hardest part."

Caleb's face hardens. Sable and Howie both have worried looks train him. Better speed this up.

"But you survived and now living in the aftermath of your own death is the hard part. There's a process and professionals to assist with that, though I'd be lying if I told you that'll make it easy. We've been reincarnating KIAs for decades and the same hurdles remain hard to hop.

"First, there's coping with the knowledge that you died and all the attendant traumas with that. If the original you that was brain-mapped was killed after the scan, are you truly the same person since they had experiences you don't remember due to having lived them?"

"I've either been thinking about that or trying not to think about that constantly," Caleb bursts out, his face softening as leans forward. Sable rubs his back with her hand reassuringly. "I keep asking myself if I'm me."

"Stop torturing yourself like that," Sable begs. "I know my own son and you're him. Know that."

"Your mom's right." This is a lie on my part, full stop, purely because Caleb doesn't need the head trip of philosophy course on why emulated brain map models weren't the same person as original whose brain was scanned. Functionally, he had the identity and memory as the original Caleb up until his brain-mapping, which really all he and his family needed to believe. "You're her son and your death doesn't change that."

Caleb nods rapidly, fervently, as if affirming the deepest truth he's ever heard.

"Let's hear you say it," I tell with an authority and confidence I lack.

"I'm your son," Caleb asserts rather than affirms, turning to Sable and Howie. Sable envelopes Caleb in her arms from the side, him on the temple. Caleb quirks his mouth, embarrassed. Howie smiles a fraction, letting the tears down finally.

I sit still and silent. I've inserted myself enough into the Reeds' life this morning.

This morning. I cock an eye to the left corner of my vision, to time in my glasses' HUD.

6:21 AM. Enough time to make it work theoretically. I hold onto that thinking, pushing the practicalities preventing that outcome out of mind.

You know what? Fuck it altogether. Sitting across from someone who died and is gonna be locked into a decades long contract to pay off his reincarnation makes my obsessive whining about being an hour or so late for work look like a real first world problem. It puts our problems in perspective. I have things to fix at work when I get there.

I have things to fix here.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Almost done with Chapter 1, though I did some editing on it. I'm going to have to write a Prologue for this to set the tone, I think, and hook the readers in early.

After Chapter 1 is fleshed out, I'm skipping to Chapter 3 since Chapter 2 is a flashback for Caleb, where we find out exactly how he died in the first place and see a bit of the wider world.

 

[Audrey Frost]

Finish Chapter 1, or at least the rough draft version of it, at grand total of 9,732 words. Wrote 3,047 today for this alone.

Here it is.

Spoiler: Chapter 1 Rough Draft

Wakefulness hits me with the softness of sledgehammer. I'm sore, lethargic, my body's feeling like it doesn't really wanna move this morning. It being in motion seems an impossibility. I'm the kind of tired that you feel deep in your bones that weighs you down, makes you think you'll never get out of bed again.

Recently I've been feeling that way a lot.

My comforter pulls me down in bed, reminding me of how Amani used to roll on top of me to pin me from getting up, trying to me under the sheets with her for a few more minutes.

"Can't you call in sick?" she'd tease me up close, her smile making her morning breath worth it.

Beneath the covers her curves tempt me everything I'm leaving behind.

Being real, I'd already left it behind, with the only souvenir from that time being the note she left me in our, my flat, after taking everything that was hers away.

All that's ahead of me is the same old cycle with work and waiting for work to come around.

So I get on with it.

Throwing off the blanket with more force than necessary to get the blood flowing in my arm, my back cracks as I sit up. Pins and needles prickle my toes, which I try to scrunch away. My fingers My fingers tingle, so I flex them too. Poor circulation is probably to blame.

Stretching might help, but who am I kidding I'm barely good enough to make it to the bathroom. Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I press pins and needles in my toes into the warm fibers of my heated brown carpet that Amani always said was ugly, but has held up since I parted ways with the agency and went private sector.

Stubbornly, the pins and needles still seethe on my soles. Inspired by their persistence, I hoist myself off the bed and it's stuck across the bedroom to the bathroom, digging my heels into the carpet while dragging my soles to exorcise the prickling possessing my feet. Just before the bathroom, a shiver runs up my legs as my soles touch the cold hardwood of bedroom flooring, then the clammy ceramic tiles of the bathroom.

Residual sleepiness and gunk in my eye have me walking wobbly to the sink. Light switches on, the bulb brightening just enough to not be blinding to my bleary morning eyes.

A tired man looks at me from the mirror. All my imperfections make themselves known. Insurgent gray hairs stick out from the black ones in low Caesar cut, however hard I try to cut them out. Extended crunch time at work has hung bags under my eyes. Dried cracked skin I used to get up early in the morning to hide from Amani peaks out from my mostly manicured beard. Some beige scales flick the brown skin I've lived in or with since birth. Bloodshot eyes take a hard look at all this.

Well, I'm not going to become more beautiful moping in front of the mirror. Snap out of it.

"Cold," I ask the sink, running my hands under the faucet as the stream of ice cool water falls from it. Cupping my hands, I catch it, splashing it over my face. The chill jolts me awake. Just what the doctor ordered.

I keep lapping the water on my face, washing away the grime in exchange for the new day's load. Blinking away the dampness, I peep at the mirror.

"News," I burble at the mirror through the water.

Today's AR news feed flashes up in the corner of the mirror. Within the inset, footage comes on of a swarm of underwater observation drones hovering above what I know is the severed trunk on a deep data transfer cable.

Which is concerning, to say the least, since those cables are the backbone of the modern Net, alongside other insignificant systems such as the global economy, or the parts those at the top of tend to think about.

Bracing for the bad news, I break my toothbrush and toothpaste out of the cabinet behind the mirror, fastening the door back in place so I can brush my pearly white while watching the fallout on the feed.

Doing its best impression of these days would call a generic American female, in that language, the anchor's AI-generated voice runs down the damage, newscast neutral.

"- aggravating tensions in the South China Sea." Not a great start.

Putting the paste to brush, I stick both my mouth and start scrubbing.

"Amid a heightened standoff between NATO and SCO forces in the South China Sea, the sudden failure of an American-managed sub-sea quantum relay hub has introduced a new complication to the equation."

Onscreen, cue a cut to footage of a fleet of Chinese naval vessels in formation on the ocean. In spite of my Navy years giving me more than a good look at these ships, I widen the news window with my free hand while brushing my back teeth.

"The US alleges the cable was sabotaged by a state-sponsored Lethal Autonomous Weapons Swarm, which official claim have been sighted in the region. China denies this, claiming it was a natural failure or a faulty maintenance operation by contractors responsible for the cable's maintenance."

No surprise there, though the current administration here could be bullshitting, lying motherfuckers that they are.

My tongue slide slickly over the lower teeth I've just finished, so I spit the toothpaste in the sink to circle down the drain, to the sewers down low.

"Both NATO and SCO are maneuvering fleets to physically secure surrounding area."

That would be pure showboating. Neither us and our allies or the Chinese with Russians and their other rump states in tow wants to escalate to direct kinetic war. So everybody will use proxies. Either software agents for cyber warfare or underwater autonomous drones babysat by some poor canned sailors in the submarine, like I used to before I hit my limit.

Still, this is bad and could become worse. There's an appetite, maybe even a hunger, in the East and the West to be top dog, the undisputed dominant hyperpower on planet just like the US used to be before we assed out that advantage we had last century.

To get back to that time, we've dusted off the Monroe Doctrine and we've been backing the most brutal right-wing autocrats across the Americas for more than a century to lock down the Western hemisphere.

On the other side of the globe, the Chinese bought out the bankrupt Russians right after Ukraine fell. With the resources of Russia and the bread basket that was Ukraine, the People's Republic leveraged that to get most of mainland Asia on side with a chunk of Africa following, especially when the Equatorial crop failures set in.

Now the Cold War has settled on this status quo between the two blocks where they occasionally snipe at each other in deniable ways while picking off the remaining smaller unaligned nations slowly being forced by climate change to choose a side.

And that is bad, but the wrong people or property catching a stray quick change all that.

Even a miscalculation or misinterpretation of events could spark something, like, say, unexplained activity in the South China Sea such as local network outages or seismic data anomalies that could be interpreted by overworkerd military and intelligence personnel on hair trigger as a sign of enemy action where there is none.

"Cut the feed," I tell the mirror. I can't remember what the newsfeed was saying for the last minute anyway and I'm not going to be able to probably hear it in the shower. They're directed vodcast speakers you can buy that allowed directly on your ears and beam the sound to them so you could hear them over a hurricane, but I never find it in me or my wallet to blow money like that. In my mind's eye, Mom nods approvingly.

The newsfeed dies, taking someone's stereotypical female new anchor voice with it.

Inside my bowels, an impatient shit nags me for release. Obligingly, I flip up the toilet seat lid and park my ass on the porcelain seat. A few seconds straining Has me done with the business, which plunks into toilet bowl water. Flushing and forgetting, I step into the shower. My first foot in slips, but I steady myself against the shower wall.

Whew. Close call.

Nearly had a "I've Fallen And Can't Get Up" Moment there. The fall got my heart rate up and I'm thinking the blood rush is blurring my vision a bit, but otherwise no worse for wear.

Catching my breath, I climb into the shower and wave my hand for the spray. Warm water gushes from the shower head at the perfect temperature thanks to the sensors in the stall.

Dousing my head in the spray, I reach for the Head & Shoulders without looking, crack the top of the bottle before turning over to squeeze the shampoo out in my hand. Still sleepy, I let the water run over my face to wake up, then slather the Head & Shoulders on my scalp and where the dry patches were under my beard. Soapy foam breeds under my finger tips as I massage in the shampoo. The shower head adjust itself to spray a stronger flow on my face and scalp to rinse off the foam, moving on to sprinkling the rest of me after.

Completely wet, I put my hand down under the body wash dispenser and its sensor drools the clear gel, which I wipe on my thick washcloth, smushing into the fabric for absorption. Working methodically, in a slower-paced version of the procedure I used to follow in Navy. Rub down each arm for a minute. Burrow into each armpit with the soapy washcloth to banish body odor there, since I have can be a bit more fragrant than I like to admit. Scrub down my chest like a washboard. Dig into my belly button to get any dirt as weird as it always feels. Reach behind my back to clean it which Amani did for me when we showered together. Polish the old rear end. Bend to suds up my legs, scrouging between my toes and under my soles while I'm down there. Extra body wash goes on my washcloth to soak my junk for a thorough cleaning since it does get gamey. Then stand around for the shower hose me off, wash residue and dirt whirlpooling around the shower drain.

Altogether a nice fifteen-minute experience.

Back on the boat, we used to call this a Hollywood shower because of how long and glamorous a luxury it was to us on a sea tour.

At sea, standard practice was the Navy shower, or a combat shower if you're nasty.

It goes like this.

You turn the water on for about 10 to 30 seconds to get wet. On the mark, you shut water off. As quick as you can, you scrub down with soap and shampoo. Once you're good and soapy, you turn back on for 45 to 60 seconds to rinse everything off.

If you're doing it right, this all takes less than two minutes, start to finish.

Can't say I'm happy with how everything in my life has shaken out, but one of the joys of being a civilian is taking your time. Compared to the service, it's like you have all the time in the world.

"Shut off the shower and put on the dryer," I shout over the stream.

The spray cuts off immediately in the Dyson dryer kicks in, blowing in from vents in the ceiling and from the tops of the walls in the stall. Breeze sweeps through the shower. In less than a minute, I'm bone dry.

It's chilly, with the bathroom turns up the heat as I step out the stall. My foot lands wrong. Somehow I misjudged the raised bar of shower. The hamper keep from hitting floor. Lucky break.

Walking out the bathroom, I head back to the bedroom, to my closet. Today's supposed to be a long one for Friday.

Sometimes I'm forgetful, that's why Google keeps track of my schedule for me, but I don't need it to remind me about the cryogenic thermal cycle and qubit calibration recharacterization slotted in today. If you're thinking that sounds complicated that's because it is. All week I've been low-key agonizing over the maintenance and this is probably gonna eat up my entire weekend, to which my direct report would say this is why they pay me the big bucks.

Might as well wear something comfortable if I'm spending the weekend at work.

Choosing carefully, I unrack my favorite brown cargo pants with extra pockets which are useful for carrying small tools and cables, a flannel shirt with rollup sleeves for the cool server farm or warmer office, a black zip-up hoodie, and a leather fleece jacket to layer on top of it. For footwear, I pluck a pair of black Skechers sneakers since I see much standing in my future.

Not exactly a coordinated outfit, but a benefit of work in the tech industry is being able to roll into work looking like bum.

Adequately accessorized, as Amani would have put it, I toss the clothes on the bed and place the Skechers at its foot.

Fishing out and snapping on some Under Armour underwear from my drawer, I quickly slip on everything I've laid out with the speed that would make a drill sergeant proud. Fully clothed and feeling fresh, I walk out, bedroom lights dying behind me. Winding around the hall, I jog down the stairs, foot falls landing as heavy as punching back blows. A few stairs feel a little shaky might have to check those when I get back home. Wouldn't want to break my momentum right now.

I plot a direct course through my living room to the kitchen. Not that there is much to navigate around besides the cheap IKEA furniture I bought just to have some. Just a coffee table to put things down on, surrounded by the two armchairs and sofa I purchased purely so I'm not sitting on the floor. On the wall facing the sofa sets a super-sized smart screen that I occasionally watch YouTube videos of the esports games I miss.

This place feels a whole lot emptier since Amani moved out.

Don't know why I keep bringing her up, torturing myself like that. I mean I know why. I miss her. Except that doesn't change that she's gone, for good, and I need to get good with that.

Life is moving on.

Moving on to the kitchen, I pick a pot out of the dishwasher, finished running from last night, on my way to the sink where I fill it with tap water. Shuffling it to sit on the stove, I turn the hot plate under it up to high to save time.

Could kill time while waiting for this water to boil. What to do?

My preview of the news was bad enough that I'm not eager to turn on the kitchen screen for a sequel. Usually I let the car drive me to work so I don't need to listen for the traffic report and the brokerages I use for investing are on point enough that I'm not qualified to second guess their quantum processors' positions in the markets. No legit investment outfit has humans managing portfolios.

Decision-making is for machines. Humans just explain the aftermath.

Though you still need sys admins with those machines, if they're on a network, so that means job security for me. Robots haven't retire me yet. Yay.

Only small bubbles are drifting up from the bottom of the heating pot for now, so I take down the ceramic mug Amani gave as a gift one birthday that says, "My Favorite IT Worker", and a Lipton's tea bag from the box in the overhead cabinet. Due to being falling down tired, the pep from the shower is wearing off, I grab the paper bag the Domino's sugar is packaged in and pour out in my mug enough to give an elephant diabetes. Should keep me wired for the morning.

Shutting the bag back in the cabinet, I drop the tea bag in the mug on top of the sugar, leaving the string and tag hanging over the lip. On time, the water in the pot begins boiling, rattling on the hot plate.

Switching off the electric stove, I grip the pot by its handle and tip the steaming water into the mug. The excess I dump into the steel kitchen sink, which thermal shock from the hot water causes to buckle with a crack. I place the pot back on the stove. No need for it to go in the sink. It only had hot water so it's clean for cooking dinner or whatever meal I have when I get back. Probably instant ramen to keep things simple.

I pick up the tea mug. Warmth tickles my knuckles, but the handle is encouragingly cool to the touch. Plucking a spoon from the plastic cup where I keep some eating utensils since amani is not around to chide me otherwise, I stir the sugar and the tea blender-quick after throwing the tea bag in the trash can.

Dipping my pinky into the tea to feel the temperature, then sucking the sweetness off it, I down the drink, not so much enjoying it as fueling the machine for the morning. Flipping open the dishwasher, I place the mug and spoon in an empty rack, leaving them together inside to await dinner's dirty dishes.

Would have loved to get something more, but I don't wanna run late and it pays to leave time for the unexpected.

On my way out the kitchen, I pull my Meta augmented reality glasses out of my pocket. In the left hand side of my vision, the heads up display says it's only 5:33 AM.

Decent cushion for any traffic. On top of that, I'm all paid up on my bill for priority routing in self-drive mode with the municipality. As long as I let the car do the driving like a good little responsible citizen, The city of Detroit's smart brain for traffic management will guide my Tesla to its destination along the fastest possible route, even if it has to hold up lower tier subscribers.

As I glide through my living room and scoop up my laptop bag from where I dumped it on the sofa last night, the glasses cycle through their boot processes for higher functions. Sorting spam from my mail and calls while flagging the most important incoming. Surfacing high interest news content from mere clickbait. Remembering weather to remind me of any necessary undone tasks before I run out the door. That type of thing.

Shouldering laptop bag, I open then close the front door behind me, letting the smart home system lock me out.

Out in the driveway, the Tesla's already pulled out of the garage, waiting for me.

Weather's looking to disappoint today.

Sky above is uniform gray, promising rain in hours.

"Meta and Google forecast predict heavy rain late this morning," My glasses inform me ever so helpfully via bone induction.

Going back into the house for an umbrella would be the smart play here, but I'm already outside and halfway across the lawn to the car in driveway. When I get to work, I'll just be quick about getting inside.

At my body's length between me and the Telsa, the left side door extends open from its black body.

I come around from the left to enter, but stop mid-crouch.

Not quite across the street, about diagonal from my house, there's a black Tesla Suburban sedan parked In front of the Reeds' place.

Something's up. The Reeds drive a Ford Intrepid SUV In every house on the street has a garage, which the HOA gets on our backs about using so we don't block the road.

I'm also the only early riser on the block. All my neighbors either have more reasonable working hours or are blessedly retired. I know Howie's still working for the city as a civil engineer until he hits retirement age at 75, but Sable works from home as a Google contractor, as a soul supervisor, I think.

All the above distills down to no reason for a sedan parked in front our their house at 5:53 in the morning.

I'm going to be late for work. I'll have to stay late for work as a result. But I write my own performance reviews as CTO, so I can cut myself some slack, though I'm gonna get an earful from the team when I come in fashionably tardy.

Also the Reeds kept an eye out and lent me a hand when I first moved into the neighborhood after accepting LogiCore's job offer. They showed me around, helped me unpack what little I had, and hooked me up with the HOA. If they caught me outside during the summer or hadn't seen me in awhile, one of them would come knocking and invite me out to iced tea on their porch.

Nosy neighbor or not, I owe them some concern.

"Keep the engine running," I tell the Tesla, walking away toward the Reeds'. Don't really know what I'm walking into, come to think of it. "Activate your dashcam," I call back to the Tesla.

"Keep it focused on me."

"Already done," The Tesla assures me.

The paranoia of being a black man in America might be getting the better of me, but Detroit has taught me that if some shit goes down, you need to have it on film rather than have faith the powers that be will take your word.

Crossing the road, I pass behind the Tesla Suburban to get a good look at its license plate.

"Google Security," I whisper, summoning the app on my glasses lenses. "Scan this license plate and tell me who it's registered to."

Except that's unnecessary by the time I finish the command.

"Cancel that last."

I've lived on enough bases to clock that the sedan has a military license plate.

There's only two reasons a military vehicle would roll up to a house and a residential neighborhood off base.

Could be that the Reeds are being investigated or questioned, most likely by the Navy Criminal Investigative Service since their son Caleb is a Marine. From the times I've talked to him, I never got the vibe that he was into anything shady. The kid didn't so much as smoke a joint so he could pass the drug test for the Marines. Doubtful he broke bad abroad.

Last I heard he shipped out to Chile, around Atacama, as part of "peacekeeping" mission there to secure the supply chains of copper, lithium, and molybdenum fueling the clean energy economy here at home and stabilizing erratic power supplies disrupted constantly by a century of catastrophic climate change.

What war reporting leaked out of the Lithium Triangle painted an poor picture of dirty war over water between American megacorps using supplies made scarce by the aridification of the Andes for water-intensive lithium extraction and mainly Chinese-backed indigenous insurgents who launched an insurrection over a pesky belief that locals had a right to the last of potable water in the region. Fighting had heated recently, to point where the casualties were penetrating past our proxies in what we propped up of the Chilean government and private militias we contracted, into the military advisers and peacekeepers posted in Atacama and Antofagasta.

Casualty numbers were hazy. War reporting, by which I speaking about actual embedded correspondent covering conflicts, not influencers clout chasing in their warzone of the week or VR sensory feeds from soldiers piped to keyboard warriors here in the homeland, doesn't put media operation in the black. Equally unhelpful, the Department of War doesn't deign to publish hard statistics nowadays to keep up warfighter morale and the president's favorability polling.

That said, consensus among those who care to compile information on our war dead is that Chile was making chili out of our guys, on track to becoming the worst meat grinder in the hemisphere. Odds of coming home in a coffin consistently if you were in rotation there rose by the day.

Bringing me to the other ugly possibility.

The Reeds are receiving a death notification.

I stop short of the sidewalk. Let me think before I do here.

It's one thing if the Reeds were in trouble, I'd break down a door and take a bullet for them.

Still, what am I doing here?

Paying respects and comforting them? There would be Casualty Assistance Call Officers sitting walking them through the worst day in their son's life and they may be and no condition to talk to anyone else.

Or am I only avoiding the awkward, refusing to repay even a bit of the grace gave me when I wasn't just the new neighbor on the block, but freshly separated from the service and adapting civilian life in a world that wasn't an abstraction viewed through screens and socials while I was on base anymore.

The thermal cycle and calibration recharacterization can wait, though I'm an asshole for leaving it to the rest of the team like a stereotypical supervisor pushing work off onto subordinates. Gotta make it up to them later.

But for now, I'm where I need to be. Or so I tell myself.

Maintaining a healthy and safe distance from the sedan, just in case its smart systems might mistake me for a threat up close, I step onto the sidewalk, standing just to the side of the path to the Reed's porch, hiding my hands from the morning cold in my jacket pockets.

Best to not barge in. I'll let the CACOs finish with the Reeds, then offer condolences and see what I can do afterwards.

Technically, the Reeds haven't told me about Caleb's death, but I don't think they'll hold that against me, all things considered.

Me waiting around out here right next to a military sedan to tell them I'm sorry for their loss might be invading their privacy and any wishes they might have to be left alone to cope with the grief given minutes ago. If that's the case, they'd be well within their rights to tell me to fuck off.

No. This is just me trying to weasel my way out of having a hard conversation with them about the son they just lost.

Excuse rejected. Just commit and sit tight.

Around me, The neighborhood is silent and empty as usual for this hour, making me feel more conspicuous standing about out here.

I'm not worried about the HOA were some of my nosier neighbors assuming I'm casing the street for a break in later, but I don't like loitering around out here looking like an idiot either.

I also don't want to draw attention to the reeds loss if they don't want it.

I'm hoping the officers finish up soon.

Actually, that's an asshole thought. The Reeds are just finding out that their son died God knows where and I'm out here wondering and they're going to have the time to see me. Who the fuck am I that they need to operate my timetable -

Chimes and a creak yank my attention to the Reeds' doorway.

It's open, one CACO holding it while another one walks out with his piss cutter tucked under his arm.

Both men, white and maybe Midwestern, wear statue somber expressions and the regulation Service Alpha uniforms, resembling more highly tailored semi-formal suits you'd see on executives rather Dress Blues.

Howie emerges from the house, taking over the doorway from the CACO holding it, who whispers and nods to him before descending the porch steps with his partner, his own piss cutter in hand.

Making their way along the paved path to the fence gate where I'm waiting, the men seat their piss cutters on their heads, fixing the soft olive-green caps in place with practiced precision. They eye me, neutrally, and I give them a space to open the gate and pass through, metering off a single respectful nod to them. Surprisingly, they return the favor, possibly paying a due a fellow Marine, not breaking pace to continue to their car.

I look onto the porch, where Howie, wearing the same face as the CACOs, watches the officers enclose themselves in the Tesla Suburban, waving once weakly. Waving feels ridiculous, given the circumstances, as if I'm passing just say hello on a day like any other. In the moment, it felt right to wave. I want him know I'm here, for him, if he needs me.

Howie waves me over the sedan pulls off the curb and down the street. He does it languidly, that's the word I'd use to describe the gesture. Suddenly I'm worried forcing him to have another talk after the worst one of his life.

My feet carry me through the fence gate anyway.

Walking along the path to the porch, I got a better look at Howie and, more than ever, I see the age on him. Silver gray hair crowning his head. Crow's feet at his eyes and last lines about his cheeks. The bags under his eyes beat mine by a mile. Thick veins stick out from his wiry arms hanging from the sleeves of the green Marines T-shirt he has on, which looks to large for him along with the sweatpants holding only by the tight drawstring.

Time not only caught up, but beat him.

As I approach Howie, I realize I don't know what I'm gonna say to him. I don't really know what to say to him.

As I climb the rickety porch steps, a man steps into view behind Howie. The man's fit frame fills out a Service Alpha uniform almost the same as what the CACOs wore. Dark brown hair is shorn into a Caesar cut tight on his scalp. His skin is light beige, a blend between Howie's dark brown and Sable's lighter beige. He has his father's black eyes, which stare at me with a half bemused look As the man Throws up his hands As if revealing himself, like I'm the guest of honor who just showed up to there subdued surprise birthday party.

Ironic, since Caleb is looking real decent for a dead man.

Yeah. It's a lot to process, Caleb says apologetically. still wrapping my mind around it myself.

I bet. Freshly reincarnated casualties need at minimum months of psychological counseling Before the Department of War even considers reassigning them to active duty, even with all the hot conflicts around the world right now.

Howie rests a hand on Caleb's shoulder. We're right here with you son. You've got a lot to figure out, but you are my son and I need you to know that, no matter what.

He squeezes Caleb's shoulder. Caleb's own hand reaches over his shoulder to meet it, patting his fingers while his head bows a bit.

Like an ass, I've frozen on the final step of the porch. Instead of gawking more, I close the gap between me and Caleb. He extends a hand for a handshake And I clasp it, using my other arm to bring him tight for a hug. We rock slightly.

Caleb feels solid, real. But I feel no heartbeat against my hand, wrapped in his. My arm claps his back, shaped his and a human's, its bones are fabricated from carbon-fiber reinforced polymers, muscles made from electrofluidic fibers.

Delete that. Where do I get off questioning Caleb's humanity, while pretending I'm not, without even the decency to do it out loud?

Is that really what I'm questioning though?

Intellectually and viscerally, I know that while Caleb is no longer human, he's a person who thinks, feels, and is self-aware. He doesn't deserve to be treated the same way I am and have all the same rights, and respect, as me, whatever few they may be these days.

Caleb isn't a just machine to me, regardless of what the anti-reincarnation nuts have to say on the issue.

He's a person who just happens to be in a prosthetic body he remotely operates from the processing platform his mind is run on in data center somewhere.

That's a mouthful, but the truth doesn't stop being true because it's wordy in delivery.

What bothers me is that as intellectually and viscerally as I know Caleb is a person, I know that this person I'm hugging isn't Caleb.

He is a copy of Caleb's mind, scanned sometime before his deployment or prior to the action that killed him, that is s puppeteering this prosthetic body now.

Caleb holds me out from him, easy to do with the muscle fibers in his arms.

For a second, I wonder if he heard my thoughts, which is fucking stupid since even though we have functional brain mapping and mind emulation, we've yet to invent telepathic mind reading, as much as the government would like it.

Besides, he has a small smile, sad and subdued, as he lets go of me.

"It's good to see you man," I say and I mean it.

"It's nice to be back here in person, if not the flesh," Caleb says, nodding. "Though am I here in person If the server running me is somewhere else?"

"I'll take this over the alternative," I try to assure him. Howie looked like he was about to say something similar before I beat him to it. He steps closer to us, interrupting the awkward silence starting to settle between us on the porch by saying, "Why don't we take this inside?"

I really shouldn't, I'm behind the clock more than the Tesla might be able to make up, but follow Caleb in anyway, one hand on his back. Howie silently shuts the door behind us, bringing up our rear down the hall.

Framed family pictures hang on the hallway wall. Caleb's high school graduation photo, him decked out in full gown and cap, Howie and Sable standing proud on either side of him. Another where the three sit around a campfire, bright against whatever dark forest is still surviving now. Next to that, Caleb leans on a Harley-Davidson electric motorcycle, sporting shades with a leather jacket and jeans. Then there's Sable pinning Caleb's rank insignia on his collar at his promotion ceremony, for making Private First Class, as Howie beams, dressed in his Sunday best.

Happy family photos. What are next ones gonna be?

Sable, wearing a gray T-shirt she must've been woken up in with white fishnet slippers, waits at the end of the hall for our procession, ushering into the living room. She throws her arms around me as I pass her. I reflexively reciprocate. There's a warmth to her body I didn't feel with Caleb.

Awkward thought. Why am I thinking about how warm her hugs are compared to her son's. What a weird metric for humanity. Intrusive thoughts are working overtime in my head today.

Stop. Just focus on what Caleb, Sable, and Howie need.

That's why I'm here, right?

"You're an angel for coming," she says, squeezing me tight.

"I was concerned if I'd be intruding," I half-confess. I'd be fronting if I didn't admit to those doubts and that I debated coming here.

"Bullshit." Sable always had a mouth her she wasn't afraid to use. "To us, you're family, so our door is always open. Many would've just walked on by. Most, even."

"Not me," I half-life, more to let her know I'm solid than puff myself up.

Giving me a final squeeze, Sable lets go, holding a hand out to sofa chair For me to sit. I almost tell her I can't stay long. Instead, I eased down onto the sofa chair, folding my hands as I settle into it. Howie is seated in a sofa chair on the far side of the couch where Caleb is sitting alone. He doesn't want to sit next to Caleb? No, he just was just leaving room for Sable to sit next to Caleb, who clip-clops past me on the burgundy carpet to do, gathering Caleb's left arm in hers and intertwining their fingers.

Should really stop making assumptions. I'm not here to see shame where there isn't any.

Silence that followed us from the hallway sits heavily in the living room. Prosthetic bodies can be hard to read, especially if the soul in them isn't used to wearing one, but Caleb looks like he'd has a lot to say, but is watching his words as if they could kill, his mouth mashed up while Sable still clings to his arm, possibly too taken by having her son back from grave express anything else besides "Thank you." Howie stares at both of them, tears at corners of his bloodshot eyes. Taking this all in, I nod understandingly, like I actually have a fucking idea of what any of them lost, what they're feeling, or where they go from here.

We look at each other searchingly, waiting for someone to speak.

A braver part of me would say to that we don't need to talk now. We could sit in the silence and be comforted by each other's presence. Being with other people you who care about you and care about what you do can when the right words won't come to mind.

Only that'd be too awkward and I'm too much of a coward to say it aloud. Plus it'd be pretentious as hell to tell them if they had things to say, which given that they're a family dealing with the death of their son and the sudden arrival of his robotic doppelganger, is safe bet. Who am I tell them what to say?

Caleb bites his lips as if that'll seal them. I could try to make this less awkward. Thrown him a lifeline.

So I ask him what is either the best or worst question to ask in the circumstances. "Caleb, how are you feeling?"

The question is so simple I feel like a dumbass for posing it. But with all he's been through, there's a basic rightness to it.

Caleb rears on the couch, blinking and squinting, surprised. Quite possibly I might have been the first person not in uniform to put to question to him and care about the answer, since his parents might not have gotten to while the CACOs were visiting.

"Considering I was dead, I'm good," Caleb says, hesitantly, as if convincing himself in process too. "Great, now that I'm home on leave."

"I don't wanna play psychologist here," I insist despite that being what I'm doing. "But maybe you should consider more than your death since you're alive."

Caleb's forehead knots in confusion. I take that as a sign that I need to start making sense

"Hear me out," I propose, continuing on before he can doubt further. "You did die. You gave your life for country. There was a time when that would be the hardest part."

Caleb's face hardens. Sable and Howie both have worried looks train him. Better speed this up.

"But you survived and now living in the aftermath of your own death is the hard part. There's a process and professionals to assist with that, though I'd be lying if I told you that'll make it easy. We've been reincarnating KIAs for decades and the same hurdles remain hard to hop.

"First, there's coping with the knowledge that you died and all the attendant traumas with that. If the original you that was brain-mapped was killed after the scan, are you truly the same person since they had experiences you don't remember due to having lived them?"

"I've either been thinking about that or trying not to think about that constantly," Caleb bursts out, his face softening as leans forward. Sable rubs his back with her hand reassuringly. "I keep asking myself if I'm me."

"Stop torturing yourself like that," Sable begs. "I know my own son and you're him. Know that."

"Your mom's right." This is a lie on my part, full stop, purely because Caleb doesn't need the head trip of philosophy course on why emulated brain map models weren't the same person as original whose brain was scanned. Functionally, he had the identity and memory as the original Caleb up until his brain-mapping, which really all he and his family needed to believe. "You're her son and your death doesn't change that."

Caleb nods rapidly, fervently, as if affirming the deepest truth he's ever heard.

"Let's hear you say it," I tell with an authority and confidence I lack.

"I'm your son," Caleb asserts rather than affirms, turning to Sable and Howie. Sable envelopes Caleb in her arms from the side, him on the temple. Caleb quirks his mouth, embarrassed. Howie smiles a fraction, letting the tears down finally.

I sit still and silent. I've inserted myself enough into the Reeds' life this morning.

This morning. I cock an eye to the left corner of my vision, to time in my glasses' HUD.

6:21 AM. Enough time to make it work theoretically. I hold onto that thinking, pushing the practicalities preventing that outcome out of mind.

You know what? Fuck it altogether. Sitting across from someone who died and is gonna be locked into a decades long contract to pay off his reincarnation makes my obsessive whining about being an hour or so late for work look like a real first world problem. It puts our problems in perspective. I have things to fix at work when I get there.

Things have to be fixed here too. Time to work.

I take a deep breath to gather my thoughts as much as air, hunch a little, locking in eye contact with Caleb.

"Not gonna lie, this is gonna be a struggle, for you, your parents, friends, anybody you know. We've been bringing people back from the dead for decades now and it's still a shock for anyone who hasn't experienced reincarnation or knows someone who has. Reincarnation is hard to get unless you've gone through it or seen it secondhand up close, through every stage of the process."

Not a strong start. Pitching and public speaking have never been my strong suite. Caleb and the Reeds frozen, focused on listening. I power on.

"Full disclosure, I've never been reincarnated obviously. I only know some guys in the service who've had their souls uploaded, some due combat injuries that the medics couldn't stabilize in time, others because they signed death bed contracts to upload for a second chance at life. There are a few who willingly reincarnated without any medical issues because they thought it'd be an upgrade."

Caleb perks up. "Was it? A step up?"

"That's a matter of perspective," I hedge with the sanitized truth, tinged with just enough warning to keep him wary. "The arrangement suited some. There were those who had buyer's remorse."

"Such as?" Caleb presses, leaning forward further. Newly reincarnated grunts sometimes have a habit of suddenly deciding they've been remade into cyborg superheroes and leap at the excuse to for Assessment and Selection for special forces pipeline of whatever service branch they're in, never minding the meat grinders around the world they'll be sent to if do make the cut.

Better burst that thought bubble before it gets too big.

"As of your reincarnation, you're on a modified service contract. Not only do you owe the Marines the remaining time on your previous contract, you also now need to repay the cost of your reincarnation, including the expense of this fancy prosthetic body you're walking around off base in." I level a finger at Caleb. "That body you'd better take care of because that's the one you'll be living in after you separate from the service, not the enhanced battle body you'll be on deployment in."

Putting the pin to bubble now. "Your Reintegration and Recertification Counselor most likely gave you a lowball estimate for the time it'll take you reimburse the service for your reincarnation? You mind me asking what it is?"

Shrugging, Caleb says, "Around twenty years, though I can make a career during that time and climbing pay scale means I can put more towards the balance gradually." He fires off another shrug, sagging back into the couch while Sable lifts her arm from behind him. "I planned on making the Marines a career anyhow."

"You should know that's not the whole total you'll be on the hook for with the Department of War." This part's the pinprick. "After you leave the Marines, your consciousness, your soul, will still be stored and run on the Department's secure hardware. Your identity and memories, basically the blueprint of you, will be backed up on 3D optical holographic crystal storage. Your awareness and thoughts will run inside a quantum processor that has computational power to make that blueprint come alive, which allows you think like you are as we're talking now. The kicker I'm winding up to is you'll be expected by the Department to cover the cost of storing and running your soul on their data center hardware for however long you choose to live. Those expenses will be externalized to you." Sable clutches Caleb's wrist protectively. He runs his other hand over his low-cut hair. His lips move to blow out ear, only for him to realize mid-motion that he doesn't breathe anymore.

"Couldn't I set aside savings to move my stored soul to some private data center?" Caleb asks, holding his hand out as if I could put reassurance in it.

"Provided you saved enough," I grant. "Sure thing. Though you'll be offline for the time the move takes. Some souls don't like doing that since they consider it death by default. Any downtime is being dead if believe running your soul is living."

Caleb runs his hand over face. "Now that I think of it, no downtime at all is desirable."

"Wanted you to be aware," I tell him, nodding. "But what you may want to factor in is if you're deployed on any classified missions during your career, particularly kind that those Special Forces types in enhanced battle bodies regularly get sent on, DOW reserves the right to retain your soul in its data center archive indefinitely, and you'll still be picking up the tab for your storage and processing."

Caleb's hand drops from his face as he gapes. Sable bolts upright on the couch as if she's been electrocuted. I glance at Howie. Sighing deeply, he raises his brows over closed eyes. He knows. The man did his time in the Army Corps of Engineers when reincarnation tech was introduced and integrated into the service branches. Howie understands all too well the deal with the devil his son has signed and precise nature of the devil in the details.

"If I'm hearing you right." An edge of exasperation cuts in Caleb's voice. "In the scenario where I joined the Marine Raiders, did my twenty, retired, and tried to move soul's hardware out of a DOW data center, I actually wouldn't be able to because the Department won't clear it and they'll charge even though they won't let me take my soul off their hands?" He throws up both arms, almost pleadingly. I'm an ass for making him anxious while dashing his dreams. If I could give him what he wants, I would.


"You heard right," I confirm calmly, maybe coldly too. Hearing truth hurts, but living reality hits harder. Better to learn hard lessons through education than experience. "That doesn't have to happen, of course. Simply don't try for Assessment & Selection, keep your head down during regular tours, and you'll be out by Year Twenty if not before, depending on how much you save and what you invest in." I watch Caleb's hopes sink on his face. Sable looks on the verge of a stroke.

"You make it sound easy," Caleb drawls, dry, resigned.

"The only easy day was yesterday," I reply, hitting him with the Navy SEAL saying. Not best choice of words in hindsight. "Can't sugarcoat a bitter pill."

Caleb nods at this, accepting it. Good soldier.

"Heed this wisdom," I offer him. "You're not serving your country. You're serving time. Don't do anything to add to the sentence. Get in and out with minimal damage." I lift my hand, looping a finger in direction of myself, Howie, and Sable. "Everyone will be with you through it and on the other side waiting for you."

"I feel that," Caleb acknowledges, looking at each of us. Sable slings a supportive arm around his shoulders.

Could soften the tone. Here is a kid back from being killed in action, from a certain point of view, a miracle last century made routine now, and I'm crushing his homecoming, such as it is, with talk of debt and indentured service.

The Marine Corps will treat Caleb as a piece of gear, aiming him targets downrange and checking his battery life, so he needs someone to treat him like a human now.

"I'm being hard on you," I say. "I admit it. This is a shit sandwich, Caleb. I'm feeding it to you now so you don't choke on it when you're back in Atacama or wherever they see fit to post you next in their mysterious ways. I'm not being an asshole for the fun of it. I'm acting as your early-warning system."

"No hard feelings here, Marc." Caleb relaxes against couch, putting his own arms around Sable's shoulders. She scrunches closer to him, smiling. Howie does too, though sullenly. "I recognize you've got my six."

I nod in immediate agreement. "Forever. Believe it." I pause. "There's some secondhand advice I forgot to front-load. I'm gonna give it to you now, if you ready for it." Caleb waves me on to go ahead.

Diving in. "Don't try to be who you were. You aren't. If you try to force yourself to act exactly like the guy who died, you're going to look like an uncanny-valley nightmare. Accept that you've changed.

"For the people who don't know you as well, show them the new version of you too. It's the only way they'll learn to trust you again."

Gesturing at Caleb, with my right hand, I say, "You're not flesh and blood anymore. You can't eat, sleep, or feel warmth the same way, but you can still spend time, alone and those of us in your life. Find the things you used to do that don't require biology. If you used to play music, keep playing. If you played games, keep playing. Create new memories that don't depend on the body you lost." I buck my head towards Sable and Howie. "And do them with the people who love you."

"Also remember not everyone will come around to you at once. Give them grace. They're grieving a ghost. They might stare at your chassis like it's a monument to the guy they lost. Let them grieve. If you get defensive or act like a machine, you'll push them away. Be patient. Be present. Remind them that while your body changed, the stuff that matters, the love, the shared history, is still locked under the armor."

I turn to Sable and Howie. "Same goes for you too. You're grieving despite receiving your boy back. That takes time to reconcile."

Sable dips her head. Howie does too and get ups from his sofa chair, crossing over to couch to sit next to Sable, who puts her left arm around him his neck, kissing his cheek.

Amani and I could've have that. I'm a little jealous of happiness, but file away the frivolous feeling.

Sable brings both men tight to her. Caleb's lucky to have this family. They'll see him through the time ahead.

Caleb breaking from Sable suddenly snags my attention. What's the trouble?

"Marcus." He shoots me confused and concerned look. "Don't you have to get to work?"

Damn, the man is more mindful of my job than I am.

I heave a sigh, standing up against the aches. "Yeah. I've got a cryogenic thermal cycle and qubit recharacterization that won't wait," I explain, shaking out the wooziness swirling in my head. Must've stood up too quick. "My direct reports are already deciding which ditch to bury me in."

"Oh, Marcus," Sable gasps, hand to her heart, rising from the couch. "I'm so sorry. We've kept you here all morning."

"It's nothing," I tell truthfully. "I had to be here. You've been like family to me."

Howie joins us standing. "Go on, get to work," he says, shooing me with an easiness that's not quite convincing. "You've done more for us in an hour than those CACOs could've in a day." He holds a hand.

Bringing him in for a firm hug, I say, "If there's any more I can do, I'm only a call away."

"I'll see you out," Caleb says, straightening to a stand smoothly.

"Lead the way," I say, letting him pass me. We make our way out of the living room into the hallway.

"I might go for a walk around the neighborhood afterwards," Caleb calls back to his parents, who followed us to the hallway's end. "See what's changed around here."

"Are you sure that's safe?" Sable asks, worry weaved in her voice. She's not wrong. Not everyone in Livonia as open-minded as us about souls walking the street in prosthetic bodies. Some enough to be physical about their feelings.

"Mom," Caleb says in the exasperated tone of every kid who has been held up by their mom just as they're leaving the house. He freezes gripping the door handle, hanging his head. "Nobody in the neighborhood heard the news that I died."

"Might have seen those officers' car out front," Sable suggests, shouting at the edge of the hallway.

"It was 5 in the morning, Mom," Caleb counters, twisting the door knob. "Who was even up?"

"Clearly Marcus was," Sable shoots back, sounding slightly satisfied with herself.

Caleb's mouth spasms. Was he just trying to suck his teeth? "Marcus has got an early start for his morning commute." He swings open the door and invites me through it with a grandiose gesture of his arm, as a doorman would. "We're making an exit. Anybody I see on the street here I'll tell I'm on leave."

Diplomatically, he follows me out onto the porch, closing the door on Sable's reply. The damp humid smell of impending rain rushes is in the air.

I wear a skeptical look for him on my face. "I'm in good health and not that old," I say drolly, descending down the porch steps to pathway. "I can make it to my car under my own power."

Catching up effortlessly, Caleb says, "I needed more time to talk." Walking alongside me, Caleb looks at his hands, carbon-fiber reinforced, modeled perfectly to his old skin tone. "You said you knew guys in the service who uploaded. The ones who didn't sign the deathbed contracts for an upgrade. The ones like me." He doesn't look up at me.

"It's a small subset," I downplay, managing his expectations. "Mostly CWS guys. Why?"

We thread the pathway to fence gate. Caleb jogs ahead, unlatching the gate to let me first. He says after me, "Do they talk about it? The tours? Not the reintegration, but combat. Do they tell you what it's like to go back when you're better?"

Looking both ways before crossing the street, I leave it hanging whether he meant "better" in the sense that the guys went back to active duty more well-adjusted after the mandatory therapy reincarnation requires. Or if he had in mind the "better" the transhumanist subsoldier wannabes do in their wet dreams.

I'm not feeling like stress-test my impression of Caleb like that now, not after this morning.

Annoyingly, he's at peace with me, his wide open face expecting an answer.

Pointedly, I hold off answering as we pass my property line, heading over to driver side door of my Tesla. I stop with my hand on the Tesla's door handle. Because Caleb has hand on passenger side one.

This guy. Cheeky.

"Good one," I play him off. "This isn't Intern Day at work." Caleb doesn't budge.

So he wants to play it that way. Okay.

Taking off the Google glasses, I gaze into his black eyes that lack flicker, but hold high-resolution focus human can't.

Let's plow through. "The guys who go back don't talk much. They're too busy adjusting to the fact that they can see in thermal and run a forty-mile rucking pace without breaking a sweat, which isn't the edge you'd think it'd be because the reason you're out is to go head-to-head with our peer enemies have the same tech, if not better, as you pithily put it."

Guilty satisfaction surges through as Caleb's eyes go wide. This is having the desired effect.

"But you're not asking about them. You're asking for yourself. So let's cut the shit, Marine." I point the folded glasses in hand over the Tesla's hood at Caleb. "Because I've got to ask. Are you really ready for redeployment? Or are you just looking for a reason to leave this porch because your parents' grief feels like it's dragging on you?"

Caleb's brow tightens, the human response mimicked by facial muscle actuators under the synthetic silicone skin. He looks out to the light gray horizon.

"I just don't know if the version of me they've sent here is the one that should be here," he says, staring into the gray.

That truth hits hammer-blow hard. Without meeting his eyes, I pull the driver side door and squeeze into the Tesla, slamming the door after me.

Keying down the passenger side window, I yell, "You're here. Tell me how you did."

More to come. Can't wait to share it.