Erica
Shiny Browncoat
Today, against the backdrop of a gunmetal grey sky, a giant robot attacked the Statue of Liberty. The world watched in horror, secretly rooting for Lady Liberty to defend herself by beating some manners into the mechanized interloper with the hefty tome at hand. Instead, the National Guard arrived to serve as her white knights, at least until the Guardians could arrive.
And several hours later, Vivienne Cote rode in the back of a black sedan, hoping her employer remembered her abilities didn't favor fights with mechanical monsters.
Even with the strobe dash light declaring their importance, the trip on FDR Drive took over an hour. By the time the car pulled onto 42nd Street and turned the corner toward United Nations Headquarters, the streetlights had stuttered to life. New York was preferable at night, the sodium vapor lamps bathing the city in lulling sepia tones.
Under this flattering light, the black sedan pulled into the drive of United Nations Plaza. Vivienne paid little attention as the driver showed his badge at the gate. The sentry paid less attention as the car headed for the subterranean garage.
On the far side of the parking structure, a small pedestal guarded an otherwise unremarkable door. After thanking the driver and waiting for him to leave, Vivienne placed her hand upon it and waited for the reader to deem her fit for entry. The tech here was smart: it hid its crafty nature under a veneer of familiarity. Most would assume this a basic biometric security device, wise and reasonable for a building occupied by the UN. The biometrics were, in fact, top notch, checking for the wide varieties of counterfeits available today. Yet the real danger lay beyond the identity check and foot-thick steel and concrete door: the guards observing the subsequent clean room had access to everything from halon gas to electrostasis systems. Moreover, they were armed with standing orders authorizing lethal force.
Pausing briefly for inspection, she nodded to the guards on the way to Drexler’s office. Not one nodded back.
Muffled conversation floated through the door into the hall. Vivienne hesitated, but an absent wave of the secretary’s fingers urged her onward before they resumed the process of sorting electronic files on the multi-touch desktop. Squaring her shoulders, Vivienne rapped once on the door before entering the office.
“… my idea. If I had my way, you’d be in prison.” Drexler looked as if someone had swapped his live ammunition for blanks.
In front of Colonel Harold T. Drexler’s impeccably organized desk sat a man with brown hair and stubs for fingers. The wrinkles around his eyes and the touch of grey in his hair placed him in his thirties, but his ill-fitting suit and too-short tie aged him further. His attempts not to stare at the large, star-shaped scar on Drexler’s left cheek were meeting with limited success. Clenching one hand into a fist, he answered in an irritated New Jersey accent, “I got it.” Then, with the sudden certainty of a child who knows his answer will displease, he cleared his throat and added, “Sir.”
“I don’t think you do,” Drexler responded, focused solely on his target.
Vivienne slipped inside, exchanging a brief glance with the other man in the room. Standing quietly beside the newcomer, Paul Rook was cut from the same cloth as all the other augmented humans the military had churned out before the Isaiah Accord outlawed Human Enhancement Programs: he was efficiently deadly when he so chose and seemingly devoid of a sense of humor. Yet something akin to amusement glinted in his eyes as he listened to the verbal pummeling.
“I’ll tell you the same as I told them,” he motioned roughly to Paul and Vivienne. “I have no reason to trust augs, but the director says you’re good for something. Apparently, your particular ‘good’ involves not getting hurt, which can—and will—be useful.” Holding the newcomer’s gaze a beat longer, Drexler sat back and looked Vivienne’s way.
“Meet your new teammate, John Berterolli. John, this is Vivienne.” To her relief, he stopped short of using her last name. Then the smirk she hated emerged. “Her handle is ‘Silhouette’.”
Missing Drexel’s derisive tone, the man looked up from his fidgeting to flash her a dog’s trusting smile. “Hey, doll.”
Paul, spotting Vivienne’s reaction, smirked.
Drexler tossed three identical files on the desk, each marked CONFIDENTIAL in neat red lettering. “You can get acquainted later.”
The file contained a series of personnel profiles along with several matte photographs of the robot: detailed shots, each taken with a telephoto lens. Flipping through them quickly, Vivienne noticed one of the last photos featured an auburn-haired man—whose name she could not recall, although she recognized him as a Guardian from the news clips—made transparent due to an apparent overexposure of the photograph. In the foreground, Avery Deshner, the public face of the Guardians, shielded his eyes.
“You’re all aware of today’s attack by now.” Drexler’s fingers grazed the sensors on his desktop, and the screen embedded in the wall behind him came to life. “This footage was edited before hitting the airwaves. Given the nature of the events, we need your particular skills.”
From this angle, the scene showed the tangled collection of gears, chains and wires beneath the robot’s dark grey outer shell. A sea of activity buzzed there, affording the towering juggernaut mobility. While the National Guard swarmed over the area like purposeful ants, three men stood still along the walking path meant for tour groups. Avery Deshner stood out among them due to his height, blond hair and square chin. The others Vivienne did not recognize immediately, although each wore the gold shield of the Guardian disaster rescue team.
At the cost of several lives, the National Guard distracted the machine until the inevitable happened: the robot spotted the gold emblems among the insects at its feet. Although no recognition shone in the backlit sensors serving as the robot’s eyes, the threat was identified and answered. Ignoring the rocket launchers pointed in its direction, the robot hurled a car-sized chunk of aged copper and concrete at the Guardian team, causing them to scatter. Meanwhile, the soldiers continued to audition weapons against the hulking metallic beast.
One of the Guardians—the one with brown hair and a wiry build—hustled, leaving a series of choppy frames in his wake: the telltale sign of speed augmentation. Vivienne remembered his name then: Marshall Langlais, one of the first known humans born with enhancements. He had made the media rounds years ago, arguing that the Guardians demonstrated how augs, whether natural or synthetic, could make a positive difference. Today, he continued to prove his point as he ferried a soldier out of the path of red-hot fragments sparking off the robot.
The third Guardian took a different approach: while the exploding rockets interfered with the robot’s sensors, he planted his feet firmly and opened his mouth to scream. Those standing closest to the robot grimaced with pain and covered their ears.
In Drexler’s office, Vivienne quickly flipped through the personnel files. This red-haired Guardian was Glenn Millspaugh. His physique wasn’t quite up to the Guardians’ usual standard. The details on his gift—sound manipulation and amplification—explained why they had made an exception.
The video feed shuddered. The robot staggered backward toward the bay, dropping to one knee as its outer shell quivered with the sound wave’s force. Its feet tore up pavement, grass and concrete as it finally came to a stop. Its head lurched upward, the sensors serving as eyes locking onto Millspaugh. The Guardian paled and staggered backwards, seeking cover as the robot extended an arm to snatch him. Deshner ran forward, yelling to Langlais through the robot’s legs as he fired armor-piercing bullets at the arm holding his teammate.
Before Deshner had finished his order, Langlais was off and running. He wasn’t as fast as the Saturday morning cartoons parodying him boasted, but he was swift enough to run up the robot’s arm and, with the assured grace of a ballerina, stand perched on the robot’s shoulder. As Millspaugh and Deshner wrestled with the robot’s arm and hand, Langlais yanked at wires randomly but to no avail. Deshner freed Millspaugh with a final shot through the metal tendons in the robot’s arm. Millspaugh hit the ground rolling, coming up into a crouch to catch his breath. Wiping sweat from his face, Deshner yelled again to Langlais, pointing decisively downward. Only then did Langlais notice what Deshner was indicating: a small control panel, positioned between the robot’s shoulder blades.
Langlais slid downward across the robot’s massive shoulders, a camera-ready smile on his lips. At the last moment, his fingertips caught the edge of the panel. He dangled like some crazed rock climber over the monument’s star-shaped foundation. Afraid of hitting Langlais with friendly fire, the troops a hundred feet below could only watch as the robot stood, reaching for the pest on its back with its one good arm. Langlais planted his feet against the series of interlocking armored plates on the robot’s back and yanked the panel free. The wired guts of the machine could be seen briefly, lights blinking frantically among the tangle. Another decisive jerk produced more wires, but the robot was still operable and attempting to buck Langlais off its back. The Guardian held on tightly, however, and when his feet landed again, he found his purpose. He thrust his arm into the opening where the panel had once been.
The crowd held its breath as all light and motion with in the robot ceased abruptly. It slumped, reduced to a standing tower of mismatched technology. Those surrounding the scene cheered. Inside Drexel’s office, Berterolli muttered merrily, “Score one for the good guys.” On the screen, Langlais struck a pose, waving to the happy crowd of military observers. Deshner sported his trademark grin, and Millspaugh, back on his feet, waved weakly as he held his ribs. For a brilliant moment, victory trumped the political ramifications of the Guardians’ unconventional rescue.
Berterolli grinned like a satisfied sports fan. In contrast, Rook’s eyes held suspicions confirmed by Drexler’s rigid calm.
Without warning, white eclipsed the celebratory image. For a full second, there was nothing. Then, like a developing photograph, the details returned. The robot was still there, frozen in its flailing pose. The National Guard formed a ring around it, most of the soldiers lying on the ground or shielding their eyes. Many were bruised and bleeding from the long fight; all looked confused.
Vivienne took a small step forward as she tried to decipher what she was seeing.
The grass gave it away. In a perfect circle surrounding the robot’s corpse, no living thing remained.
And several hours later, Vivienne Cote rode in the back of a black sedan, hoping her employer remembered her abilities didn't favor fights with mechanical monsters.
Even with the strobe dash light declaring their importance, the trip on FDR Drive took over an hour. By the time the car pulled onto 42nd Street and turned the corner toward United Nations Headquarters, the streetlights had stuttered to life. New York was preferable at night, the sodium vapor lamps bathing the city in lulling sepia tones.
Under this flattering light, the black sedan pulled into the drive of United Nations Plaza. Vivienne paid little attention as the driver showed his badge at the gate. The sentry paid less attention as the car headed for the subterranean garage.
On the far side of the parking structure, a small pedestal guarded an otherwise unremarkable door. After thanking the driver and waiting for him to leave, Vivienne placed her hand upon it and waited for the reader to deem her fit for entry. The tech here was smart: it hid its crafty nature under a veneer of familiarity. Most would assume this a basic biometric security device, wise and reasonable for a building occupied by the UN. The biometrics were, in fact, top notch, checking for the wide varieties of counterfeits available today. Yet the real danger lay beyond the identity check and foot-thick steel and concrete door: the guards observing the subsequent clean room had access to everything from halon gas to electrostasis systems. Moreover, they were armed with standing orders authorizing lethal force.
Pausing briefly for inspection, she nodded to the guards on the way to Drexler’s office. Not one nodded back.
Muffled conversation floated through the door into the hall. Vivienne hesitated, but an absent wave of the secretary’s fingers urged her onward before they resumed the process of sorting electronic files on the multi-touch desktop. Squaring her shoulders, Vivienne rapped once on the door before entering the office.
“… my idea. If I had my way, you’d be in prison.” Drexler looked as if someone had swapped his live ammunition for blanks.
In front of Colonel Harold T. Drexler’s impeccably organized desk sat a man with brown hair and stubs for fingers. The wrinkles around his eyes and the touch of grey in his hair placed him in his thirties, but his ill-fitting suit and too-short tie aged him further. His attempts not to stare at the large, star-shaped scar on Drexler’s left cheek were meeting with limited success. Clenching one hand into a fist, he answered in an irritated New Jersey accent, “I got it.” Then, with the sudden certainty of a child who knows his answer will displease, he cleared his throat and added, “Sir.”
“I don’t think you do,” Drexler responded, focused solely on his target.
Vivienne slipped inside, exchanging a brief glance with the other man in the room. Standing quietly beside the newcomer, Paul Rook was cut from the same cloth as all the other augmented humans the military had churned out before the Isaiah Accord outlawed Human Enhancement Programs: he was efficiently deadly when he so chose and seemingly devoid of a sense of humor. Yet something akin to amusement glinted in his eyes as he listened to the verbal pummeling.
“I’ll tell you the same as I told them,” he motioned roughly to Paul and Vivienne. “I have no reason to trust augs, but the director says you’re good for something. Apparently, your particular ‘good’ involves not getting hurt, which can—and will—be useful.” Holding the newcomer’s gaze a beat longer, Drexler sat back and looked Vivienne’s way.
“Meet your new teammate, John Berterolli. John, this is Vivienne.” To her relief, he stopped short of using her last name. Then the smirk she hated emerged. “Her handle is ‘Silhouette’.”
Missing Drexel’s derisive tone, the man looked up from his fidgeting to flash her a dog’s trusting smile. “Hey, doll.”
Paul, spotting Vivienne’s reaction, smirked.
Drexler tossed three identical files on the desk, each marked CONFIDENTIAL in neat red lettering. “You can get acquainted later.”
The file contained a series of personnel profiles along with several matte photographs of the robot: detailed shots, each taken with a telephoto lens. Flipping through them quickly, Vivienne noticed one of the last photos featured an auburn-haired man—whose name she could not recall, although she recognized him as a Guardian from the news clips—made transparent due to an apparent overexposure of the photograph. In the foreground, Avery Deshner, the public face of the Guardians, shielded his eyes.
“You’re all aware of today’s attack by now.” Drexler’s fingers grazed the sensors on his desktop, and the screen embedded in the wall behind him came to life. “This footage was edited before hitting the airwaves. Given the nature of the events, we need your particular skills.”
From this angle, the scene showed the tangled collection of gears, chains and wires beneath the robot’s dark grey outer shell. A sea of activity buzzed there, affording the towering juggernaut mobility. While the National Guard swarmed over the area like purposeful ants, three men stood still along the walking path meant for tour groups. Avery Deshner stood out among them due to his height, blond hair and square chin. The others Vivienne did not recognize immediately, although each wore the gold shield of the Guardian disaster rescue team.
At the cost of several lives, the National Guard distracted the machine until the inevitable happened: the robot spotted the gold emblems among the insects at its feet. Although no recognition shone in the backlit sensors serving as the robot’s eyes, the threat was identified and answered. Ignoring the rocket launchers pointed in its direction, the robot hurled a car-sized chunk of aged copper and concrete at the Guardian team, causing them to scatter. Meanwhile, the soldiers continued to audition weapons against the hulking metallic beast.
One of the Guardians—the one with brown hair and a wiry build—hustled, leaving a series of choppy frames in his wake: the telltale sign of speed augmentation. Vivienne remembered his name then: Marshall Langlais, one of the first known humans born with enhancements. He had made the media rounds years ago, arguing that the Guardians demonstrated how augs, whether natural or synthetic, could make a positive difference. Today, he continued to prove his point as he ferried a soldier out of the path of red-hot fragments sparking off the robot.
The third Guardian took a different approach: while the exploding rockets interfered with the robot’s sensors, he planted his feet firmly and opened his mouth to scream. Those standing closest to the robot grimaced with pain and covered their ears.
In Drexler’s office, Vivienne quickly flipped through the personnel files. This red-haired Guardian was Glenn Millspaugh. His physique wasn’t quite up to the Guardians’ usual standard. The details on his gift—sound manipulation and amplification—explained why they had made an exception.
The video feed shuddered. The robot staggered backward toward the bay, dropping to one knee as its outer shell quivered with the sound wave’s force. Its feet tore up pavement, grass and concrete as it finally came to a stop. Its head lurched upward, the sensors serving as eyes locking onto Millspaugh. The Guardian paled and staggered backwards, seeking cover as the robot extended an arm to snatch him. Deshner ran forward, yelling to Langlais through the robot’s legs as he fired armor-piercing bullets at the arm holding his teammate.
Before Deshner had finished his order, Langlais was off and running. He wasn’t as fast as the Saturday morning cartoons parodying him boasted, but he was swift enough to run up the robot’s arm and, with the assured grace of a ballerina, stand perched on the robot’s shoulder. As Millspaugh and Deshner wrestled with the robot’s arm and hand, Langlais yanked at wires randomly but to no avail. Deshner freed Millspaugh with a final shot through the metal tendons in the robot’s arm. Millspaugh hit the ground rolling, coming up into a crouch to catch his breath. Wiping sweat from his face, Deshner yelled again to Langlais, pointing decisively downward. Only then did Langlais notice what Deshner was indicating: a small control panel, positioned between the robot’s shoulder blades.
Langlais slid downward across the robot’s massive shoulders, a camera-ready smile on his lips. At the last moment, his fingertips caught the edge of the panel. He dangled like some crazed rock climber over the monument’s star-shaped foundation. Afraid of hitting Langlais with friendly fire, the troops a hundred feet below could only watch as the robot stood, reaching for the pest on its back with its one good arm. Langlais planted his feet against the series of interlocking armored plates on the robot’s back and yanked the panel free. The wired guts of the machine could be seen briefly, lights blinking frantically among the tangle. Another decisive jerk produced more wires, but the robot was still operable and attempting to buck Langlais off its back. The Guardian held on tightly, however, and when his feet landed again, he found his purpose. He thrust his arm into the opening where the panel had once been.
The crowd held its breath as all light and motion with in the robot ceased abruptly. It slumped, reduced to a standing tower of mismatched technology. Those surrounding the scene cheered. Inside Drexel’s office, Berterolli muttered merrily, “Score one for the good guys.” On the screen, Langlais struck a pose, waving to the happy crowd of military observers. Deshner sported his trademark grin, and Millspaugh, back on his feet, waved weakly as he held his ribs. For a brilliant moment, victory trumped the political ramifications of the Guardians’ unconventional rescue.
Berterolli grinned like a satisfied sports fan. In contrast, Rook’s eyes held suspicions confirmed by Drexler’s rigid calm.
Without warning, white eclipsed the celebratory image. For a full second, there was nothing. Then, like a developing photograph, the details returned. The robot was still there, frozen in its flailing pose. The National Guard formed a ring around it, most of the soldiers lying on the ground or shielding their eyes. Many were bruised and bleeding from the long fight; all looked confused.
Vivienne took a small step forward as she tried to decipher what she was seeing.
The grass gave it away. In a perfect circle surrounding the robot’s corpse, no living thing remained.
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