Rhodes Island's Tokyo branch was as loud as ever.Someone was shouting for caffeine, someone else was crying over a printer jam, and somewhere in the chaos a patient was asking if the "doctor with the silver hair" was actually qualified.
Florence, sitting behind her desk, answered that question with a pen toss that hit the trash can dead center.
"Qualified enough," she said to no one in particular, signing another form. "Next question."
Her terminal buzzed. She didn't even look. "If that's more budget paperwork, I'm faking my own death."
"Close," came her assistant's voice. "It's Anti-Entropy. Tesla."
"Ah. My second favorite disaster." Florence swiped the comms open. "Tesla! Tell me you're calling to say something exploded."
"Not yet," Tesla said, tone dry. "Your global convoys are still bleeding encrypted data. Whoever's behind it? Still smarter than our firewall."
Florence leaned back, boots on the desk. "Then maybe hire them. Sounds like you could use the help."
Einstein's calm voice followed. "Doctor Florence, please confirm your internal systems haven't been breached. The data patterns match Rhodes Island routes precisely. If Schicksal's hiding ops under your humanitarian cover—"
"Then I'll throw them out myself," Florence interrupted. "Don't worry, ladies, I'll check the logs. If I find a ghost in the system, I'll send it your way for an internship."
Tesla groaned. "Just don't break anything. Again."
"No promises," Florence said sweetly, ending the call.
She sat back and sighed, eyes flicking to the ceiling. "I patch the world together, and everyone assumes I'm the one with scissors."
By nightfall, the Tokyo branch quieted. Medics clocked out. Lights dimmed. The chaos faded into the low hum of generators and the city's neon pulse outside.
Florence locked her main terminal, but one hidden light remained—an interface embedded beneath her desk. It pulsed faintly in steady rhythm, blue against the dark.
She glanced at the door, made sure it was shut, and placed her hand on the scanner.
Access: Granted.
A soft click sounded from behind the storage cabinet. Florence stepped inside the hidden lift and muttered, "Time for my night shift."
The doors slid shut.
Below the Surface…
The air down here smelled of cold metal and ozone. Rows of screens lit the circular chamber buried deep beneath the Rhodes Island branch.
A figure stood at the center—masked, hooded, coat glowing faint blue along the sleeves.
Voice modulation active.
"Report," the filtered voice commanded.
Specter-1: "Kamchatka zone secured. Hostile activity reduced. Retrieval team ready."
Vanguard-2: "Weather interference minimal. Visual on Schicksal drones confirmed."
"Proceed," the voice said evenly. "Non-lethal engagement. Prioritize memory cores and data banks."
Echo-3: "Secondary transmission embedded in the drone network. Looks like adaptive code."
"Extract, isolate, and forward to Comet-4 for decoding," came the reply.
"Understood."
Holographic feeds flickered across the display — white snowfields, heat signatures, flickering mechanical shapes crawling across ice.
"Schicksal's drones are testing behavioral patterns again," Specter-1 noted.
"They're collecting something," the distorted voice replied. "Record it. No interference. Our cover remains the humanitarian routes above."
The operatives acknowledged, clean and concise.
The masked figure watched the data pulse across the displays, standing perfectly still