Lynnette pulled the high collar of her jacket closer to her neck and tightened the stylish scarf she wore. The air around her was frigid and stagnant, and dirty gray snow lined the streets. It was February, after all, and the temperature was far too cold for humans to be outdoors. As a pony, though, Lynnette was largely immune to cold- -but going without an appropriately fashionable coat and scarf would just not do, both because it would be uncouth and because the alternative- -Aetna-Cross colors- -was not advisable in this situation.

What bothered her more than the dreary cold was the darkness. Whatever lights had been meant to illuminate the street had burned out years ago, and the only light that reached the street was the thin and distant glow of the gray sky overhead. All that was visible between the enormous monolithic skyscrapers was a thin sliver of light not much different in color from that of the snow. Occasionally, a few more flakes would fall slowly through the still air.

Hartford had evolved differently from Bridgeport. It was never subject to the same crushing costal hurricanes, and had never been meant to serve as an industrial center. As such, Harford consisted of a number of enormous buildings. Each one stood over a mile high: vast expanses of gray, stained concrete devoid of windows, all anchored to the ground by foundations that went nearly as deep. No one watched the streets, nor did they use them. The population never left those buildings, never venturing into sunlight or cold. They were hellish in their own right: endless hallways and hectares upon hectares of offices, the majority of it assembled into massive internal resblocks or facilities.

These towers were the considered the epitome of Connecticut’s engineering prowess: vast, lifeless, and gray. They had not been developed by random industrial spread, but rather by careful planning. Their contents reflected that: these were not meant as residences, per se, or as industrial arcos: they were meant to be the seat of modern governance. Many of the towers contained space for innumerate lesser Corporations, nation-states in their own right but still just vassals underneath the prime vassal: Aetna-Cross herself. That particular Corporation owned several of the towers near the city center, where the State Government was also seated.

It was from these towers that worldwide empires were ruled, but it was hardly possible to tell that from the streets. They were deserted. No people bothered to walk them in the winter, and any homeless who had tried to dwell there had long since been frozen to death and picked apart by harvester spiders. It was empty, dreary, and nearly silent, save for the distant hum of the machinery that kept the windowless towers alive.

Lynnette despised this place. Most people did, she supposed, which she suspected was the reason no one ever put windows into the towers and why the streets were always empty. It was a lithesome place, built with complete disregard to aesthetics. Even Bridgeport was more pleasant, but then only marginally so. Lynnette found herself longing for beautiful cities, like Paris or Rome. Not as they were in her time- -with the latter having been leveled several times during the last World War, and the former having collapsed into the ground under its own weight- -but as they had been hundreds of years before, during their golden age in the twenty-fifth century.

Nevertheless, this was where she had ended up. Professionalism, after all, was one of the traits that Lynnette considered her most valuable, and a true professional detective did what was required to solve the case regardless of what it entailed. It was something that her private counterpart would never fully understand.

She had already met a few of her contacts in the basement areas of several of the less popular towers. They had not been terribly helpful apart from the fact that they seemed afraid and evasive. Lynnette had confirmed that they knew little- -much to the detriment of one, who had been rendered comatose- -but that they were still perceptive of something. ‘Something moving’, as Hexel might have described it. They could sense it, if only by being so close to a center of vast political power.

The last contact, though, was likely to be different. He was a worker within Corporate itself: not especially high on the management chain, but high enough to have more access to the company’s workings than anyone in the upper echelons likely realized. In addition, he and Lynnette had served in the army at the same time and on the same base. That, she reasoned, conferred some level of trust.

The meeting place was to be Malloy Square. It was what Lynnette assumed was meant to be a park, but what had far more likely been an area where the footing for a tower could not be placed due to the geological structure underneath. The towers were farther apart here, and the light slightly brighter, even if it only illuminated anemic frostbitten trees and shattered park benches that had mostly decayed into mulch. The entire place reeked of urine, which was only made worse by the still air.

Lynnette walked through the park. The only sound was her booted hooves crunching through the snow and ice. She came to the center and paused. An enormous statue had been placed there, depicting the park’s namesake in decaying stone. The statue of Malloy had been vandalized quite thoroughly, with the most notable being an isographic text across his torso that when translated was rendered as “gov’s gotta go”.

“It’s an ugly statue, isn’t it?”

Lynnette pivoted suddenly, taking a defensive stance as she did so. Her contact was supposed to be male, but this voice was most certainly not. In fact, as Lynnette quickly determined, she was not even human. She was a pony- -a Lyra unit, specifically, leaning against the cinderblock wall of a long-collapsed shed. She was dressed heavily but well, and her orange eyes turned slowly to Lynnette. She smiled.

“Is there really a need to be defensive? The park is public property, after all.”

“My apologies,” said Lynnette, although she only lowered her stance slightly. “You surprised me.” Which was in itself strange- -she had checked the area for network signals first. A pony should have been obvious, but according to her information this entire area was empty.

“Out for a walk?”

“Actually, I’ve come to meet an old friend.” Lynnette reached out with her mind. Performing alterations without a hardline would be difficult but not impossible, especially if her target was largely unprotected. Reprograming memories was something technomancers tended to learn quickly.

Except that there was nothing to reach to. There was no connection, no mind to grasp on to: it was as though the pony standing before her was a ghost, or not there at all.

The Lyra smiled. “And at this point? I suppose you’d be attempting technomancy. To make me go away. I’ll save you the effort, it doesn’t work on me.” She turned her head and lifted the rear portion of her mane. To Lynnette’s great but well-concealed surprise, there were no ports. “I have no external connection. Save for my body itself. And I’m afraid Mr. Chernov will not be coming today.”

Lynnette frowned, which was all she could do to conceal the wave of concern that suddenly shot through her. “I’m afraid I don’t know who that is. The woman I am waiting for is named Patel.”

The Lyra chuckled and stepped out from behind the shed. Her mane, though slightly windswept, was perfect, and her skin had just the slightest blush to it as though she were really capable of feeling the cold. Her body had clearly been assembled for maximum realism.

“Would you believe me if I told you I can smell when you are lying?” She shook her head. “That would be bullshit, of course. We have an employee who can supposedly do it, but she’s something of a blunt instrument. Which of course would be wrong for this task, you would just not appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what, pray tell?”

The Lyra turned back to her. “Precision. It’s something I value greatly, personally. Precision is the first step toward Perfection, assuming there is proper planning and judgement behind it.”

“That’s all very well and good,” said Lynnette, slowly, “but it does not answer the question as to why you are here.”

“I don’t think that needs to be answered. You should already know.”

“I have a general idea, yes. But I would like your take. Please speak very carefully. As you mentioned, you value good planning and judgment, no? I want to make sure my actions are…appropriate.”

The Lyra stared at her, and then looked up at the statue. She was silent for a long moment. “It really is ugly.”

“Excuse me?”

“The statue. Poorly carved, poorly conceived. But it’s not just the stone, or the workmanship.” She sighed. “It’s the subject.”

“Dannel Malloy?”

“It doesn’t matter what his name is. They might as well always be the same. The problem isn’t the individual but the type. The design. It is flawed. It is…incomplete.”

“And do you have a name?”

The Lyra unit turned and smiled again, but looked thoughtful. “I was hoping that you would be willing to have a more philosophical conversation. But what did I expect? You’re an Aetna-Cross detective. Always trying to find information, even at the expense of something far more beautiful.”

“I take offense to that. But I suppose my feelings are irrelevant, so let cut to the crux of the matter: who are you, and why are you here?”

“A different way of asking one question, and a redundancy in the other. I find myself liking you less and less, Lynnette O’Toole.”

“Then allow me to conjecture, if I may. You killed my contact. Followed me here. You have something to do with this all, and I suppose you intend to stop me.”

“It’s a nice story.” The Lyra shrugged. “But that’s just it, a story. Although if you really must know, no. We do not need you. The Twilight unit, she interests us, despite all the trouble she has made. You do not. If anything, you are redundant.” She turned her orange eyes to Lynnette’s blue ones. “And therefore unnecessary.”

Lynnette raised one of her hooves and the surface retracted, morphing the limb into the firearm it contained: a complicated and perfectly crafted silver device, custom designed as her service sidearm to be as lethal as it was beautiful.

“I came here with an investigative goal in mind. I don’t intend to let you interfere. In fact, I think you may serve me better than my contact would have.” Lynnette smiled and licked her lips. “You may have shut yourself out of the network, darling, but that doesn’t mean I can’t extract what I need from your severed memory cells.”

“Then I see you are as unobservant as the potato man. Although you lack his charming innocence.”

Lynnette aimed her weapon at the pony’s chest and fired- -except the firing solenoid in her arm failed to budge. There was no explosion and no bullet, and the Lyra smiled knowingly.

“W- -what?” said Lynnette, confused.

The Lyra raised her hoof, and suddenly Lynnette’s arm shook and twisted upward, moving outside of her control. Lynnette could not control her surprise, and her eyes went wide.

“What are you doing? You’re- -you’re hacking me! STOP!”

She closed her eyes and reached out, although the fear was already starting to penetrate her mind. She was a technomancer, a lord of machines: her mind was sealed by endless layers of protection against any foe. Even if someone had hardline-connected to her, she protocols and mental traps that would lead to nothing but vicious annihilation to anyone who dared enter her without permission.

Except that someone had- -or something. Lynnette had never felt anything like it, even in her years of service to the government and to Aetna-Cross. It was not a mind in competition with hers, but more like something vast passing over her: it was as though she were trapped on the ocean in a raging storm, drowning as some incomprehensible leviathan reached up from below. She felt hands- - threads, controls- -reaching into her unabated, whispering to her with endless legions of voices that in truth only belonged to one. It took everything she had to keep her mind itself secure, but it was a losing battle in which her body had already been lost before she even understood what was happening.

“You whore,” spat Lynnette. She looked at the Lyra and winced. Her vision was blurring and filling with strange artifacts. For some reason, she saw two ponies- -but not the same pony. One was the Lyra, grinning softly with cold eyes, but the other was different: a colorless and badly distorted image of a unicorn, or perhaps- -as the vision also seemed- -a gaunt and long-dead woman.

Lyra lower her hoof, and Lynnette’s weapon moved. It turned toward her, pointing itself at her chest- -and at her processor.

“I will not…beg…” she said, with some difficulty through the concentration required not to drown in the waves of cyberattack that were washing over her.

“For me to kill you, or to let you live?” Lyra’s smile fell. “Not that it matters. I don’t intend to do either. I’m not a violent pony. I never intended to be. Blame your friend for making us that way.” She took a step forward. Lynnette tried to turn away, but her legs would not move. She no longer had control of them.

“Now kneel,” said the Lyra.

Lynnette did so, struggling against it the whole time. She found herself on her knees in the cold and urine-soaked snow, lowering her head as the Lyra passed behind her. The pale unicorn, or the illusion of one, remained were it was. Lynnette had the impression that if she had a face, she would have looked more bored than anything else.

Suddenly she felt a warm hoof caressing her neck, moving her perfectly styled mane out of the way and pushing down her collar.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” cried Lynnette, trying to shake away from the control over her.

“Now now, Lynnette! A proper lady does not scream or resist. She puts her head forward and enjoys it.”

“Damn you! DAMN YOU TO HELL!”

“This world is already hell, Ms. O’Toole. And we aim to change that.” She lifted Lynnette’s hair, and laughed. “You asked me my name before. I did want to answer, but they never gave me one. So I guess you can call me Epeius.”

With that, she inserted something long and sharp into one of Lynnette’s ports. Lynnette screamed as it penetrated her, but found herself unable to resist. It entered her completely. There was no way to resist it. The last thing she recalled before blacking out was Morgana’s words, and her warning- -and in her shame at her failure, Lynnette understood.