“And now, James, the big question. Why would someone conceal their identity just to trick a Taciturn into killing a Scry? We already know it wouldn’t have taken much to convince you in the first place.”
He finds himself clenching and unclenching his right hand – a nervous tic he thought he had long ago conquered.
“I don’t know, but maybe this is all bullshit.”
The raised eyebrow jumps nimbly to the other side of her forehead.
“Come on James, you’re so close. Something’s clearly going on here with these people.”
Taciturn tries to regain the upper hand in this conversation and points an accusing finger at the Scry.
“Let’s get one thing straight, ‘Matilda’. You’re still a Scry. Just because someone put me up to this, doesn’t mean you haven’t been harming these people.”
A soft, dispirited sigh escapes her. “Okay. Granted. I get what you’re saying, but just put that aside for one moment. If it isn’t me, what’s the logical alternative? Why else would people be disappearing?”
He reaches for another cigarette and finds an empty container. Noticing this, the Scry reaches into her jacket pocket and tosses him an unopened pack of Lucky Strikes, which he snatches out of the air. Taciturn is impressed with her mindfulness in even the small matter of his brand-preference, but she doesn’t need to know that. The Scry, it would seem, has been observing him longer than he could have suspected. He turns the pack over in his hand, analyzing the code. With no trojan files detected, James cautiously pulls one out and lights it.
“Well, taking you off the table – and I’m not saying I am – I can only think of one alternative. As unlikely as it seems, somebody wants you dead for another reason.”
Inhaling, he looks at the girl and raises an eyebrow of his own. Smirking, she nods and gestures for him to continue.
“If people are disappearing out here and it’s not you, it’s most likely slavers. Damn good ones at that, if they didn’t leave any traces.” He mulls over his own words. “And smart enough to leave dust everywhere. If they want you dead, it’s probably because you’re mucking up their operations.”
Matilda claps her hands in approval.
“All right! Way to go, Gramps! It took you a little while to get there, but I believed in you.”
Taciturn regards her blankly. “First, don’t call me that. Second, even with all of that said, we haven’t moved past the fact that you’re a Scry. Clearly, you’ve killed people. How can I trust you? What’s really stopping me from killing you right now?”
Matilda’s shoulders sag. Her voice is equal parts indignation and disappointment.
“And you were doing so well. Do you need me to spell it out? Yes, I’ve been killing people. That is, if you count slavers as people. I don’t – but if you do, I guess you’re right. We’ve come to an impasse.”
The Scry, like all the other monsters created during the Transition, became one of James’ sworn enemies the moment he chose the Taciturn path. Since then, he has never hesitated in killing them, but this woman’s disarming, cheerful behavior continues to perplex him. James stubs out his cigarette and offers the pack back to her.
“Nah, it’s cool. I don’t smoke.”
Grunting, James puts the pack into his own breast pocket.
“Okay. If we’re going to discuss this, let’s discuss this. Let’s say I believe you – and again, I’m not saying I do – why are you telling me all this? Who are you really, and what’s the endgame?”
Matilda breaks eye contact to look out the cracked, dust-filmed window, her sunny expression suddenly eclipsed by a somber one.
“That’s the problem, dude. I don’t remember who I am or how I got here.”
Taciturn stares at her levelly.
“Bullshit.”
The Scry gives a soft, humorless chuckle.
“Yeah, I don’t expect you to believe me, but you wanted the truth. I woke up in this town three months ago and realized that I have… uh… powers.”
She shifts her gaze away from the window, back to him.
“The only thing I had is this necklace, with this silly logo on it.”
Matilda grips a dog tag hanging from a chain around her neck and holds it at eye level. Even in the moonlight filtering in through the grimy window, James can tell it’s Titanium. A material with no expiration date. Back in the real world, it would be expensive. In this world, wars would be fought over it.
“Super weird, I know. When I… realized what I could do, I hid. That’s when I first came across the slavers. I guess they figured a lone woman would be easy pickings.”
She leans back on the counter.
“I defended myself – but I knew there would be consequences. It didn’t take long. The first hunter came shortly after. Over the next few months, there’d be five more. Each one different, each one probably more expensive than the last.”
The Scry opens her coat to reveal a collection of knives, their blades gleaming quicksilver in the gloom.
“I’m sure you can imagine the things I’ve seen and the skills I’ve learned by… taking them.”
James offers no reaction to the glittering, intimate armory strapped to the inner lining of her coat. But he counts the knives.
“You have amnesia? Sure, okay, fine. Let’s say I believe your whole story. What… do… you… want?”
“Well James, that’s a tricky one too. I want two things. First, I need to finish what I’ve started. I’ve been hunted all over this region. So, I want to end these slaver bastards once and for all. Like I said, you seem different than the others – and to be honest, I could use the help.”
The fist balled at his side opens and clenches, opens again and clenches again.
“Sure, great, a Scry with a conscience. What’s the other thing?”
Matilda removes her necklace and tosses it, chain and dog tag, to him. It skitters across the floor to stop at his feet. He tentatively touches the cold, smooth metal tag.
“That’s the only clue to who I am, and I want to find out what it means,” Matilda says. “As a Scry, I can mimic indexations to get around, sure – but I need someone else who can travel freely. As a Taciturn, that’s kind of your deal, right? Help me find out what that thing means, and it’s yours. That is, unless you’re still determined to kill me.”
James scoops the necklace off the floor and hefts it in his palm. The titanium tag alone, already enough to pique his interest in its own right, is fairly large as such adornments typically go, nearly closer to a badge than a ‘dog tag’. Its uncanny lightness fills him with genuine surprise.
But this surprise is as nothing to his stunned disbelief at the ‘silly logo’ and inscription he finds on the back of the tag.
The company that created the Cyberside.
The company that James Reynolds used to work for.
Struck speechless, James looks up from the tag to see the youthful face of the Scry woman studying him intently. Those piercing eyes, searching his face for any indication that he knows what the tag means.
He exhales sharply, something between a cough and a gut-punch wheeze, and flings the necklace back at her. Matilda catches it, eyes never leaving James.
“So, what now, James? We going to fight, or hug this one out, or what?”
James gets to his feet and starts collecting his things.
“Like you said, I get payment once the job is done, and before we figure out whoever you are, we need to take care of something first.”