It was a beautiful day: birds sang because they hadn’t been mutated into deformed mounds of tissues by a misfire of my daddy’s sacromotor. It rained outside the dome, such that a few days later, whenever water finished its long journey infiltrating the labyrinthine microtunnels of the stroma, it would drizzle all over the city and the surrounding fields, revitalizing the crops and giving people hope that some of us may live long enough to see the Meanders return to normality, to walk under true rain whilst holding our grandchildren’s tiny hands. The air was as pure as it can be in my beloved city, which usually means farting can be considered a way to make it slightly more tolerable to breathe by diluting the scent of rotten biomancy products.

  And the shockwave from the explosion as I skirted the HQ’s back to reach the front door rattled my ears and bones. It was that time of the year again. A time to forget past offenses and pardon those close to us, to gather around a fire and tell each other about our adventures over the year. A time for family, friendship, and news anchors. Terrorist-attack-against-the-Retrievers-season was open. They had taken their sweet time that year, as if we weren’t worth of a bombing or two anymore. Nobody else at central says it, but I will: bomb us. It makes us feel loved, like we matter to people. People that want us to matter in another state, like gaseous.

  People ran all about me; I kept my leisurely pace, going in the opposite direction. By the sound of it, it had been one of those explosive vans some rebel factions swore by. Pretty trusty, often did their job of becoming a very loud and expensive bunch of fireworks without a single complaint.

  An old woman, built like a greenery store clerk and dressed like one too, all stocky and short, rushed to me, and grabbed me from the shoulders, looking up at my face.

  “Run! A bomb! Bastards put a bomb in a van.”

  With a slight movement of my head I tried to make her notice my badge, the cute golden-golden with the soul in its mouth, pinned on my chest. “I noticed, Ma’am. I am casually strolling towards the scene to garner a bit more information. Getting bombed for you is traumatizing. For us, Monday morning. No…” I paused briefly, my expression souring. “Friday morning. I hate it way less than Monday. May I?”

  The woman stepped to the side, stupefied, and after a few moments resumed her frantic race for safety. Chaos grew all around, screams and shouts and cries and panic. A steaming tire lay by a side of the road. I reached for a few coins, digging in the right pocket of my jacket, and cast them upon the lazy object. “Buy yourself something nice. Or meth. Meth is good for tires, or so the TV claims. I have no TV at home. It’s noisy and fails the vibe check.” Yes, I was talking to a slashed, partially burned tire that had rolled off from a van rigged to explode and possibly kill some of my coworkers. A homeless tire, therefore.

  I keep on walking enthusiastically, raising my arms once and again in front of my body, one at a time, elbows angled forwards and outwards, in a very cartoonish way. I smiled by raising my lower lip until it touched my upper gums. The more deranged the look, the better.

  I arrived to the crime scene, at the blackened blotches on the ground, the pieces of cloth and synthetic materials on fire, and my people gathered around said fire. I was tempted to offer and go buy some marshmallows, but the smoke resultant from burning plastics is not the kind of spice countries go to war for.

  Like a carrion bird that had some shar-pei genes in the mix officer amaldia stared at the fire, unquivering and unwavering. The barely glanced sideways to see who was approaching, including me.

  “I was hoping this would be a quiet year, rookie. Nobody of importance got wounded or worse. The firefighters have been notified. And you look… excessively mirthful.” Her squint betrayed a smidge of suspicion, but only so briefly.

  “If you need to ask, my alibi is that I was bothering a child with cancer in the hospital until a while ago.”

  “I know, Saon, that you were taking healing classes and I imagined, Saon, that you would find a way to be a terrible person whilst you were there. It’s tiring to be in the crosshair all the time, that’s all. Our headquarters are a terrorist magnet.”

  “Yes, I wonder why?” I kept my unnatural smile as I spoke, because, my mother ocne told me I had a future in acting. “Maybe because we are a scourge upon the hones laymen and women of this country and the rebels won’t give up fighting for their fair cause.”

  “Were it anyone else saying that, rookie, it would raise the alarms of everyone around. But it is you, so please enter the building and see if they have some emergency task for you. It’s not safe being out here for a new soulgyver.”

  “Goodbye, scattered remains of a van.” I waved effusively, and pranced into the building like a child through the forest, dismissive of the shattered glass doors and bent metal. Forgetting about the polished floors. Yes. The fall wasn’t as gracious as I would have liked, but I managed to land on the less important parts of my body, like my face.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I got up without protest and continued my way up to Klena’s desk.

  “Klena, your friend Is outside. “I dutifully informed.

  “I am not falling for that one. You did it last time. The going to the same blowjob academy thing.” She said, never taking the eyes away from her screen.

  “I did? Man I could use those magnesium supplements for some extra memory. Thanks for telling me. Is there anything easy that needs to be done, and I can do, and I will probably do not if not surpervised?”

  She finally looked at me, beholding my marvelous and reddened from the recent hit face, and my smile in its full glory.

  “Your face will get stuck like that, you anomaly.” She cheked a few more things on her computer, sneezed on on the inside of her elbow, dismissed me with a disdainful flap of the hand. “I have orders to give you the day off in times of crisis.”

  “Neat, I am a liability!” I extended my hand for her to give me the paperwork I’d have to sign due to the early checkout.

  “No, just go, Saon. People don’t want you around when they are so stressed.”

  “Why would anyone be stressed over a terrorist attack? Nobody died.”

  “A pair of civilians died,” She said, and returned her gaze to her computer screen. “I saw it in the security cameras. The videos got relayed to the police by admin: they have the databases to identify them.”

  Klena was just the receptionist, and yet she had a sacromotor, as most people in central did. She rarely used it, though. Klenea was what happened to agents who regretted having joined us. That refused to see the civilians as some sort of inferior rabble, as acceptable losses, for example. And I am not saying those were acceptable losses: they weren’t. I thought about it once in a while, because the thought never stirred up any cognitive dissonance in me. I didn’t need to justify the deaths of innocents or dehumanize them to avoid feeling guilt in the comfortable life their taxes paid for me, in the fact they were feeding their oppressor. People like Aconessi got by being good at their specialty, becoming assets so valuable wasting them in anything smaller than a hit on soul traffickers or a criminal of similar rank was a risk they couldn’t undertake. It took one mission gone awry to lose Aconessi to retirement. One action that infused new life into the machinery of guilt.

  That’s why they tolerated my antics. A broken clock may be right twice a day, but those two cursed minutes were not the reason the retrievers wanted it. They needed the clock that was wrong the other 1438 minutes of the day. I am more than that, a handless analogical clock. One that knew a bit or two about receptionist work and had no good reason to go home.

  “Hey Klena, make me a very detailed list on how to undertake your essential task and you take the day off.”

  Her back straightened, her lids closed halfway as her crow’s feet made themselves evident. I checked on my spiritual prisoners and pets: none was showing signs of a foot fetish. Good.

  “What’s the trick?”

  “You get a free day, avoid the stress and pain caused by the terrorist attack, and I get to be a nuisance to way more people. I live alone, Klenny. Is this or trolling in videogame forums all day. Commissioning porn of people comfort characters and mailing it to them.”

  “You have too much time on your hands… and money, Saon.”

  “The Governor pays what he thinks some pompous frail children of his need. I eat instant noodles a couple times a week, Klena.” I looked at her in the eyes, my funny face gone. “I live way under my means. The house is mine, and some would call it a dumpster. I have no debts and my Retriever wage lasts me enough to live a month and a half, so it piles up. Now I don’t even need to feed my crows so that little expenditure is now struck through. I am not swimming in money: I live like a poor man. I am used to it. My idea of splurging is buying name-brand products. Like Salt. I spent a ten percent more than usual in buying good salt last month. It’s the same shit as normal salt, but the package has the dopamine colors.”

  “I cannot just leave my station and let some untrained rookie handle it.” she hesitated, and tried to hide it by typing something on her computer.

  “Well, I can avoid going home. I have full permission to come here anytime as long as I announce myself properly. And there are no rules about me using the lobby as a dancefloor immediately after a terrorist attack.” I leaned on her desk sporting a shit eating grin. “Let me have my fun, Klena. Others will understand. I’ll even confess I came up with some legal but pretty annoying things to do in your presence if you weren’t to acquiesce.”

  “You are the worst. I swear if you cause me the smallest inconvenience steeming out of this deal…”

  “I am just a peer offering to cover for you. I am sure you would accept this offer from others without much of a hassle.” I crossed my arms and fixed her a stare. “You have my word I won’t do anything that warrants firing or executing you.”

  “Oh, that’s reassuring. But… I cannot handle today. Do well and I will owe you one , Saon.” She rummaged in a drawer for some keys and left them in front of me. “They are labelled and you know how to read.” Then she pressed the button at the bottom of a ballpoint pen —I am very particular about my definition of pen axes— and began writing down instructions on a piece of paper.

  The rest of the day I spent playing the receptionist. I made a few female officers and one male officer cry. Nearing the end of Klena’s usual shift, Hoffal came in through the shattered doors with a basket of freshly baked pasties.

  “If it isn’t my favorite pupil! I made a few extra and I thought my esteemed coworkers would like some. Would you—”

  “No, I don’t think people are in a hurry to have dinner today, teacher.” I simply answered before I returned to playing idle games on the computer. Nearly my whole population was starving and there was an achievement to be had for killing them all. As for the Retrievers, many were still scrambling around with the aftermath of the attack. We would use the side entrance for some weeks on end, probably. I’d need to walk like fifty more meters. That was the bad thing about bombings: they were fun but inconvenient long term. Unlike starving your population, as that achievement gave a 1% global production bonus.