Seated on the highest stacked container in the neighborhood, Zeraki had his eyes closed, giving himself entirely to his sixth sense. The world turned into an equivalent of polychromatic river streams that flowed and sometimes blended into each other.

  A dominant ‘color theme’ he noticed were streams made up of two parts: a thick viscous outer layer that he couldn't help but label Justification, and an inner core that was one form—or another—of Misery.

  As the collective miasma built around him, he felt like if he amassed himself in a little bit more misery, he’d break through a metaphorical wall.

  Zeraki slowly opened his eyes and caught sight of 3’s hunched back. She was still weeping. The fact that she could perceive sentiments better made her even more susceptible to the pain and suffering of others.

  She felt the starvation of the innocent, the hopelessness of the homeless—all the while trying to hang onto the few fibers left of their sanity—, how the crowds of people walked on the edge of madness; yet furtively tried to build a life for themselves.

  Few even thought of advancing their sequences at this point and only tried to make a living—and stay sane enough not to be put down like rabid animals.—

  ‘I don't hate the Mawaki,’ Zeraki finally said, looking away from Number 3 and shutting down his sixth sense. ‘I hate what they might remind me of.’

  [What might they remind you of, Father?] Number 7 asked, his curiosity piqued.

  The feeling of standing before a wall that needed to be soaked in misery to break down flashed through his mind.

  ‘Nothing I can describe. But I’m certain of one thing. I want the Mawaki and what they stand for gone.’

  [I'm at your disposal if this is what you want, Father.] Number 7 immediately asserted.

  [I’ll equip you to the best of my abilities, Otousan.] Number 4 said as the memory of the light sphere lingered in his mind. He had an idea he wanted to try out with Hadiza.

  Number 3 also quickly stood up and gave him a brilliant smile with a girl scout's salute. Even though her eyes still watered, she smiled.

  Zeraki was still puzzled about what that was all about because her sentiments showed that she was genuinely happy for him. So much so that not even the ache in her chest could stop her from digging out an encouraging smile for him.

  How they all freely gave themselves to him raised too many questions in the back of his mind.

  (Orion A. Rhon POV)

  “I don't give a flying fuck about what Shinohara wants. I want that gearhead cemeteried.”

  “Temper your steam, child. Shinohara is not to be trifled with. And now is not the time to think about settling scores. Let's get your sisters back before revisiting this,” Rhon Orion told his hot-headed son who’d immediately settled down with a huff and begun his breathing exercises.

  Although Bell Orion was a licensed mid-sequence Extractor and classified as Stable for his Sequence, he still had moments when his rage just bulldozed past his walls of sensibilities.

  Shinohara-san didn't care about age or race; crossing her was a one-way ticket to a random version of hell her twisted mind could think up. Now was not the time to get entangled with her. They had a common enemy and until he had his daughters back in his arms, he allowed for no distractions.

  Rhon Orion watched his wife from the corner of his eyes as his son went through the motions to regulate his psyche. She had a contemplative look that Rhon did not like one bit. When she noticed his gaze, she innocently smiled at him.

  “Dear, I'll deal with Shinohara-san. Direct your fury to the one that took our children,” Rhon emphasized even though he knew it was pointless. She kept scores better than he did. Better than anyone he knew did. Rhon even doubted that Extractors could be as vengeful as she was.

  Nkatha Orion nodded at him while maintaining her disarming smile. Nkatha Orion had big innocent green eyes, a small button nose, and a kind gentle smile. She was short—slightly over 5’4—with shoulder-length brown hair.

  Rhon Orion prayed to Midnight for every poor soul that fell for that act. Nkatha wore a face as needed. She was one of the Duchy’s constables. A damn good one too even though she wasn’t an Extractor. She would give that beautiful smile and flutter those eyes of hers at victims she’d starved and/or deprived of sleep if it got them to trust her. Rhon was certain that this wasn’t the extent of what she did in service of the Duchy but he was terrified to ask for more details, and she was happy to respect that.

  “Have you heard from the Ashen Throne?” Nkatha asked, bringing him back from his morbid thoughts.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “No, but I can’t expect them to deliver yet. It’s been less than a day,” Rhon said.

  “I’ve never heard of this group. Interesting name, don’t you think? Ashen Throne.”

  Rhon paused and looked at his wife, “Are you saying I should look into them?”

  “Not about this, dear. I’m certain she has nothing to do with the kidnapping of my seabiscuits. I’m just saying that it’s an interesting group. It might be worth our while to remember them.”

  The Ashen Throne, Rhon mused. The mode of delivering the message had been, admittedly, unique, but that wasn’t surprising because Extractors had the tendency to innovate whenever they weren’t reinforcing the doors to their sanity. Orion ignored the fact that Nkatha had already figured out who the head of the spy organization was—for it was pointless—and proceeded to think about their methods.

  ‘Would you like to buy two small-size mattresses? We offer disposal as well for your old mattresses to paying customers.’

  At first, the Orion house butler had politely rejected and moved to shut the door, but was stopped by Nkatha who’d shoved her foot between the gap.

  ‘My family and I would love to buy them!’ she said with the most genuine of expressions and unrestrained joy. One would think that the delivery man just saved her life by offering to sell her the mattresses. She flung the door open and ‘accidentally’ scraped the butler’s little toe beneath the door.

  Rhon still remembered being confused as to why his wife had shown interest when the flux-feed showed the carriage pulling in, but he simply watched for whatever song and dance was going on, to end before his wife explained what just happened—or completely left them in the dark about it.

  After the delivery man left, Nkatha had gone into the woods and come out with one of the maids that had been in their family even before Bell Orion was born. She was loved and trusted. Seeing her stripped and bruised was enough to send Bell Orion on a rampage.

  As Nkatha tended to the maid and his son bashed the underground walls to vent, Rhon Orion called in some favors from old friends he’d met at the Melody conference. It hadn’t taken long for Shinohara’s name to pop up. The top fixer in Pacifica with a colorful past.

  “Father, we’ve got an update from Shinohara.” His son’s voice cut through his thoughts, “She’s sent over everything she knows about her client.”

  “Good, she’s in a cooperative mood.” Rhon stood and gave his wife a look that suggested she figure out where their children were. As a non-Extractor, he had a lot to prepare before he went to get his girls.

  (Vira P.O.V)

  **

  Yellow lights flickered as she was taken into a larger-than-average container where the cutting would begin. Thin sheets served as curtains dividing the space into eight cuboids. Desks covered in white sheets and towels were in each room serving as beds. Around each one, three middle-aged women wearing headscarves waited.

  Girls started to cry and protest as soon as their mothers hustled them inside. As children were hoisted onto desks, she realized with a jolt: this is an assembly line.

  **

  The girl squirmed, and two midwives put their faces close to hers. They smiled at her, making soft noises, but their hands took an arm and a leg each in a claw-like grip.

  ‘Look, look,’ she commanded, as a third woman leant in and steadily snipped off part of her clitoris with what looked like a pair of nail scissors. ‘It’s nothing, you see? There is not much blood. All done!’

  The girl’s scream was a long guttural rattle, which got louder as the midwife dabbed at her genitals with antiseptic.

  **

  Vira trembled as the madness finally released her from the dream. She lived through her genital mutilation whenever she accidentally fell asleep. Her madness remembered every detail and jumped at every opportunity it got to remind her of it.

  Every neuron that fired, every thought that crossed her mind, every reflex, and every word she screamed were perfectly preserved and perfectly replayed. She would have lost her mind already if it wasn’t for the DLM drugs.

  They kept her partially lucid and so she knew she was dreaming. That did nothing to stop the pain nor the dread that came with it though.

  She'd been cut twice. The second time because a neighbor thought ‘not enough flesh had been cut.’

  She restrained her trembling hand to contain her dread. It was uncalled for. Circumcision kept her pure. A necessary tradition that withstood the trials of time. If it was wrong, it would have been lost to the paragraphs of time, as every other unnecessary practice has.

  Human sacrifice, for instance. It was a stupid, barbaric practice and Vira couldn’t see how anyone of reasonable intellect could stoop to entertaining the notion of taking another’s life in hopes of getting some divine favor.

  Her body was trembling because of the madness, not because it was traumatized by her Circumcision. That would be preposterous. Everyone she loved said it was normal. She would prove them right and once she published her findings, they’d stop looking at her like she was a monster.

  Her mother said that it improved her fertility. Her aunt said it was a mark of purity that kept her from becoming unfaithful. Her father said he believed it was a matter of hygiene.

  These beliefs had been there for generations and she was out to offer scientific proof and cure the fools of their ignorance.

  She felt sorry for those who didn’t come from a loving family and community like she did.

  “Vira, we’ve lost them again.”

  Vira looked up from the desk she’d accidentally fallen asleep on. Moonlight still shone through the glass windows so she couldn’t have been asleep for too long.

  She tried to recall the man’s name but soon gave up.

  She was exhausted.

  Exhausted in every way that mattered. Ever since she advanced to Sequence 8, the madness had never allowed her a single night of peaceful rest.

  “Didn’t you lock the room as I told you?” Vira asked without bothering to hide her irritation.

  “Vira, someone picked their lock from the outside.”

  She took a deep breath before steadily releasing it. They all knew who’d done it.

  ‘Why can’t she just sit still and behave,’ she whispered.

  “Take them to the purification chamber when you find them.” Vira pushed her seat back and moved to get cleaned up before she began her research.

  “All of them? But the girl has been there once already, Vira?”

  Vira felt her vein bulge. Why couldn’t they just do what she demanded without questioning her at every turn?

  “It is theorized that a direct correlation exists between a woman’s obedience to reason and her purity. We have observed that the girl fails to adhere to what is practically common sense, which reflects an insufficient attainment of said purity.” Vira explained and glared at the man.

  He raised his hands, palms facing her, “If you say so, lady,” he said before leaving, irritating her further.

  “It’ll be High Extractor Vira soon enough.”