The rain dances quietly amongst the neon signs of the city, I lose myself in the perpetual rhythmic tapping of their little watery feet on my car roof as the radio crackles in my hand.

“Aegis to Capybara, do you copy? Need confirmation of receipt of assignment. Over.”

I snap out of my trance, the assignment was strange, I was still having trouble fully comprehending what I had heard. Having worked as an Enforcer for the Turritopsis Service Agency for years it was hard to deny the fervor which its agents worked. Which made it even more difficult to imagine how a turritoptic noncompliant had escaped our notice for so long.

“Capybara to Aegis, I read you. Rendezvous with noncompliant’s location, quell any disturbance caused by noncompliant’s presence, engage, and finally detain noncompliant.” The radio crackles again as I thoughtfully release the button, pondering the weight of my next words, the crackling pauses as I press the button and ask: “Is lethal force authorized?”

I sigh and finally end with a definitive “Over.” There had been an uncomfortable increase in lethal engagements recently between Turritoptic Enforcers and noncompliants. Word had been getting around the offices about a recent incident involving the Firebird team and some looney noncompliant in a closet that had apparently pulled some janky makeshift gun on the officers as they entered and ended up being on the wrong side of their smoking barrels. Of course, the public never got word beyond the base facts that another citizen had refused their scheduled Turriptoptic renewal and due to unfortunate circumstances had ended up terminated.

Supposedly the prisons had been getting it real bad as of late to the point that the occurrences had been dubbed with a new disorder called Turritoptic Shock. The general public hadn’t been made aware yet due to concerns of mass panic and of course stock prices, but the Turritoptic Enforcers had been generally let in on the loop on a need to know basis. The skinny of it was that prolonged use of the turritoptic de-aging technology would eventually create a break between the constantly changing physical body of a person and the less malleable psyche which would eventually lead to a complete psychotic breakdown.

So, I had that mess to deal with, and now this strange assignment.

The radio bursts to life again, breaking me out of my inner monologuing.

“Aegis to Capybara, you are cleared for lethal force if, and only if, noncompliant poses direct threat to nearby citizens. Over.”

“Understood Aegis, routing now, ETA 5 minutes. Over.” I sigh a breath of relief.

“Copy that, Capybara. Good luck. Over.”

The noncompliant’s rendezvous point is a small family-style diner by the name of Aunt Carrie’s. Boasting ‘homestyle comfort food’, the place is much more a novelty diner than anything else. While it retains a small group of overly dedicated patrons, most of its business comes from the incidentally curious passerby who just isn’t feeling like getting boozed that day. Still, for me the smaller clientele is probably a good thing as I won’t have to deal with the crowds of the more trafficked bars and cocktail lounges. I look at my rebreather helmet, a streamlined version of an older M50 gas mask model that integrates into the helmet proper. There is little functionality to the actual gas mask portion nowadays beyond the psychological pressure of its dark soulless visor. Putting on my helmet and pulling out my sidearm I whisper to no one in particular.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

Inside the small diner group is crowding a booth in a far corner. They whisper and squabble amongst themselves like spectators to a burning building, teetering on the edge of being close enough to feel the warmth of the disaster but not close enough to get burnt themselves. A staff member notices me enter and rushes over, pausing as he sees my weapon drawn. Hastily, I stow it away and in a reassuring voice asked him to fill me in as I push a small button on my radio to record the conversation. Standard operating procedure, never know when we’ll need to refer to something again.

“I don’t know, he just kinda wandered in suddenly, and took a seat in the far corner over there.” The staffer says shakily. He’s visibly shaken, a scrawny frame and drawn face do little to hide his emotions.

“No one saw the noncompliant enter?” I ask between gasps from the rebreather. I’m busy eyeing the little flock of rubberneckers bobbing around in the corner of the restaurant.

“No … not as far as I can tell, he must have come in with a crowd, most patrons at this hour stay near the bar.” He gestures to the kitchen front a bit to his left, a line of barstools sit at a counter filled with abandoned food. “We only figured it out when we heard the shriek of one of the wait staff when she went to see if she could help him. He gave her a fright, she was in such a shock I felt obligated to give her the rest of the night off – Is that alright?” He adds the last part pensively after a brief pause.

I nod. The curiosity growing inside my mind. “I’ll just need her name for potential questioning later.” His eyes bulge at my words, I quickly hedge them in response. “Nothing serious, I may simply want her story for record-keeping.” He nods and mumbles some sort of affirmation. The crowd in the corner has noticed my presence by now and they’re obviously torn in their attention.

“Has the noncompliant posed any risk to any of your staff or patrons other than emotional damages?” I wave in the general direction of the patrons. The floor manager shakes his head, mentioning it has only amounted to a disturbance among the patrons. I nod and begin walking towards the end of the diner with the crowd. I finally get eyes on the noncompliant. Sitting in a booth by himself beyond the booth barrier the crowd has placed between themselves and their attraction is a solitary figure dressed in what looks to be a rain jacket.

I wave the crowd away and after assuring the scrawny floor manager I’ll handle the situation from here ask him to resume service as normal and to clear this side of the restaurant for myself and the noncompliant. The crowd disperses reluctantly, even as they return to their food and drinks at the counter I can still feel their gazes and mumbles about the figure sitting in front of me. Murmurs about how strange he looks, and if he might even be human. I walk around the banister and gripping my sidearm with one hand I reach out and place the other hand on his shoulder. He simply turns and greats me with a comfortable smile. 

“Hello old timer.” I manage.

Despite not being that old, his wrinkled, liver-spotted skin and thin grey hair stick out like a sore thumb against the pristine complexions of the 20-year-olds that surround us in the restaurant. I can see now that he is wearing a light windbreaker over a hoodie – possibly how he hid his face before the waitress came over.

“I’m glad the TSA could spare one its people to come and see little old me.” He says, his eyes twinkle with an unnervingly soft geniality which is only emphasized by the surprisingly pleasant crow’s feet crinkling by his eyes. Though what really catches me off guard is that his statement makes it clear he was expecting one of us. He continues, stretching out his left arm on the top of the cushioned seat behind him. “Though honestly, I was hoping for a little more time. A little solitude can help clear the mind. Though I don’t mind the company, usually I do like to know who I’m talking with.” He sits back upright, placing both of his hands on the table. They’re both worn, clearly, they’ve seen years of hard labor. Unusual.

“I’m here to detain you on account of disturbing the peace and violation of Turritopic renewal policy J-54 subsection 1.5.” I ignore him, attempting to maintain dominance in this situation. Unexpectedly, he draws back a bit, his arm dropping off the top of the seat to his side, sadness crawling over his countenance.

“Oh, I know.” He heaves a deep breath and looks me square in the eye. Even through the lenses of the rebreather I can taste the weight of the guilt and remorse pouring from his eyes. They are deep green eyes, as calm as a pastoral meadow and as intense as a stormy sea and they tell a story all in themselves. “But can’t you entertain an old man’s last wishes?”

“It’s not that serious” I say as I slide into the booth opposite him. I lay my hands on the table, a sign of trust – hopefully to put him at ease and make him drop his guard. “Listen, I’ll probably just take you in, question you for a bit and then let you run of outside the city to rejoin your other dissidents. In a little bit this will all be forgotten and just be chalked up to some wild man wandering into the city.”

Oddly, the old man simply leans back and sighs wistfully while clasping his hands together in his lap. “It’s true I did run from the city and lived the life of one of your wild men for a while” he said looking at the tiled ceiling before fixing his gaze on me once more. “But I haven’t just randomly wandered back in, and I don’t anticipate ever going back out there.”

“All right,” I fold my hands onto the table. “Why are you here?” I try to keep my voice as flat as possible. Turn my question into a statement, keep control.

“How often have you had someone violate code Ω-1?”

I stiffen. Time theft, a once in a century crime. But more importantly, my mind begins to swirl with questions. Who is this old man, how does he know the turritoptic policy that well to cite a violation by policy code? And more importantly, how would he have been able to commit time theft? After all, the Turritopsis IP is highly guarded with few knowing its complete ins and outs.

“What do you want?” I say, I have little choice but to play his game now.

“Just a nice last meal with good company.” He is all smiles again.

I remove my gas mask and set it down on the seat next to me. I make an excuse that the mask is too stuffy for conversation to deflect my discomfort as his gaze pierces into my soul.

“What kind eyes you have.” He says mournfully after a meaningful pause.