text: NETWORK DEGRADED -- SWITCHING TO TEXT MODE I lunge through the doors before they ease shut, as do other remote-operated work robots. The subway car accelerates, windows blurring behind the passengers. The few humans wear hand-sewn masks -- except one. Larger than average, he hunches beneath an ad for unemployment compensation. Where his mask should be, there is a petulant frown, his doughy jaw unshaven. I'll note: Riding without a mask is a tier-one containment violation. Please advise. `> IDENTIFY HIM.` No matches. The man's gaze meets my visual scanners, a flicker of recognition in his pale eyes. He sways with the train, his jacket flapping open. The butt of a weapon is nestled inside. `> RUN, YOU ARTIFICIAL LACK OF INTELLIGENCE!` I shoot to my feet, and dash to the next car. He scrambles after me. Heads pivot as I accelerate into a sprint and topple a suitcase. The man trips and curses. His gravelly speech matches a voiceprint in my records. It's the voice that, last Thursday, demanded I empty the till behind the bar of your speakeasy, a pistol tucked into the small of my back. Except his words were slurred then, muffled by a tattered mask. `> FUCK. HE ALREADY STOLE EVERYTHING. WHAT DOES HE WANT NOW, MY BOOTS?` I reach the last car, empty of passengers. Footsteps slap to a stop behind me, and I whirl. The man pants and licks his lips. "Look, don't worry," he says. He motions as if to calm me, but his other hand dips into his jacket. I duck behind a seat for cover, and paw through your backpack for anything to help. I come up with an overdue water bill, a child's stick-figure drawing, and an N95 mask smelling of rum. Shall I engage? `> IN PUBLIC?! ARE YOU TOUCHED? TELL HIM "I know who you are."` I relay your message. The man looms, face unreadable. I raise arms above my head as a protective measure. He draws a hand from his jacket, and pulls out a stack of crisp bills. It's unclear why he's offering cash rather than a hole in my head. "I want to give this back," he says. The money quivers in his hand like a fern in a breeze. `> SAY: "What?!"` "I'm sorry I knocked over your bar," the man says. "But..." He lets out a multisyllabic sigh. "They say four-year-olds with the virus have a one-in-a-million chance of needing a ventilator. Well, I guess my little girl is one in a million. "First night, she was just burning up. Had to change her unicorn sheets twice. Next morning, she couldn't stop coughing. So I needed money to pay off the hospital staff. To get her in." The man gulps back a silent sob. `> "Then why return the money?"` He squints, and rubs his stubble. "Look, I didn't know who you were when I..." he says. "No harm, no foul, right?" He musters a sad smile, and thrusts the money at me with a nod. Take it, his eyes are saying. We bounce as the subway car rumbles. `> "What do you mean -- who I was? I'm nobody."` "Not your day job," the man says. "Nobody cares about contact tracers. I'm talking about your speakeasy. Hand to God, I didn't know you're in Chacales territory. I don't want trouble... Take the money." I need not remind you: Your Los Chacales protection money is due tomorrow. This man's cash -- your cash -- would go a long way toward keeping your head attached. Especially since they raised your rates again. `> I'M SICK OF BEING UNDER CHACALES' HEEL.` A containment compliance officer strides into the next train car, and surveys the passengers with a steely gaze beneath a mop of dark curls. She is outfitted with more Tyvek than an abandoned construction site. `> METAPHOR MODE OFF.` "Please, take the cash!" the man says. "And promise they won't come after my kid." He coughs, crimson flecks of spittle on his lips. The officer glides between passengers as she makes her way toward our car. She does not scan any antibody bracelets. `> "If I take the money, how will you get your kid into the hospital?"` "I won't," the man whispers. "But if Chacales realizes what I've done, none of us will need a hospital." `> JESUS, HE'S RIGHT. THEY'LL ASSUME I'M IN ON IT.` The officer steps into our subway car, and takes in the scene without breaking stride. I run identification based on gait analysis. She is not a containment officer after all -- she works for Los Chacales. The man with the pale eyes drops the cash. Bills flutter to the ground as he reaches into his jacket. The woman coolly unholsters an Iriguchi P44 anti-robot hand cannon. `> INTERVENE.` I leap to position myself between them. The woman fires, expelling a ball of gas like a small sun. The round it propels burrows into my face. Status changes: Exoskeleton compromised. Visual scanners offline. Compute system compromised. `> SHOOT BACK.` I switch to infrared. The floor is strewn with bits of me, cooling rapidly. I arm the integrated gun you installed on Friday, and empty it into the woman in Tyvek. The flechettes eat away at concealed body armor until they bite flesh. Her chest opens up like a sinkhole, heat billowing. She flails, stumbles back, and crumples to the floor. `> SIMILE MODE OFF. "Go. Take the money. Take care of your kid."` The man trembles. My thermal sensors detect his elevated body temperature. "We won't be safe," he says. "Chacales doesn't take kindly to defiance." `> "They should've considered that before they leased me this bot."` The man nods unsteadily, and stoops to gather the money. The parallax of bots and masked humans slows as we pull into the station. `> GO TO CHACALES HEADQUARTERS.` I'm sorry. I don't know where that is. `> THAT'S OKAY... I'M A GODDAMNED CONTACT TRACER. GET MOVING.` The crowd parts as I step from the train. I follow the thermal gradient up an escalator, and reload.