209 A.B.

(5 months after the Runner's Rebellion)

"That concludes this evening's announcements. Remember, a united Babel is a prosperous Babel. Progress is power, my friends."

I switch off the microphone and lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes hard enough that my vision spots. There is a dull ache throbbing behind my brow - the beginnings of another migraine.

"Trenton!" I bark, palms still plastered over my eyelids. "Bring me my medicine."

I hear the brisk footsteps of my faithful attendant as he crosses over to the cabinet and shakes out a bottle of pills, moving towards me a moment later and dropping the dosage into my outstretched hand.

I ignore his offer of water and swallow the medicine dry, ignoring the instinct to choke when the hard tablets grate against my esophagus.

"I have decided to continue pushing the curfew up one hour each night." I say. "It's good to make the citizens feel unsure from time to time. It keeps them alert."

"Very good, Madam." Trenton's accent is crisp and refined, echoing his youthful, polished appearance. Without looking at him, I know that his sandy hair is combed and parted precisely and that his collar is buttoned high to his chin and covered by a pristine white handkerchief.

The pain in my temple recedes with the knowledge that my remedy has begun its work. I swivel in my chair, pushing myself up by the armrest and crossing to my vanity.

"What news?" I ask, reaching out to turn up the light next to my mirror.

There is the shuffling of papers as Trenton sorts through his notes. Sighing, I prod gently on the swollen skin underneath my eyes, frowning at my reflection. I pride myself on being a woman of science, but that doesn't mean I am exempt from feeling annoyance at the havoc time has played on my hair and complexion. My skin is sallow from years of working indoors, and my once-vibrant auburn hair is streaked with grey. Not silver, but a dull, dirty grey.

"There is one trifling event I need to speak with you about." The slight edge to Trenton's crisp tone sets me on edge.

I cease poking at my face and stare at him in the mirror, waiting.

"Lynal Grayson has been taken prisoner by the City." Trenton's dark eyes meet mine and he swallows once, the nervous gesture nearly missable behind his starched collar.

The dull throbs sounds again beneath my brow. I sigh, turning to face him and leaning back against the vanity. "Do we know what charges are being laid?"

"We don't know as of yet, Madam." Trenton speaks hurriedly. "But rest assured that I have all of my inside people on top of the matter, and that we will receive word as soon as they have any information."

I move my hand down from my temple to my chin, regarding Trenton carefully. He holds my gaze for barely an instant before casting his eyes back down at the pile of paper clenched in his fists.

"Do you suppose, Trenton," I speak slowly and carefully, as though I am addressing an ignorant child. "That Queen Megra has learned of Grayson's dealings with us?"

"I... I do not know, Madam." He stammers.

"Well, go on then." My voice lowers a decibel, bordering on danger. "Take an educated guess."

He chances a look up at me. "...yes, I believe she has."

My fists slams down on the surface of the vanity with such force that the glass bottles scattered across it rattle violently and fall to the ground. Trenton jumps, a high colour rising to his aristocratic cheeks.

"Of course, she knows!" I shout at him. "I told you when they took in that beastly Waster chief that the Queen and her precious Runner would soon begin piecing things together."

My attendant nods furiously and opens his mouth to say something. I plow on, uninterested in his explanations.

"I did say that, did I not?" I furl and unfurl my hand, staring daggers at him.

"You did, Madam."

"I did. And since then, what steps have you taken to keep the outsiders from learning more than than they needed to know?" I feel my teeth grinding together, my tone forced.

Trenton has managed to regain some of his composure, but he remains rooted a safe distance away. "Well, we did manage to bribe the Waster girl into making an assassination attempt on the Queen..."

"That is precisely the problem." I snarl. "The Waster made an assassination attempt? What is that?"

"She...she was unsuccessful." He flinches and ducks when I hurl a bottle at his head, smoothing his hair back into place as he straightens.

"Unsuccessful because of her." I scream and throw another bottle, the satisfying sound of shattering glass doing little to alleviate my mood. "Always, and at every turn, our failures are traced back to a single person. Everything we have done, every bit of progress we have made over the past year, it has all come undone because of that blasted..."

Another bottle explodes against the brick wall opposite.

"...confounding..."

Another rain of glass.

"...obnoxious..."

Trenton has taken refuge in a corner, shielding his face from the shards flying in all directions.

"...righteous little brat." My hand gropes for another bottle but comes up empty. Spent, I slump into the chair before my vanity, resting with my elbows on my knees and breathing heavily.

Trenton waits several moments before endeavouring to speak. "We are doing everything we can to bring her to justice, Madam."

Exhausted and with my headache now back in full force, I don't bother to glance at his useless face, handsome as it may be.

When the colour red has faded from my vision and I have regained some composure, I straighten my shoulders and address him again, my voice now level and controlled.

"May I ask you a personal question, Trenton?" I take my time in straightening the lapels of my robe.

"Of course, Madam." He knows that I don't need his permission and that I do not make requests of anyone. I am a woman of demands.

I brush an imaginary piece of lint from my shoulder before meeting his gaze head-on. "How old are you?"

Trenton freezes and turns instantly pale. He swallows once and his beautiful white scarf trembles visibly, jutting up against his chiseled jaw.

I watch him carefully, waiting while he struggles to compose himself. The display amuses me for a few moments, but I soon grow bored and lean back, rescuing the poor twat from having to answer. "You have a few good years left, Trenton."

"Thank you, Madam."

"That said," I snap, cutting him off. "I am only interested in retaining the people that prove useful to me. You have been a loyal attendant, Trenton, but I worry that you are slipping."

"No, Madam. Please..." He stammers. "I will get the Runner for you, I swear it. Grayson may tell them of our existence, but I am certain that our radio towers and airships will keep them from finding the dome."

More than anything, I wish I had a bottle left to fling at his head.

"You will assume nothing." I correct him and he nods readily.

"Of course, of course. What I meant was..."

"I will not underestimate this girl. Not again." It is a trial to keep my tone low, but I force myself to think rationally. "If she has managed to form an alliance with the Wasters, then she will have some of the desert's best navigators to guide her."

The Wasters have grown crafty in recent years, since the succession of Chief Jaron and his troupe of brothers. After decades of isolation, the famously independent desert tribes have come together, more and more of them joining up with Jaron's camp with each passing day. My scouts have told me that under his influence, the Wasters have managed to cobble together a variation on the catapult. It is a decidedly medieval weapon but after centuries of stagnation, they are undoubtedly evolving.

If the savages didn't aim to strike back against me, I might find their progression fascinating. As it is, I have to concentrate on keeping them and their new friend, the Runner at arms length, while still managing to retain their population for harvest.

If that cannot be accomplished, then I will have to destroy them.

I sigh, for the millionth time internally cursing the bullheadedness of the human race. If only they would listen to me, trust in my vision and try to understand the steps that must be taken in order to to ensure our overall survival. Perhaps, then we could all live harmoniously together.

But, no. It is not to be. Certain people, the most outspoken and irritating being the infamous Runner, refuse to see past their own short-sighted, selfish desires. They judge every person, no matter how moronic or insipid, as being 'worthy' of independance. Despite every obvious indication that we are a breath away from extinction, they continue to scatter in seperate directions. The will never understand that in order to survive, we must work together.

The place of my birth is the same as the Runner's. A hundred years before I was born, King Traynor stumbled upon a solution to the desert's ever-decreasing nomad population. In building the City he created a common goal; a stable, safe shelter for all of mankind. Those within its walls were assigned to separate sectors, and within these defined roles the City flourished. Culture returned, along with trade and harvest. The Intact and Fragment distinction was a good system, a solid system.

The only problem was that Traynor didn't think big enough.

Babel is a testament to what he created. Here, we operate on a scale the likes of which Traynor and the rest of those small-minded City dwellers could never hope to conceive. We have scientists and mechanics tinkering in laboratories, gardeners to plant and grow our food, weapons and communication devices that are constantly being improved upon.

Most importantly, Babel possesses the key to humanity's ultimate survival. With the Irrigator constantly boring its way into the earth, I am able to extract and dispense nature's most precious gift.

The rain.

I run my hand through my hair, smoothing my locks, mussed by my earlier display of temper. It is no doubt unseemly that I allowed myself to become so undone. A single, naive girl should not rattle me so. The Runner is strong-willed and a thorn in my side, but I must not permit her doggedness to unhinge me. I am the one person in this whole, accursed desert who can bring society back to what it once was. Without me, we would flounder and ultimately, perish.

I cannot allow that to happen. I've already come too far.

"Do not allow any of our airships to drift further than ten kilometers from the dome." I say, watching disinterestedly as Trenton scrambles to copy down my directions. He seems relieved to be given a task and I can't say I blame him. Trenton knows better than anyone that if my citizens do not have a use, then a Remedy becomes the next milestone in their progression.

Lucky for Trenton, so long as he possesses those regal cheekbones, he will have a purpose.

"I want the radio operators scanning every channel at all times." I continue giving instructions, simultaneously considering my manicure. My nails have been filed down nearly to the quick, but I still insist on them being shined and painted a bright red. My hand is meant for work, needed for thumbing through a seemingly-endless library of Pre-Burn textbooks and for conducting experiments, but on the rare occasion that I have to make a public appearance, I like to appear polished and put-together.

"Yes, Madam." Trenton scribbles madly. "Anything else?"

"Yes."

I straighten, loosening the cord from around my waist and letting my robe fall to the ground. Trenton immediately ceases his writing as his dark eyes scan my body.

I wait for his gaze to reach my face. "I want you to remove your clothes and get into my bed."

He nods dumbly, placing his papers carefully on the desk and unknotting the handkerchief from his throat. I step closer to him, reaching my arms up.

He flinches as the cold steel attached to my forearm grazes his cheek. "Ah, Madam?"

"What is it?" Playfully, I press down a little harder, a small grin escaping my lips when the sharpened hook draws a drop of blood from his perfectly chiseled cheek.

"Would you mind terribly if..." He indicates my mechanical appendage and I sigh, lowering my arm. I twist the steel band forcibly, disconnecting the plate that binds the hook to my stubbed arm. Without my attachment I feel strange and not quite whole, lighter but not in a pleasant way.

Trenton takes up my one remaining hand and holds it to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles. I pull my arm away and stride to the bed, arranging myself while I wait for him to finish undressing. Our lovemaking is purposeful, not emotional. His techniques, like mine, are measured so as to provide the greatest amount of pleasure in the strictest amount of time.

Romance holds no place here. Perhaps two hundred years from now, or two hundred years before, I could have indulged in a flight of fancy, but the world as it is now does not allow for such frivolities.

And it is with this single-minded and logical foresight that I arm myself. With these strengths, I shall accomplish my work.

First, I will defeat the Runner.

Then, I will save us all.

* * * * *

I already know what hour it is when I awake the next morning, but I check the ornate clock at my bedside, anyway. Seven o'clock precisely.

Casting my blanket aside, I allow myself a moment to stretch my tired limbs before rising to my feet and crossing to the vanity. I sink down into my chair in front of the mirror and pull open a drawer, running my fingers over it's precious contents.

The metal plating grafted to my amputated forearm connects to the mechanical appendage with a satisfying click. I twist the band securely before holding my artificial hand up to the light to admire it. The prosthesis is of my own design and no less than ingenious. Metal instruments slide out of a specially-designed slot at the tip of my wrist, appearing and disappearing at will. Everything I could ever need, be it a pen, a dagger or a syringe, reside in the hollow casing on the end of my right arm.

How could I ever have mourned the loss of my hand? This invention is infinitely more useful. Twenty years ago, I found a way to turn an injustice into an advantage.

My preferred tool shoots out of its slot, soundless on it's well-oiled hinges. A silver hook is my most useful apparatus, since it allows me to grip and hold much the way a natural hand would.

The deadly, pointed tip encourages a healthy respect from my citizens. I've heard my prosthesis referred to as 'the talon', in secret and when they think I'm not listening.

But I'm always listening. And I've grown to like the nickname.

I fix my hair and apply the usual concoction of pastes and ointments to my face. Made up thusly, I dress and stride from the room, forgoing breakfast and heading straight for the L levels.

Trenton is waiting for me near the lift. Immaculately dressed as always, the effect is somewhat offset by the unsightly scratch on his cheek. He pulls open the gate barring the entrance to the lift and I step inside, accepting the cup of tea he hands over.

"L4." I tell him.

He nods, joining me in the lift and pushing the button. I sip my tea slowly as we descend. The splash of milk does wonders for the flavour, and tastes miles better than the milk we manufactured before we perfected the pasteurization process. It's these small luxuries, these little bits of progress that bring us closer to the life we had pre-Burn that really make a difference. Who would have thought that a cup of tea with milk could ever be possible again?

None but myself.

"How many remedies do we have scheduled today?" I ask.

Trenton checks his notes, squinting in the dim light. "Five."

"Book three more." I tell him. "I want extras in case something goes wrong."

"Very good, Madam."

We ride the rest of the distance in silence, until the lift arrives at the designated floor with a soft thump. Trenton pulls the gate aside and we disembark, stepping into the small chamber branching off the lift and taking a seat across from one another on the cushioned benches.

Once we are settled comfortably, Trenton pulls on a brass lever and our cart rumbles off down the track. I sit back in my seat, holding my cup of tea upright and frowning at the liquid sloshing down its sides. This track is efficient for getting from one end of the dome to the other, but its level of comfort can still be greatly improved. One day, Babel will grow so large that these tracks and carts will be the main mode of transportation but for now, its use is reserved for a privileged few.

Our journey is dull and dark. We pass the odd Enforcer or Mechanic on the path, all of whom offer me a respectful nod as we whizz past. The cart does it's work and we arrive at the laboratories in no time at all. There is the hiss of hydraulics and we slow to a stop, pulling up outside the vaulted door marked L4. The hatch stands open but a pair of Enforcers bar the entrance. Their looming presence is probably an unnecessary precaution, since no one but a handful of people have access to the L levels, but the recent developments in the Wastelands have set me on edge.

For the millionth time I remind myself that I have nothing to worry about. The guards standing outside this door will strike fear into the hearts of anyone who would dare venture too close.

What's behind the door will stop their hearts dead.

The sound of our shoes striking stone echo off the walls of the narrow tunnel. There is a distinct chill down here, exacerbated by the water running through the pipes over our heads. I don't shiver. Instead, I let the cool air spur me to walk faster, propelling me the short distance from the vaulted entryway to the laboratory.

After a brief stop to wash our hands and pull coveralls on over our clothes, Trenton pulls open the heavy door barring the sterile lab from the tunnel. The soft muttering of the technicians working inside comes to an abrupt halt as I step across the threshold, the talon held across my chest in as non-threatening a manner as possible.

"Good morning." I say, crisply. "I would like to see the new recruits, if someone would be so kind."

"Of course." A skinny, bespectacled woman speaks up. She offers me a shaky smile, her gaze momentarily darting to my hook hand. "They're right over here."

A curtain is pushed aside and suddenly, there they are.

My babies.

Standing straight as arrows, metal gears grafted to their chests and their expressions as blank as parchment. My newest batch of Enforcers. Or rather, my newest batch of improved Enforcers. My beautiful Enhancements.

I step up to one of the Enhancements. He's tall, and likely no older than thirty five when he was remedied. I wonder vaguely if he was brought to the laboratories as a punishment for some indiscretion, or whether he reached the end of his life cycle.

No matter the reasons, the result is the same. What was once a weak, pliable man is now a strong, near-perfect super soldier. Forged from a combination of science and mechanics, this Enhancement is a testament to what is possible. The stepping-stone to a perfect society.

"We've managed to tweak some of the measurements." It takes me a moment to realize that the technician is still chattering away. "These models are running off of less than twenty percent human blood. The rest is your custom petrol."

"Less than twenty percent." I murmur.

I run my talon over the Enhancement's face, pressing down on the flesh. A moment passes, then the barest drop of black liquid appears from the wound. I reach up my good hand to sample it, considering it's sticky consistency as I roll the byproduct between my fingers. The Enhancement doesn't flinch, doesn't blink. We don't know if they feel pain. Certainly, the early models did. When we first began the experiments our volunteers would scream, cry and thrash, resist our remedies and grafts right up until the bitter end. Until we were able to figure out how to keep them alive on more petrol than blood, we didn't have a hope of controlling them.

"Excellent." I allow a small grin to escape my lips. "And what of their strength?"

"See for yourself." The technician inclines her head, indicating the next room.

Trenton makes to follow her through the narrow opening but I remain rooted in place, still studying the Enhancement before me.

"I want to bring this one." I say. "Will he follow us?"

"Of course, Madam. They are wired to listen to your voice and yours alone. If you command it, he will come." The technician holds aloft her portable machine, the one that replays some basic directions I've recorded for the technicians to use when they train the Enhancements.

I pull a handkerchief from the pocket of my trousers and gently dab at the cut on the Enhancement's cheek.

"Very good." I say, approvingly. "You will come with me."

He lumbers along, close to my heels as he follows us into the training chamber. It never ceases to amaze me, how readily these human-mech hybrids follow my command. Were I to order the lot of them to leap off the top of the grid, they wouldn't hesitate.

Catapults, swords and guns are well and good, but they are nothing compared to the pure might and single-minded will of an army of Enhancements.

In stark contrast to the gleaming, clean whiteness of the previous room, the training chamber appears a fortress. Weapons line the imposing metal walls, most of them oversized and far, far heavier than what could conceivably be lifted by a mere man or woman. Trenton, the tech and I take our place in a smaller room behind a blast-proof screen, watching as the Enhancement treads into center of the training room. He moves to the wall of weaponry and stands stone-still, waiting.

The tech tunes the receiver stationed on the desk in front of the screen. She settles on a channel and speaks into the microphone. "This is L4 to L3. Please send down a candidate for testing. Over." A burst of static sounds through the speakers before a distant voice echoes back.

"...Received. Sending shortly."

While we wait, I study the Enhancement through the smudged screen. He stares blankly at the wall ahead, calm and steady as a rock.

"Which one should I give him?" I direct my question to the tech without bothering to look at her.

"I believe that we are ready to test the hammer, Madam."

"Good." I tune the radio to the internal speakers and lean closer to the screen, my talon gauging a hole in the surface of the desk. "Enhancement, take up the hammer."

Our subject immediately lumbers to the far end of the chamber, lifting the gargantuan metal weapon as though it were nothing. He rests the mallet against his shoulder, waiting.

A moment later, there is the sound of rusty hinges creaking and a hatch opens above the Enhancement's head. Someone shouts and curses, but there is only a short struggle before the citizen is shoved through the hole, crashing inelegantly to the floor of the test chamber.

He is young, no more than fifteen or sixteen. For a moment I wonder why the tech's doling out the remedies on the floor above chose to send this one down; at first glance it looks as though he could be an extremely viable Enhancement.

The boy struggles to rise to his feet, his head swiveling left and right. It is then that I understand why he has been selected for our testing.

He is blind, or nearly blind. I wonder briefly how his ailment went undetected for so long. Likely, his parents chose to hide his worsening eyesight rather than reporting it to us. I sigh, shaking my head as I watch the youth grope his way about the room. At least he can still be of some use.

"Please." The boy stutters. He squints in the direction of the Enhancer, a small whimper escaping his lips. "Please, I just want to go home."

"Thank you for your participation in this demonstration." I speak into the microphone and my voice echoes in the chamber. "You are doing Babel a great service."

The boy's sightless eyes dart up to the ceiling, stretched wide as he struggles to understand.

"Please." He tries again. "Madam, I beg you. I am still useful, truly. My eyes aren't strong but my body is. I'm a good worker." He looks fearfully towards the Enhancement. "I can work."

"Enhancement." I ignore him, directing my orders at the test subject. "Dispatch him."

"No!" The boy screams and scrambles away from the Enhancement. I watch closely, lip curling as I observe the way the Enhancements stalks his prey, its stride sure and strong as he shifts the oversized hammer from hand to hand. He is strong, no doubt. Much stronger than any of the previous models. If this experiment works, then I will have to immediately order a new round of remedies.

The boy has located the hatch door and is pulling on it desperately, yanking the dial this way and that, shouting and screaming incoherently.

"Madam, please-" He is cut off as the hammer connects solidly with his torso, knocking him away from the door and sending him sailing clear across the room. He hits the wall with a sickening smack and slumps to the ground, lifeless.

Trenton and the tech jump back, but I remain rooted in place, my eyes never leaving the scene before me. A soft moan stems from the boy's crumpled form and the Enhancement snaps back to attention.

My eyes narrow while I track his movements. He lifts the hammer over his shoulder, considering the pathetic figure on the ground before him. I watch his expression carefully. There is nothing, not a spark of recognition nor a hint of hesitation. In one swift movement the hammer falls, silencing the boy's cries.

His task complete, the Enhancement steps back, the weapon hanging listlessly at his side until he receives further instructions.

"Good." I lift my talon out from where it has burrowed into the surface of the desk. "Very good."

But the technician's eyes are glued on the scene over my shoulder. I follow her gaze, feeling the familiar throb of an early migraine pound behind my brow.

The gear grafted to the Enhancement's chest has sprung to life and is slowly ticking backwards.

"No." I whisper.

But the gear is uncaring for my stress. Click, click, click it counts down to completion, until finally...

The Enhancement seizes, the heavy hammer dropping free of his grip and crashing to the ground.

"Damn it!." I pound my fist against the screen separating us, grating my teeth while I watch the failed experiment drop to his knees and collapse in a useless heap.

I whirl back around, staring daggers at the tech. She swallows and takes a step back, her shoulders knocking against the opposite wall.

"Why?" I demand. "What happened? What went wrong?"

"It...it's difficult to say." The tech stammers, swallowing bodily. "There is always some trial and error with the newer models. We tweaked the dosages in order to give them more strength, but of course a higher amount of stress means that we should expect some instability..."

"Some?" I indicate the mess on the other side of the screen. "His chest just combusted!"

Trenton has shrunk back into the shadows, likely remembering last night's display with the glass bottles. I take a deep breath as I struggle to compose myself, rubbing my pulsing forehead with my one good hand.

"How much more time do you need?" When I speak again, my voice is low.

"Well...it depends." The woman adjusts her spectacles as she pretends to consult her notes. "This model is so much more ambitious than anything else we've ever attempted. I suppose with enough volunteers and resources, we could have a model running in three months."

"Months?" The pain in my head sparks, momentarily blinding me. "No, that is unacceptable. I need my super-soldiers now."

"With all do respect, Madam, what's the rush?" The question slips unchecked from the tech's lips. She colours, realizing her mistake in the next instant. "I'm sorry, what I meant was-"

"I will give you all the resources you need." I cut her off. "You have one month. One month and then I want these Enhancements stable enough to create an entire army."

"An army?" The tech exchanges a look with Trenton. "Should we be concerned about something?"

"You should always be concerned." I turn away to look back at the carnage in the test chamber. "I have built a safe haven within Babel, but when you create something beautiful, there will always be those who strive to take it from you."

Neither of them responds. I lean my poor, throbbing head against the cool glass wall, shutting my eyes and inhaling deeply.

I don't need an army of super soldiers to defeat a single girl. I have my brain, my legion of citizens, my fortified dome and my Irrigator. I'm being paranoid. I need to calm down, take a breath and remember how far I've already come.

Normally, that would be enough to reassure me, but now the idea gives me pause.

I was a girl from the Fragment sector. I escaped its cruelties and made something of myself, found a way to inspire people and rally them behind my beliefs. Here in Babel, technology and progress persist.

But the Runner's story really isn't so different, is it?

What little I have been able to gleam of her come in the form of rumours. A girl from the Fragment sector, a thief who befriended a princess. She organized a rebellion, toppled the King, and in one fell swoop destroyed the alliance I worked so hard to forge.

And now she has the ear of the Wasters. A savage, hardened troop of warriors and my main supply for running the Irrigator. Without them, water production and Babel's main source of food and power would cease.

The cold, hard truth of the matter is that this foolish girl could ruin me. I may not need an army of Enhancements in order to destroy her, but it always pays to have a backup plan. Better to be over prepared than taken by surprise.

"One month." I straighten, trailing my hook down the pane of glass. A sharp, grating sound rings out across the small room and a shiver runs down my spine. "Will that be a problem?"

"No, Madam."

"Good." I turn away from the failed display in disgust.

I am not a fool. I have seen enough of this scorched earth and its barbaric nature to know when war is coming. These backwoods City and Waster warriors are coming for me, spurred onwards by naivete and a misplaced sense of vengeance. It is a fight they cannot hope to win, but I believe their leaders to be pigheaded enough to cause some serious damage.

It has taken me decades to build this dome, scraped together through my blood and sheer might of will. I have suffered for this place, sacrificed everything in order to build humankind's last hope. I knew when I created Babel that there would come the day when I would have to defend it. It is unfortunate that the antics of some meddlesome child have brought on the fight sooner than I anticipated, but it matters not.

I have survived before, and I will survive again.

There will always be those who resist progress, and so it is up to me to keep humanity on the proper track. I study my prosthetic hook hand, thoughtfully sliding the various implements in and out of their slots.

In the end, technology is worth so much more than a bunch of bloodthirsty barbarians. A single Enhancement is the equal three men, and soon I will have an entire army of super-soldiers at my disposal.

I will win this war the same way I won the others; armed with knowledge and a single, undeniable truth.

Progress is power.