June 24–30
We left Fiji aboard a military transport stuffed with a company of what the paperwork called "Fijian Marines." No one said it out loud, but everyone knew what they really were: Aztlan bioroids. Purpose-grown, armored, and polite enough to pass for human from a distance, so long as you don’t talk too long or ask them about feelings. The Singaporean authorities objected, of course. But once it was framed as a shared liability issue, they folded with their usual blend of efficiency and passive aggression.
Singapore’s always had a veneer of gleam and discipline, the orderly steel of a city that wants to look post-corp even while dancing to the tune of a dozen corporate interests. But at least it’s stable. We needed stable.
JJ needed pants.
He’d been wearing shorts and one of my old floral shirts since Fiji—not a good look for a newly reborn t’skrang executive. I took him shopping. We got him tailored suits, high-collar shirts with room for his frilled neck, some accessories to make the tail look like a feature, not a mutation. He still looked like a jazz saxophonist from a dystopian noir flick, but that was actually an improvement. JJ's confident enough to pull it off. Might even start a trend.
On the 28th, Slag returned from Singapore General. New legs, courtesy of Ares. Sleeker than before, carbon alloy and armored plating wrapped up in a PR package. They even added impact lighting and variable stride modulation. Very Ares. Kate came with him. She’d been babysitting, sure, but more than that—documenting the upgrade for Starway Elite’s backstage feed. The fans loved it. Redemption arc, recovery montage, the wounded soldier standing again.
June 30: Singapore Concert
The Marina Sands venue was maxed out. LED waves rippled across the water as Halo took the stage. No last-minute disasters, no Deep Ones, no spirit serpents in the sky. Almost disappointing. Critics called it sterile, too polished. One said it felt like a simsense theme park ride. But the fans were ecstatic. Singapore had come to see perfection, and Halo delivered it with a smile sharp enough to cut steel.
The afterparty was muted. Maybe everyone was still shaken from New Atlantis, or maybe we were just bracing for what came next.
Bangkok declined to host the tour.
Officially: security concerns.
Unofficially: they don’t want Halo anywhere near their power blocs. Smart.
Samarkand volunteered.
A concert beneath the stars on the old Silk Road, where empires once rose and fell. It wasn’t part of the original itinerary, but it felt right. So we head out on July 2.
Me, JJ, Tag, Slag, Blink, Vanya, and the rest.
Zara's still out chasing lizards and legends.
And I’m still watching my commlink for Maria Gardner to send another message that makes me question the entire nature of reality.
Onward.
Addendum: Dreamlands
I keep having this dream... not every night, but often enough now that I’ve stopped pretending it’s coincidence.
I’m walking through a dark place. Sometimes it’s Redmond—the old, broken streets I knew growing up. Sometimes it’s underground, damp and echoing, like a volcanic cave beneath the earth. No sounds. Just my footsteps.
It always ends the same.
A colossal yellow eye—reptilian, unblinking—opens before me, staring straight into my soul.
I don’t know what it wants. I don’t even know if it wants anything. Maybe it’s just watching.
Sometimes it feels like Sera Velasquez. Sometimes like Zara. Sometimes like something older, something buried beneath all of this. Something sleeping.
I wake up sweating, clutching the bloodstone amulet, like that’ll help.
I haven’t told anyone. Not even Evie. Not even Wiz.
But I think… I think it knows me.
No comments:
Post a Comment