A prompt medical screening derived no serious injury, so Jessica returned home that same night. She wouldn't leave, at first. Beth's remains were somewhere; they had to be. The cleanup crew was coy, however, and offered nothing until they came upon the necklace, the six-sided star.

Under the dark sky, only the sound of her feet brought company. Hers was a slow gait of remorse, down and down the village avenues, head low in the cast shadow of evening lights. Plenty of white orbs to guide her path home, although her thoughts did not wander to Apple Mire. They retreated in the silence of solitude. No other soul stirred on the path home, a path long-winding. The gravity board had never felt so useless.

She mumbled recitations nearly every step of the way. Beyond the yards and terraces, she repeated them. Past the closed doors of cafes and restaurants, she cemented them. At the storefront where big, lightless letters spelledTacquizza, she shouted them. 

"What is the point?" 

Crickets...

The moment she entered her apartment, she took off her dirty uniform and fell on the sheets. 

Sleep was impossible.

***

"We awake to a city in mourning, as federal officials comb through what remains of..."

"Dozens of innocent lives lost in what authorities are calling..."

"What is undoubtedly the most calculated terror attack in recent memory..."

Dismal looks filled Goliath's floors the next morning. TNN, ARB, ANA, PCS – Just about every watermark signed the luminescent grid of employee terminals. The tragedy played everywhere, from television to social media. Engineers wept silently as they listened to the anchors and reporters rehash Pine Rime Hovels, an event "clouding New Sumer in tragedy."

Nearly every other listed target was unscorched. Asgard units deployed fast enough to evacuate civilians. Investigations revealed zero explosives at most locations. Already, speculation was in the air concerning the "why" and "how," but most news coverages focused on the identities of the lost. The headlines varied slightly.

What 'fake' news sites the Azarean hierarchy failed to shut down pointed fingers at different groups, while social media blamed the disaster on either lax security or conspiracy. Public opinion, however—reinforced by mainstream news reports—chose to believe the terror was prejudice-driven. They accepted that the organization known as Sub Terra was real, that xenophobia had armed a portion of Earth's population against the Azarean-controlled Union. An attack on an Eden, a city of the Union, implied hate as a motive, even if the victims were humans. So long as friction survived between native and alien cultures, terrorism had met its goal, so claimed the government and media.

David kept silent beside the memo board. He had forgotten his hat, and the exposed furrow of his brow steered dejectedly towards every workstation. His tired eyes and their dark rings watched the holo-recording, in front of which some employees had gathered. The sight stung in places he preferred docile at work.

"Stop that!" he stammered. His outburst startled everyone, so they shut off the news and returned to their tasks. The room's tension permeated as he let out a deep sigh, rubbing his head for an imaginary headache that crept closer. 

"Everyone," he began apologetically, "eyes up..." 

Curious, confused, scared, and somber eyes fell from every corner of the room. Shaking his head and crossing his arms, he failed to consider his next words. Nevertheless, something for the long day ahead felt warranted. 

"Everyone tried their best. And the reason some of you might feel it wasn't enough is because it wasn't..." Defeated and guilt interlinked the employees' faces. "But nobody should feel guilty! Not for working toward the right thing, and not for the evil perpetrated by some cowards behind a camera! We were blindsided. End of. If someone needs to take a day off, I understand. Me, I still see the value in getting things done, because no terrorist is going to shit on my routine. Sorry..."

The director was unsure how his speech would affect his downcast workforce, but he did notice more chins up. None of them seemed ready to leave. 

"Let's get to it," he finished.

Following the bustle of feet to seats and busy keyboards, a looming figure stepped right beside David. 

"Clever and collected conveyance on your part, director."

Over his shoulder, he saw Malvis. The Azarean, by default, was a presence that did not need to be present. Therefore, resentment stirred in his belly. "Morning, Malvis," he said mechanically.

"Did you inquire after our employee of interest?"

"I forgot. Judging by the outcome, I don't imagine they'd care. Do you watch the news, Malvis?"

"I keep informed, I assure you." 

David rubbed his chin at the alien. "You weren't lying when you said Asgard was fast. They may have been lucky, however, since they reached the buildings that harbored no explosives."

"Yes, the outer city was unfortunate. I can already promise that such an outrage shall not be left unrequited by my superiors. An attack on but one Eden constitutes a war against my kind, even if casualties manifest nothing more than humans. This militant group, Sub Terra, shall be routed to its foundations."

David suddenly remembered why Malvis was so easy to loathe, and loathed him more. "You know, Malvis, let me at least apologize to you."

"For what, in particular?"

"For the Azareans who got caught in the blast." 

Malvis deadpanned. 

"I heard the Bomb Disposal Unit was at Pine Rime when it happened. An Azarean uniform, correct?"

Malvis adjusted his lenses. "That is correct, director."

"Does the Union have a plan to rid New Sumer of these monsters, these cowards who hide behind a camera? Now that they're out in the open, something's gotta be done."

"They will gauge the effectiveness of every plausible endeavor." With that, Malvis sauntered off. "And, director, inquire after our mystery savior in the memo."

"Of course," he sighed, then muttered under his breath. "Persistent."

Malvis waited for the elevator, staring straightly and blankly at the double doors. When they opened, he entered with a perfect gait, almost. Perfectly upright, he waited until they closed. Once alone, his unstable hands prevailed in weaving discomfort throughout his entire body. It worsened as he took off his glasses and faced the floor. He clenched his scalp, compressed his breath, and out of his coat pocket retrieved a tin case. It contained thin syrettes, one of which he quickly plucked. Inhaling through his nostrils and clenching his face, he rolled up his sleeve for a quick injection. One last, slow breath and he opened his eyes. 

The trembling stopped entirely. He tucked the tin case away and delicately unfurled his sleeve. Staring at the elevator doors, upright and hands folded behind his back, he was calmer than when he entered.

***

Bots similar to recycle bots swept Apple Mire Suites. The grey eggs scanned along the hallways in a sweep that lasted over an hour. Despite their giving the all-clear signal to residents, some apartment vigilantes were still paranoid. Depending on their choice of news station, some would stay paranoid. Therefore, across corridors, residents took it upon themselves to patrol and shout, "Report suspicious activity!"

Inside room 59, however, Only Jessica's desktop gave any kind of hum. A standout voice reported yesterday's events, live, with a remorseful tone. Listening to him speak of Pine Rim Hovels was like wading through mud in the rain, but she liked the man's authenticity. She listened from beside the door, huddled in her corner opposite the holo-screen, face buried in her knees. She hadn't bothered to change out of sleepwear, despite noon fast approaching.

"This is more than a list of names..." 

Patiently, she awaited his recitation of the victims' names. He went so far as to add epithets.

"Jeromy Terence Leone was an afterschool technician who had arrived two years ago to help his mother... 

"Dolores Bunham Alowitz was a sitter who, at the time, was looking after a friend's German Shepard... 

"Karl Huam Yunis was a driving instructor for the DSV whose friends said he would bring flowers for all the clerks... 

"Bethany B. Sanders was a retired firefighter whose long years of service awarded her The Medal of Courage, The Medal of Gallantry, Service Recognition Medal, and Distinguished Service Cross; those who remember her said, 'Beth's defining trait was that she never placed herself further than second'..." 

In the pause that followed, the reporter surrendered a moment to suppress his impending emotional breakdown. His choked cough hit the microphone before he continued. "Ingrid G. Nguyen developed—"

A ring dialed over the broadcast. The call appeared on the monitor and Jessica lifted her head. It was Shannon's whimsical face, possibly the one person who could hope to lift her spirits. She did not answer.

Hitherto, Jessica lived in a pit of lethargic mourning. Two days since she nearly died, the solitude slowly festered into pessimistic thoughts. 

"I'll kill myself if I stay here." 

After a deep, weary sigh, she decided to change clothes.

***

David took a break from his computer to peer through the office window. The fifth floor's employees went on as normal, diligent and undisturbed. Sunlight hit the lotus vase on his desk. Their petals, something about the yellow tinge distracted him. Then he paid closer attention; the flower reminded him of a fist. 

Eventually, he abandoned his seat to stretch his legs, but the moment he opened the door and beheld the cadre of busybodies, restlessness returned. Instead, he paced around the room, intently watching his staff's collaborations, then peered at the memo board. His brow furrowed.

He walked over to the terminal with half-eaten tacos.  "Azeem," he beckoned. 

The engineer looked up, startled—swallowed, cleared his throat—and darted his eyes. "Yes, mister director?"

"Director. Do me a favor and pull up the caches from two days ago."

"Of course!" Azeem's monitor conjured a stream of files.

"Now, I want you to find the outbound signals."

"Are we looking for something specific?"

"I need to know who transmitted the coordinates during the attack."

"Uh, Okay." After several commands and clicks, Azeem replied, "These are the terminals that received the triangulation, and then... Hmm?"

"What is it?"

Azeem puckered. "That's your address, sir. The outbound signal came from your terminal."

"What?" David nosed into the screen. "That makes no sense."

"Am I being tested?" Azeem started defensively. "Did I do something wrong, boss? I can fix it!"

"I'm confused, too."

"Then what is going on, sir?"

The director stood pensively. Before he could ruminate on a single question, a mechanical voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Care to explain?" 

He found Malvis over his shoulder. "Did you teleport here, somehow?"

"Director," Malvis started seriously, "can you explain the peculiar case lain before us?"

"Not right now," he said. "But neither can you because you were standing next to me during the chaos."

Malvis straightened his lenses and nonchalantly brushed past David. He began pacing back and forth at a sloth's pace, hands folded behind his back as he scanned the room and its employees. Like a detective surveying a crime scene. Knee-jerk anxiety creased the brow of anyone who crossed his path.

Without a word, the alien ignited his holo-brace and vegan inputting characters.

"What are you doing?" said David, but he was ignored. 

When he returned, upright, Malvis whispered. "We must consult the security records."

In a dark room with a grid of holo-panels for a wall, David and Malvis split their attention across a compilation of camera footage presided over by a security officer at a half-ring desk. His eyes looked like a pair of binoculars, thanks to a wired headset. The guard in grey reset every playback to the second New Sumer's countdown started. 04.07.29.12.21.46 and onward.

David shrunk at the sight of his own room in the footage. "It's empty."

"Clearly," replied Malvis, transfixed. Every other screen depicted employees in a panicked crunch. No one noticed the engineer who passed out at the back of the room.

"Pause," exclaimed Malvis. "Rewind three seconds." He sauntered closer then pointed to the upper left,  at the precipice of the fifth-floor stairs, indicating a hat, colorful suit, and a face that steered away from the camera. Obviously a woman. In another feed, the stranger's full body was visible, but the face remained ambiguous. "This is a variable stranger."

David stared dubiously. "Where was the timer countdown?"

The security guard motioned to the memo board. "13:27," he said.

"Resume playback," said Malvis.

"Where'd she go?" said David.

Malvis stared at the images, stiff and silent. "There." The woman's figure was inconspicuously inching into the director's room.

David's jaw dropped. "That is an employee hat."

"Not an employee uniform."

The director peered at the memo board once more. "Less than twelve minutes." The unknown woman sat in his office, working his computer with a custom drive. Within another playback panel, hands shot upward. It was at that moment the girl became a statue. "What is she doing?" David muttered. She removed the flash drive before hurriedly stepping out of the office, not a single suit aware of her presence.

"Stop playback," exclaimed Malvis. "Magnify."

Closer, the female's face fell on the fringe of being identified, the chin, the light complexion, and the beige lips. Malvis examined her stoically. "I have made contact with this human female."

David eyed his tall superior. "Yeah... Who is she?"

"I hoped you might enlighten me."

"I wouldn't know, hence my question."

As soon as he heard the distant ding of the elevator, Malvis stepped out of the security room. David slogged after him, startled when he saw two armed personnel now present on the floor. No run-of-the-mill security but Asgard, the black Azarean uniform.

"What's going on?"

Malvis stopped mid-stride and turned, removing his glasses to make eye contact for the first time. His were scarlet, with the characteristic Azarean glow. "David Mourner, you are under arrest for conspiring in domestic terrorism."

"How am I—" An Azarean accosted him with iron cuffs. Without orders, Malvis' enforcer then pinned him to the ground. The entire room, a room of oblivious clerks and security stripes, gawked while the director bitterly tussled with his restraints. "I didn't do anything!"

Malvis kneeled beside the helpless David, angling a callous gaze until they met eyes. "You attested to a backdoor before the terrorist breach in New Sumer, director."

"And recommended an immediate fix!"

"Few parties were privy to the information of a potential breach, yet SK-3 was, evidently, compromised. The web of our system would not allow that happenstance overnight. Aware of its fault before anyone else, I believe you mined the discovery and transmitted the finds to your Resistance compatriots: Sub Terra."

"You have no evidence of that!"

"And then there is our third-party... Who is Lynx, former director?"

"I don't know!"

"What is the identity of the woman who infiltrated your branch?" 

"I don't know that, either!" 

Malvis leaned closer. "Then you shall be interned until Goliath extracts everything you do know. Asgard, meanwhile, shall keep the peace and seek out the resistance. Whatever you withhold shall work against you in the undertaking. The end begins with the details we have acquired thus far." He stood up, canted his head left then right, and let the guards heave David from the ground. To everyone else's surprise, David chuckled at his predicament, so drew attention to the peculiar grin on his face. "Do you find something amusing?"

"I find something hilarious!" David scoffed. "SK-3 was supposed to be your new benchmark. You were hacked, and an infraction on your part doesn't even compute in that long skull! You're flawed!"

At a wave of his hand, Asgard departed with David's spiteful canines in tow. Malvis steered his red eyes over the nervous workforce before him. 

"New directive!" he bellowed. "Within the next hour, I shall require all pertinent information on the following query: 

"T. A. C. Q. U. I. Z. Z. A."

Thank you very much for reading. Let me know if you enjoyed the story by voting. Helps cure some of my anxiety. 

Some minor edits have been made since November 24, 2017, to fill in plot holes.