Deep in the heart of Palm city, below the sordid streets of level zero, a young sanitation officer makes his way through the pitch black, silent darkness of an abandoned basement kitchen. The sharp, lingering odour of charred spectral plasma clings to his dusty, stained ISPC overalls. His electromagnetic plasmic dissipator disengaged, all that lights his path is the narrow glare of the emergency light mounted upon his chest. Raw and half cooked food lies abandoned, the evidence of a  sudden and unexpected evacuation strewn over the worktops. The boy treads carefully between fallen pots and pans, his eyes panning up and down in assiduous, yet cautious pursuit. Stepping through an open doorway, finding himself at a dead end, the boy flinches, clutching his dissipator as the door clicks shut behind him. 

“Wait!” he cries, spinning around, leaping at the door and immediately turning the handle. He tries repeatedly to open it, but the handle turns freely on the spindle. He pounds and pounds his fist against the cold steel, yelling for someone to let him out. 

“It’s my first day,” he sighs despondently, resting his head against the door, breathing heavily. Behind him, a soft pink light begins to fill the room, reflecting off the brushed metal shelves and heavy metal walls. Slowly, the boy turns around, his face enveloped by a pale pink glow. His brow  weighed down by impatient frustration, the boy scowls into the eyes of an elderly female spectre, who peers right back as she drifts gracefully through the wall towards him. 

Twenty nine hours earlier, six and a half thousand feet above the ground, a seventeen year old boy perches on the edge of a polished, resin stool. Barely able to keep his eyes open, Laird’s head rests heavily on his hand. Gazing out of the classroom window, he watches the golden glow of graceful nimbus clouds drift by. The muffled voice of his esteemed professor echoes around him like distant rain. Still, Laird catches each and every word, not that his memory could deliver them to him. 

“Right, before you go…” says Professor Kelly, scooping up his notes and sliding them into his shoulder bag. “While you are all familiar with the ISPC Cadet Test, very few of you might be lucky enough to ever take it. To those of you doing so tomorrow, I wish you the very best of luck.”

Laird gasps, lifting his head as the buzzer sounds, signalling the end of the lesson and the end of his school day. He zips up his buckled, blue synthetic leather jacket, and switches on his panels. Varying in size and shape, each panel glows, depicting images and logos of Laird’s favourite brands. Preparing to face the bitter cold, despite the bright sunshine, all but few of the twenty students pull on their gloves. Laird remains seated as his classmates hustle towards the door. Stopping to lean on Laird’s desk, Lori, Laird’s closest childhood friend, waits for the crowd to disperse. Blowing her long white bangs out of her face, she juggles chewing gum around in her mouth, occasionally biting down with forceful purpose.

“Nervous yet?” she asks as they make their way towards the door.

Laird smiles and nods in appreciation at professor Kelly, holding the door open for Lori. “Be worse if I wasn’t,” he mumbles.

“I don’t understand how you can be…” says Lori, “You’re more prepared than anybody!”

“I doubt that,” says Laird.

“You’ve literally been preparing your whole life,” says Lori. “Well… since you were… four.”

“Three,” says Laird, “But, that’s different.”

“How?” asks Lori, turning a dubious glance towards him.

“Most of what my father taught me has had nothing to do with my Cadet training so far,” says Laird. “I don’t expect that to change now.”

As the outer hallway doors slide open, an icy wind wraps around them, pulling them gently towards the open gardens. The huge suspended platform reaches two hundred metres across the sky, cutting the clouds in half. Laird strides beside Lori, towards the west wing of the academy. They walk slowly to avoid the daily rush for the Level Car, a gratifying sway in their steps.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do yet?” asks Laird.

“I’ll probably major,” says Lori, stretching her gum between her teeth.

“In what?” asks Laird.

“Does it really matter?” says Lori, “Whatever useless data I’m employed to traffic, will it really make a difference?”

“That depends on what you do,” says Laird.

“No it doesn’t,” says Lori, turning a stern glance towards him.

“You could still take the job your father…” 

“Yeah right!” says Lori, quickly interrupting, “I’ll just hand the power of my social economic future to one of the few people who have already proved themselves to be the supervillain in my success story.”

“Are things really that bad?” asks Laird.

“That’s just it,” says Lori, “There are no things. No fights… No moments… Nothing!”

As they reach the lookout point, Lori turns to Laird and smiles, the warm light of fond memories brightening her face.

“Remember the first day you walked across here,” says Lori.

“Huh Yeah,” chuckles Laird, “I remember the recurring nightmare of getting blown over the side by a huge gust of wind.”

Lori snickers before blowing a bubble with her gum. “Remember when we used to dream of coming up here and jumping off the side with our glide wings on.”

“We should!” suggests Laird.

“What?” asks Lori, twisting her brow at Laird’s dumbfounded expression. “What’s worse? Gliding down to out-lands, or twenty weeks in correctional labour?”

“Out-lands,” they exclaim together with reverent sincerity.   

They arrive at the West Hall, just in time for a level car to return. As they step inside, Laird leans on the rail and gazes through the thick glass, across the endless carpet of clouds. Close behind them, another student, Fierra, a senior of the advanced metaphysics faculty, steps inside. Twisting her brow upon sight of Laird, Fierra shuffles to the opposite side of the car, zipping up her coat and pulling it up over her mouth.

“Idiot,” mumbles Lori, glancing over at Fierra in disgust. Laird chooses to ignore her presence, evading any futile confrontation. Not that he would wish for anyone to find out, but, he can appreciate and understand Fierra’s aversion to the spectrally proximate.

“Is that really necessary?” asks Lori, curling her lip and scowling at Fierra.

“Yes, actually,” mumbles Fierra, under her collar. “The evidence may not be published yet, but-your little friend is quite contagious, there-for as are you!”

Other students hurry into the car before the doors slide shut and it begins its descent, accelerating towards the ground. 

“What d’you think you’re gonna catch?” asks Lori, folding her arms as she turns to face Fierra. “Death?”

Fierra rolls her eyes. “There are plenty of reasons why I wouldn’t be caught alive fraternising with the dead. Perhaps you should do your research.”

Not wishing to cause a scene, Lori holds her tongue, cutting a narrow glare across the car at Fierra. She zips up her jacket, stopping her necklace from levitating as the car hurtles towards level five, just a thousand feet below the academy. Laird lifts his head and watches as they pass through the clouds. The bright sunlight is dimmed to a golden glow as the level five block races by behind him. Escaping his thoughts for a brief moment, Laird closes his eyes. An absent familiarity of welcome relief leaves only the stark reality that accompanies his impending transformation, solidified by a replenishing clarity and a certainty seldom found.

As the car slows to a stop, Lori’s eyes follow Fierra as she strides out of the car, gasping for fresh filtered, detoxified, level five air. Lori turns around to admire the elegant, bright, spotless interior of the West foyer. Home to those in high level governing groups or wealthy industry leaders, level five, like the academy and science level above, is home only to the living.

“Have you thought about where you’re going to live yet?” asks Lori, the doors sliding shut, obscuring her enamoured and covetous gaze. How she has dreamed to ascend just one more level. How she has longed to enjoy the sweet, decadent fruits of the highest of highs.

Laird scoffs, “I don’t know. It’s either a twenty four hour patrol party, or, I become your neighbour. It’s a tough decision.”

“I don’t understand why anyone would want to live down there,” says Lori, quickly turning towards Laird apologetically. “No offence!”

“Level two’s not that bad,” says Laird. “We’ve got level three-like security, and we get a view of level one at night, so…”

“But, you’ll be on the ground,” says Lori. “When I get my own place, I don’t wanna hear P.S alarms, people screaming for help, and New Wave karaoke all night.”

Laird and Lori look at each other in a prolonged moment of silence. Suddenly, each succumb to infectious laughter as the level car falls and accelerates towards level four.

“You wanna grab something to eat?” asks Lori as the car begins to slow down.

“I would,” says Laird, “But, mom finished early today, so… We’re having a family dinner tonight.”

Lori raises her brow in optimistic expectation, but Laird just looks away, shaking his head and pressing his lips together. 

“Sorry,” says Lori, embarrassed by her hasty presumption.

“It’s-okay,” says Laird, shaking his head once more.

While Lori holds out hope for her friend to return, Laird’s hands have lay empty for quite some time.

“It’s not okay,” says Lori. “I know how you feel.”

“It’s just another dinner,” says Laird, pulling a smile across his face. “But, if he comes home, I’ll let you know.”

The level Car hums to a stop.

“I know you won’t need it, but… Good luck,” says Lori as the doors slide open.

“Thanks,” says Laird, before they reach out and tap the back of their hands together twice. “Speak to you… Saturday?” he asks with uncertainty.

Lori steps out of the car and turns to face Laird, her hands held out by her sides. “Call me after the Test!” she insists.

“Oh… Right… Yeah,” says Laird before the doors slide shut once more, and level four quickly disappears above him.

Laird cannot help but hang his head as he ambles through the hallways of his block level. He ignores the security guard as he passes through the south foyer. Behind him, the south level car arrives from level one. Before the doors have even opened, translucent spectral figures rush through the steel and glass. Laird is unmoved as the ghosts race past him and disappear up the hallway.

“Hi Laird,” says a warm, inviting voice.

Laird stops and turns to see his neighbour drifting through the wall beside her door.

“Hi Mrs Fernis,” says Laird, walking backwards as he smiles at her. “Your door still broken?”

“No! It broke… again!” she exclaims, resting her hands on her hips. Laird shakes his head and continues up the hallway. Behind him, a young spectral boy floats up to Mrs Fernis before they float through the wall back into her apartment, leaving a faint spectral stain.

As Laird arrives home he’s scanned by the security system and the door slides open before him. He strides towards his room and throws his bag onto the hook on the wall. 

“Hi Laird,” says Helen, sprinkling salt into a steaming pot before tasting her stew with a resin spoon.

“No way,” says Laird as he enters the kitchen and immediately leans over the pot, inhaling deeply. “Mom! You’re making Roach and Stew?”

“Of course,” says Helen, leaning over and kissing Laird on his cheek. “I was gonna wait, but… I thought it might help if you had your favourite meal the day before.”

“As long as the Cadet Test is nothing like the weapons training,” says a rough, seasoned voice as an elderly spectral man glides through the kitchen doorway behind them.

“Let it go, Grandpa,” says Laird as he strides across the kitchen.

“Oh dad,” says Helen, grimacing at her unwelcome memory.

“I still can’t believe you threw up more while you were there, than when you got home,” says Grandpa. “What a sight that would have been!”

“Grandpa!” says Laird, glancing over in disgust as he pulls open the fridge.

“Know anything about it yet?” asks Grandpa.

“No,” says Laird, “We’re not supposed to know anything about the test beforehand. And besides, they change it every year. The only people who could know anything are those two brats, but it’s unlikely their father would make it easy for them.”

“He wouldn’t need to,” says Grandpa. “From what I can gather; they’re both literally built for the task.”

“They’re still human,” says Laird. “Even if we’re not exactly… Equal.”

“Well… Once your a Patrol Officer I guess it won’t matter,” says Grandpa, floating into the lounge. “I’m sure you’ll see much worse when your down in the streets.”

Laird flinches, startled as cutlery crashes to the ground. “Mom? You okay?”

“Just go and set the table,” says Helen, turning away to hide the concern on her face. 

Laird steps back. “Okay,” he says softly before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

 Laird sits at the table with his family, enjoying his mother’s salt and pepper fried roach and spiced stew. Unable to eat, taste, and still having not learned to touch, Grandpa inhales deeply. “As cruel as this living hell might be, I am blessed by the smell of your cooking, sweetheart.”

“Thanks dad,” says Helen, smiling at him with a sympathetic arc in her brow.

“I must say, Laird, I do look forward to visiting you up on level four,” says Grandpa.

Laird shuffles in his seat, “I don’t know whether or not I’ll be going up there yet, Grandpa.”

Helen gulps down her drink and slams her cup back down onto the table. “Don’t tell me you’re even thinking about moving down to barracks!” she growls.

“I am still thinking about it,” says Laird, pressing his hands anxiously into his knees.

“Absolutely not!” says Helen.

“Mom… It’s not that…” says Laird before he’s interrupted.

“Do you really think I’m going to send my son down there…” says Helen, “So I can go to bed each night, wondering if I’ll ever see you again!”

“Mom… It’s not that bad,” says Laird, “The TV makes things look so much worse. Besides, on level four I’m gonna be on my own… Right?” Laird glances at Grandpa for support. “At least at ground level I’ll be surrounded by my unit… My squad.”

“You’ll be surrounded by gang members and drug addicts,” says Helen, squeezing her napkin in her fist.

“They’re not like that, mom,” says Laird, leaning back in disappointment. “They’re officers!”

“I’m not a fool, Laird,” says Helen, “I’m well aware that the media like to tell their own story. That doesn’t change the fact that a lot of what they show you is actually happening. And I don’t want you to be a part of that.”

“You don’t even want me to become a Patrol Officer,” says Laird.

“Of course I don’t!” says Helen, her chin quivering, her eyes flooding with tears. 

“So-what… Mom, I’m just supposed to stay here forever… Because Miles never comes home!?”

“This is not about Miles!” cries Helen.

“It’s always about Miles!” cries Laird, slamming his hand down onto the table.

“Why are you always trying to blame your brother?” asks Helen.

“I’m not,” says Laird, “It’s you! You’re the one expecting me to do everything just like Miles. And-if-I-don’t… It’s just not good enough!”

Helen lets out a short but heavy breath. “Laird! That’s just not true…”

Suddenly, a loud thud interrupts them both. Laird and Grandpa rush over to the balcony. Laird leans over, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see through the smog.

“I’ll go down and take a look,” says Grandpa.

“Okay, but, be careful,” says Laird.

Grandpa glides through the balustrade and drifts down towards level two, disappearing into the smog. Illuminated by the bright city lights beneath it, the thick mixture of steam, smoke, and mist sparkles like a Christmas decoration. Only through small fissures can Laird make out both the living and the dead, running away from the inner city. As some of the spectres drift up into the air in search of a clearer view of whatever’s happening, Laird catches the eye of an elderly spectre who appears shocked to have seen him. 

A second loud thud draws Laird’s attention as a strong gust of wind thins the smog. Between the blocks across the street, beyond the Extreme Entertainment Multimedia Complex, a reddish, purple glow appears to be emanating through the vast columns of the First Earth Museum. Laird peers wide eyed into the distance, unable to make out exactly what’s happening, unaware of the elderly spectre who slowly drifts towards him.

Deep beneath the suspended streets of level two, tucked away within the crowded city blocks of level one, an alarm begins to sound. Lights flash across every ceiling inside the headquarters of the Palm City International Supernatural Paranormal Control, or ISPC. Spread across the back seat of a canteen booth, chewing on a triple ball of hemp gum, sits Cassius McQueen, captain of Shadow Squad, the Elite Patrol Unit Squadron. His recreational visor over his eyes, McQueen appears unaware of the siren that echoes through the canteen. To his right, the double doors burst open. In strides Miss Jessica Jones, Shadow Squad lieutenant and Senior Response Pilot. McQueen frowns, lifting his visor.

“Always a pleasure lieutenant,” he mumbles, looking her up and down with seductive intent in his eyes.

“Captain,” says Jess, leisurely raising her hand in salute. Her eyes widen as she licks her lips in excitement. “We have a possible stage five on level two!”

“Five!” splutters McQueen, almost swallowing his gum and coughing it back into his mouth. He sits up, snatching off his visor and placing it down onto the table. McQueen peers into Jess’ eyes, grinning at the sincerity on the lieutenants face. “Fire up the bird, lieutenant. I’ll see you top-side.”

“Yes sir,” says Jess, rushing back through the doors and racing up the hallway.  

The streets of level two are a wash with humans and spectres alike as they scurry to find safety. ISPC Patrol Officers arrive at the museum steps, setting their bewildered eyes upon a huge, expanding, plasmic orb as it cracks the concrete and shatters the glass of the museum entry hall. Grandpa drifts to a stop on the other side of the museum gardens. He watches as the Patrol Officers open fire on the orb, sending electromagnetic static shooting through the air to no avail. Watching the huge, purple monstrosity suffer minimal damage while it continues to grow, Grandpa turns and hurries back through the streets.

Laird clings tight to the railing, leaning forward in an attempt to make out more detail through the glow of electromagnetic glare. He turns his head slightly as an unfamiliar yet recognisable rumble grows louder. The low frequency hum draws nearer and nearer, until, suddenly, through the smog bursts the Shadow Fist, Shadow Squad’s Patrol Carrier. The Large, flying, tank like vehicle is surrounded by a bright electromagnetic defence grid. Laird laughs through shallow breath shaking his fist maniacally as the Shadow Fist soars past beneath him and darts around the corner towards the museum.

“Laird!” cries Helen. “Laird!”

“Mom, you won’t believe what I just saw!” cries Laird, glancing over his shoulder.

“Laird! Get in here!” cries Helen, louder this time, with inarguable tone.

Laird glances over his shoulder once more. Realising he’ll most likely see no more than he has already, he ambles back inside.

Helen is sat on the couch, gazing into the TV as the news reporter describes the scene at the museum. “Is that..?” asks Helen, pointing an unsteady finger at the screen.

Laird’s mouth peels open in disbelief as he slowly sits down next to her. Lost for words, Laird watches the spectre ooze out of the museum as it cracks and crumbles around it. 

“No, no it’s not the same,” says Laird, placing his hand softly on his mother’s back.

The reporter grasps the collar of her coat and raises her voice over the noise as the Shadow Fist soars above her head.

“The spectre appears to be another stage five anatomical anomaly,” she explains. “Although, I don’t think we’ve ever seen a full plasmic spectre of such magnitude. Like I said; so far, First Response Patrol Officers haven’t been able to subdue the creature which continues to grow larger, tearing apart, almost lifting the twelve hundred year old roof off this famous building.”

Behind her, Shadow Squad drop down to the ground in their customised, full E-Mag armour and X-Mag Assault Packs. All of them but McQueen rush towards the museum while the Captain turns and approaches the reporter.

“You might wanna move way back, if you wanna catch us all on camera,” says McQueen, winking at the camera before he turns and strides towards the museum.

McQueen’s footsteps thud, click and hiss as the electromagnetic shield buzzes and sparkles between his boots and the cold fibre-stone. He stops, looking up at what appears to be some sort of head and neck emerging from the enormous ghost.

“What in god’s name are you?” asks McQueen.

“We’re barely making a dent, Cap,” cries Hass, Shadow Squad’s big gun, firing their largest E-mag field assault rifle at the spectre. “Our weapons aren’t enough,” he cries, his wide eyes filled with urgent expectation.

“If we can’t gun it down…” cries McQueen, “Let’s cut-it-up!”

Hass smiles, tapping the comms button on his glove. “All units, the captain has requested a slice and dice… I repeat, all units, the captain has requested a slice and dice. Timers on my mark… I repeat, timers on my mark.” 

Hass stops firing and reaches for a small sphere attached to his armour. He points his first finger on his right hand at the menu on his heads-up display, tapping his middle finger against his thumb to select and adjust the sphere activation timer. Hass looks up at the museum and taps ‘map,’ immediately loading a three dimensional diagram of the museum. He taps perimeter X and Y, then taps ‘intersect’ before he tosses his sphere up into the air. The sphere whips through the night like a shooting star, stopping dead at the corner column of the museum. The seven other officers toss their spheres into the air, each of them snapping into position and forming a cube around the museum.

“Three… two… one… Suraisu,” growls Hass, holding his teeth together. 

The orbs burst into a blue glow, connecting with each other by an electronic spark which passes through the museum, cutting through the giant spectre, slicing it into four. The spectre roars, causing the reporter to duck before glancing over her shoulder.

“As you can see…” cries the reporter, “It appears the Shadow Squad are now attempting to cut the creature down using their electromagnetic containment spheres, a tactic we saw during the anti -human riots of twenty ninety five.”

The Shadow Squad resume firing on the spectre, in hope that it will begin to fall. McQueen stares up at the gigantic head of the beast as it flails from side to side, roaring so loud, the keychains on McQueen’s armour rattle against the carbon alloy plates. Unable to see any significant damage to the spectre, McQueen curls his lip. He looks over his shoulder towards the Shadow Fist, in search of justification for his back-up plan.

“Captain…” says a young softly spoken voice, over comms, “We may have a problem.”

“What is it, Mo,” asks McQueen, “What-you-got?”

“What we’ve got are two more heads back here,” says Mozart, the youngest of the Shadow Squad, still firing at the spectre.

“Make that three!” says another voice as Mariana fires at the fourth head.

Hanging his head, McQueen arrives with a heavy heart at the conclusion that he has little or no alternative. But, before he can respond, McQueen notices Hass peering up at the sky. He turns and looks up, scowling in defiant fortitude.

Caught mid sentence, the reporter falls silent as she catches a glimpse of the sky. The camera operator points the lens skyward. Almost drowned by the roars of the spectre, desperate screams of spectral residents echo through the streets as they appear to be pulled out of their homes, towards the museum.

“Lieutenant,” says McQueen, watching as terrified residents are dragged across the sky against their will. “Deploy the H.P.U.”

“Yes sir,” says Jess, tapping on the Shadow Fist’s control console. 

With a loud, heavy click, a door in the Shadow Fist’s underbelly slides open. Out drops a large cube shaped cage, surrounded by an electromagnetic defence grid. It slows as it nears the ground, coming to a stop with a mild thud. Hass and McQueen approach the cube, kneeling down beside it.

“Mira,” says McQueen, “We need your help.”

Inside the cage, crouched in the centre, a young girl opens her eyes. Dressed in her own bespoke anti-static suit, her long hair hangs over her face and reaches down to the floor. Mira turns around. She peers through her thick black hair at McQueen who looks back at her with stoic indignation.

“This one’s too strong,” says McQueen, “But we can hurt it. If there’s any chance you can bring it down, I know we can finish it off.”

Mira turns her head and peers through the cage, glaring at the huge spectre as it continues to tear through the museum.

“You sure she still can?” asks Hass, flinching as Mira turns sharply, her eyes glowing a deep orange as she scowls back at him.

“Sorry… I’m-sorry,” says Hass, raising both hands in front of his face.

“Let’s go,” says McQueen, before they each grab a handle on the sides of the cage and carry Mira towards the museum.

“What is that? What are they carrying?” asks Helen, leaning towards the TV.

“It’s an H.P.U,” says Laird, “A Hyper Paranormal Unit. I’ve never seen one in person, but, they’re supposed to be powerful ghosts who can do things no other ghosts can.”

“Well…” says Helen inhaling deeply and sipping her drink, “I’m glad it’s on our side.”

McQueens glove crackles and sparks as the cage’s defence grid phases with his own. He glances down at Mira, then looks across to meet the concerned gaze of Hass.

“Me too,” says Laird, “Although, everything I’ve learned in training tells me… They don’t really take sides.”

Hass and McQueen set the cage down at the foot of the museum steps. McQueen nods at Hass who raises his brow before taking three steps back. Scrolling through his heads up display, McQueen enters his access code. He also steps back, bracing himself before he deactivates the cage’s defence grid. Mira reaches forward through the inner shell and wraps her hand around the outer bars. Realising her cage is no longer protected, a wide, sinister smile reaches across Mira’s face.

“Let’s keep-em busy,” says McQueen over comms, firing his dissipator at the spectre. The other officers open fire on the beast as it continues to grow, despite being continually sliced into four.

Helen covers her mouth with her hand, unsettled by the graphic images of injured civilians that appear on the TV. Archived footage of another giant spectre plays in the background, while the reporter continues.

“The last time McQueen resorted to such tactics, he was subject to harsh disciplinary action which resulted in his removal from the task force as a result of the devastating loss of fifty two lives during the East Bridge incident on level three in the winter of twenty ninety five.”

“He saved thousands of lives that day,” says Laird pointing a disgruntled finger at the television, “And they’re still trying to blame him.”

“Laird,” says Helen, turning to face him. “Where’s Grandpa?”

Laird’s eyes fill with despair. He leaps off the couch and rushes over to the balcony. As he clutches to the rail, an elderly spectre sinks into the wall beside him, disappearing out of sight. Laird desperately searches the sky, only to see countless spectres being dragged through walls, out of their homes, crying and screaming as they reach for their loved ones. Helen quickly joins Laird on the balcony.

“I don’t see him! I can’t see him!” says Laird, between hurried, shallow breaths.

Mira reaches through her cage, raising her palm into the air. The spectre looks down at Mira, still seething as it continues to be bombarded by dissipation fire. McQueen glances over at Mira and smiles before, quite suddenly, a huge arm with a claw-like hand protrudes from the spectres guts. Mira pulls her arm back inside as the spectre reaches down and takes hold of the entire cage, lifting it into the air.

“Mira!” cries McQueen, still firing at the beast, his weapons indicator beeping at him as the temperature reaches warning level.

Mira holds onto the inner bars of the cage while the spectre brings her closer to its face. Calmly, Mira shuffles forwards, reaching through the bars. She closes her eyes before touching the spectre softly. Suddenly, the spectre tosses the cage away, recoiling and shaking its head in confusion.

Releasing his weapon, McQueen hurriedly scrolls through his heads up display, activating the cage’s defence grid. The grid activates only a fraction of a second before the cage hits the ground, bouncing and tumbling across the museum gardens, breaking into pieces. Mira is thrown into the air, crashing to the ground, tangled amongst the remains of the cage. Hass and Mozart look over in visible distress as they watch McQueen race towards the wreckage. But, before McQueen can reach her, Mira rises from the ground. She kneels in the dirt, her eyes wide, glowing a deep purple. McQueen skids to a stop.

“It’s coming down!” cries Hass. The spectre roars in anguish as the dissipators begin to cut through it. McQueen looks up to see the spectral residents slow to a stop before each of them hurry back to their homes, leaving a trail of spectral glow behind them. 

“About damn time,” says McQueen over comms, looking over his shoulder as the spectre begins to fall. “Spread em out… And watch your range. Residents might still be close by.”

“There he is!” says Laird, pointing towards the museum. Helen searches desperately until she sets eyes on her father’s face once more. Grandpa drifts towards the balcony.

“Grandpa…” says Laird, “Thank god you’re safe!”

“Safe… Yes,” says Grandpa, “But I’m still none the wiser. What on earth is going on?”

“Come on, inside,” says Helen, pushing Laird through the doors. She glances at the television before rushing over to the console in the reception.

“What are you doing?” asks Laird.

“Activating the E.S.G,” says Helen.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asks Grandpa. “If I get pulled through that I’m afraid I won’t survive.”

“You won’t. Look!” says Helen, turning up the volume on the television.

McQueen steps slowly towards Mira, her eyes still glowing a bright deep purple. Mira’s body shakes as she attempts to contain the power she has absorbed, her hair rising into the air carried by a static charge that lifts the dirt from around her knees.

“Mira,” pleads McQueen, reaching out towards her as he approaches. “Let it go! Please!” 

Mira lifts her head skyward, her veins bulging beneath her skin as a static charge begins to spark and buzz around her.

“Mira!” says McQueen, crouching a few metres before her, “I can’t help you if you don’t let it go… Now… Let it go! Please!”

A tear rolls out of Mira’s eye, immediately evaporated by a spark. “I can’t… Hold… On,” cries Mira through gritted teeth.

“It’s down, Mira. Just let it go,” says McQueen. “I promise you… It will not happen again.” he reaches out to Mira once more, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Mira struggles to look down towards McQueens outstretched hand as her hair bursts into flames. She screams in anguish,  relinquishing the spectre’s power, sending a bright purple glow shooting into the sky. McQueen leaps forward, catching Mira, her limp body collapsing into his arms. The remainder of the Shadow Squad stand together on the museum steps. The remains of the spectre spills over the cold concrete as they watch McQueen carry Mira across the gardens.

With a loud hum and a gust of cool wind, the Shadow Fist turns to a stop before them. The  Squad leap on board before it immediately takes off and drifts over McQueens head to the other side of the gardens. As it lowers towards the ground, the Shadow Squad Elite Patrol Officers look at each other with subdued concern. McQueen looks each of his squad in their eyes as he climbs aboard and carries Mira to the rear of the ship.

Laird watches as the news camera follows the Shadow Fist as it rises into the air and flies away. He lowers his head, listening to the faint rumble as he hears the Shadow Fist fly by. A small icon in the corner of the TV screen begins to flash as a melodic beep rings softly around the apartment.

“I’ll take it in my room,” says Laird before he strides out of the lounge. Closing his door behind him, Laird taps the comms key on his console. His screen lights up, revealing Lori’s perplexed face.

“What in the holy ghost just happened?” asks Lori, shaking her head as she peers into her screen. “C’mon Laird, you’re the Senior Cadet! What was that?”

Laird sits down on the corner of his bed, staring at the floor. “As far as I can tell…” he murmurs, “That may have been a stage five H.P.U spectre.”

“No way…” says Lori, “What does that mean. I mean… I know what it means, but, what does it mean?”

“It could mean a disturbance in spectral dimensional frequencies,” says Laird, turning his head to one side. “It could mean that something has changed here, or, something has changed there.”

Lori sits back in her chair, running her fingers through her hair in shock. “There? As in, the stage five spectral dimension?”

“It’s probable… ” says Laird, looking up at Lori on his screen.

“Then… Are you saying… This isn’t an isolated incident?” asks Lori.

“I’m saying… It’s unlikely,” says Laird.

“Okay…” says Lori, taking a long deep breath. “So… My parents are freaking out. We’re not going out now, so, we’re getting an order in. Listen… I’ve gotta go, but, good luck tomorrow… okay. And Laird… Be careful!”

“Okay… Thanks,” says Laird.

“Call me!” says Lori. Laird falls back onto his bed as the screen shrinks out of sight revealing Laird’s animated Shadow Fist screensaver.

“Dad… What was that?” asks Helen, “What the hell just happened?”

“I have no idea,” says Grandpa, “But, I think we’re safe now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Helen, hurrying over to the security console. 

“I have to talk to him,” she says, deactivating the E.S.G.

“You won’t change his mind,” says Grandpa.

“Maybe not,” says Helen, “But… He has to know how I feel.”

Grandpa nods before Helen strides out of the lounge and through the hallway.

Laird types frantically, creating another entry into his journal. He stops typing as there’s a knock on his bedroom door.

“Laird?” says Helen.

“Come in, mom,” says Laird turning to face the door in his chair. Helen opens the door and steps inside. She glances around at Laird’s neat and tidy room, discouraged by a lack of dirty socks, wrinkled shirts, or any sign of typical adolescent debris.

“I just… Laird, I just want you to know that I support you. I love you so much,” says Helen. “I don’t want anything to come between us, even if we disagree. I know you’re doing what you think is best. And I’m just trying to do the same, okay?”

“Okay,” says Laird nodding his head softly.

“I know what it means for you to become a patrol officer,” says Helen, glancing at the poster screen of McQueen behind Laird’s desk. “I know what it would mean to your father. But I am proud of you. I will always be proud of you… Patrol officer or Clean up crew.”

Laird glances at the floor, in dismissal of his mothers words.

“It still scares the hell out of me,” says Helen, quickly wiping a tear from her face, “But it’s more important to me that you’re happy.” 

“I’m gonna be safe mom, I promise,” says Laird.

“I know… I know. And I know you’re gonna ace that damn test,” says Helen, laughing through her nose.

Laird laughs along with her, swinging back and forth in his chair.

“Try and get some sleep,” says Helen.

Laird nods before Helen turns and closes the door behind her. He leans back in his chair,  uplifted by a welcome, yet temporary relief from the numbing anxiety shackled to his every thought. Haunted by silence, Laird leans into the absence of his father’s voice. His eyes resting on an image more familiar than he cares to acknowledge. Not that any man could replace what he had lost. Even his father’s ghost would be dwarfed by the commanding figure he once was. Yet, Laird yearns little for the man that he once knew. Desperately, he looks upon the man he is destined to become, unaware of the glowing spectre that drifts away from his window.

As the sun rises, a warm golden glow bleeds through the voids between the interconnecting roads on level two. Suspended over two hundred and fifty feet above ground zero, level two is caught by its own shadow, lit by sunlamps that hang over the streets. Humming as they cascade from the skies above, level cars glide down the sides of the city blocks, disappearing into the many foyers on each side of the buildings. As the doors slide open in the west foyer of block fourteen, a pair of shiny blue boots click against the stone floor as Lori strides into the hallway. Twisting her shoulders, navigating her way through the crowds, Lori’s bright red lips bounce up and down as she chews on her gum. Her brow stiffened, her eyes slightly closed, Lori gazes forward with vacant disregard as electronic beats flood her retro, custom fitted headphones. 

Strutting through the hallways in her expensive, gloss pink, retro jacket and manta black body suit, Lori can feel the eyes of weekend commuters watching her as she passes. Arriving at the door to Laird’s apartment, Lori removes her headphones and taps her jacket, switching the music off. As she lifts her hand to knock, the door slides open. Laird stands in his hallway with his back to Lori, saying his goodbyes to his family.

“Lori,” says Helen, forcing a smile and wiping tears from her face.

“Hi Mrs James, Mr James,” says Lori.

“Hey,” says Laird, tapping his heel on the ground, tightening his automatic boot. 

“Hey,” says Lori, stepping back as Laird picks up his backpack and steps outside. “I figured I should make sure you didn’t get cold feet or something.”

“Buy guys,” says Laird as he throws on his backpack. “I thought you were going to Star City this weekend?” he asks.

“I was,” says Lori, striding beside Laird as they head down the hallway. “You haven’t heard?” 

“Heard what?” asks Laird.

“Thing-is…” says Lori, “I didn’t wanna wake you, but, there was another massive spectral event late last night. I thought you would have got a notification or something, ya-know, being a cadet.”

“What kind of event?” asks Laird.

“Check your feed cadet,” says Lori, punching Laird on the shoulder. “Some crazy stage fours made it past block security on level three, and apparently they took some guy out of his apartment and tried to…”

Laird stops and turns to Lori, pressing his hands together. “Lori-listen… You know I’m all in when it comes to investigating anything and everything weird. But right now… I feel like I should just solely focus on the test… you-know.”

A long still moment lingers heavily as it passes. Lori reaches out and taps her fist softly against the middle of Laird’s chest. “I hear you,” she replies affectionately, “That was possibly the smartest thing I think you’ve ever said… Ever! But it makes sense. Just don’t shoot yourself in the face, okay?”

Laird smiles, embraced by a calming appreciation for the unconditional support from his best friend. “I promise not to shoot myself in the face.”

 Lori turns around and slides her headphones back over her ears. Swallowing his guilt, Laird watches with regret as she struts away back down the hallway. Jaded by the mask that resembles his true face, Laird’s guilt is doused by a sweet and satisfying relief. The inescapable temptation of his deepest most authentic affections dwindles as it disappears out of sight. 

Numbed by adaptation to an inescapable clarity, Lairds anxiety is quelled by his relentless focus. Arriving at the west service hall, he strolls up to the desk, glancing over at the elevators. Accessible by service engineers and emergency services, the ISPC grade elevators are almost impenetrable. The wide metal doors and narrow windows provide little clue to their contrasting interior. 

“You’re a little early cadet,” says Neo, the level two Senior Guard, leaning over the security desk and tapping fists with Laird. 

“I’d rather wait in peace,” says Laird.

“I hear that,” says Neo, “But, you’re not the first. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” says Laird, nodding at Neo before he steps between the scanners. The elevator door slides open and Laird steps inside. He sits at the back of the elevator pushing his bag underneath his seat, behind the netting. He fastens the harness over his shoulders and around his waist. A loud tone rings around the elevator. As the lights dim, the red stop buttons next to each seat and on the walls begin to flash. As a second tone sounds, Laird takes a deep breath. Suddenly, Laird is thrown into the harness as the elevator plummets towards level zero, accelerating almost instantly to one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Laird holds on tightly to the handles on his seat, looking to his right at the seats that his squad would soon fill.

After just a few seconds the elevator slows gradually, quickly reacquainting Laird with his body weight before it comes to a stop. He grabs his bag and exits the elevator, nodding at the level zero security guard as he hurries past. The security guard nods and smiles, his spectral eyes glowing beneath his antique security officers cap. Laird navigates his way through the halls of level zero with rehearsed, yet never the less, extreme caution. He twists and turns, attempting to avoid colliding with the many spectral residents who float and walk around him. As he emerges out onto the city streets, the sun-lamps paint a trail between the city blocks that disappear into the sky above. Unaware that he is being pursued, Laird strides towards the ISPC headquarters, a dark mysterious spectre drifting through the crowds only a few seconds behind him.

Laird reaches the ISPC and signs in at the reception desk. Arriving at the lower level of the huge, unassuming building, Laird joins a few of the other cadets who have registered early. As more of the cadets arrive, the room begins to hum with conversation and nervous energy. Laird leans against the wall, staring at the marbled resin floor. Sparkling beneath the bright ceiling lights, the swirling patterns of grey and black are interrupted by a dark shadow that slides towards him.

“You’re Laird… Right?” asks Paison, a tall, slender cadet, his spiky, gelled, dark purple hair pushed to one side. Removing his retro sunglasses, Paison reveals his frat tattoos below his striking purple dyed eyes.

“Oh… Here we go,” whispers Sydia, nudging her friend, Hakim, in his side.

“What?” asks Hakim, turning to face her.

“Paison just can’t help himself,” says Sydia, nodding towards Paison before they both turn to watch. “He might be more talented, but his brother wouldn’t have let his ego get the better of him.”

“You think he’s jealous?” murmurs Hakim.

“Of course he’s jealous!” hisses Sydia, “He’s the son of The Captain Greystone… A genetically identical clone of the highest scoring Patrol Officer in the region… And he’s ranked second to a previously unknown, organic, level two block bug.”

Laird lifts his head to look Paison in the eyes, pausing for a brief moment before he nods, “Uh-huh” he grunts.

“You’re the guy who’s sitting on a Nine Hundred…” says Paison. “Just a few hours away from getting a perfect score!”

“Maybe. But, yeah… that’s me,” says Laird, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I thought so,” says Paison, nodding and grinning as he looks Laird up and down. “I’m Paison… I just came over to wish you luck, that’s-all.” Paison grins, revealing his fused front teeth, and holding out his huge, manicured hand.

Laird takes Paison’s hand, expecting to shake it. “Thanks,” he says, reluctantly.

“Hey, it’s my pleasure. I know how difficult this must be for you…” says Paison, holding tightly to Laird’s hand and peering into his eyes. “Knowing that you really don’t belong here… Knowing that you’re only here because your a rags to riches story, and mummy needs the credits to keep her off the streets.”

Overhearing Paison’s words, more of the other cadets begin to look over at them. Paison glances over to a small group of cadets who grin back at him, before he turns his venomous glare back to Laird.

“You know that’s why they let you in the program, right… You know you’re only here to be the company mascot, an advert to entice the poor, and recruit patrol fodder. I can’t imagine just how difficult and embarrassing it must be for you and your family… And yet, you’re doing so well! Keep it up, and we’ll celebrate your success when we make it down to barracks.”

Paison throws Laird’s hand across his body, laughing in his face so maniacally that the whole room turns to face them.

“Cadets!” booms a loud, authoritative voice from the front desk, “Front and centre!” 

The cadets immediately make their way to the centre of the room where they face General Dallas Cole-Connors. The broad shouldered, portly General casts a formidable and imposing figure as he breathes deeply, filling his massive chest.

“Congratulations… all of you. Not only have you earned the respect of your senior officers, but, you’ve also proved yourselves to be the best among the best of this terms cadets. This is an achievement none should take lightly. However, your most challenging test begins now. Those of you who pass today’s field test will be offered full time employment as an ISPC Patrol Officer. I’m sure I need not tell you just how valuable a role that is.”

If anything, Laird considers the General’s words quite understated. He can think of nothing more valuable than to be granted permission to hunt down troublesome and often deadly ghosts and destroy them with the most elaborate and exciting electromagnetic weapons in the world. Less thrilled at the prospect of receiving open invitations to any and every V.I.P event, with a leap towards international celebrity status, Laird knows, despite her reservations, his mother would find it difficult to decline a most sought after move to the luxurious level four commercial suites. Even though most have come to terms with the fact that the dangers, long hours, physical and psychological demands far outweigh the rewards, Laird holds on to a far more intangible motivation.

The General steps back, inviting a female officer to join him. Standing only five feet and eight inches tall, with her high faded bangs and silver eye shadow, the officer is instantly recognised by every cadet in the room.

“Some of you may need no introduction to Captain Asuga Kato…” says the General, “One of our most talented Cadets, a legend among our Patrol Officers, and an invaluable asset as a Captain of our best and brightest first response unit. Captain.”

“Thank you, General,” says Asuga, nodding at the General before she steps forward, straightening her  uniform.

“In a few moments, you will be entering the ISPC’s largest testing centre,” says Asuga, glancing up at the monitor high up on the wall behind her. The cadets gaze up at the screen which displays a video of the testing centre interior. “Once inside, you will suit up and be briefed for one of the most difficult tests the ISPC have ever put together. Your weapons will be live. Your targets will be deadly.”

Paison glances over his shoulder and grins at Laird, who stares straight ahead, pretending not to notice.

“Listen carefully, because I mean what I’m about to say,” says Asuga. “This test is pass or fail. Those of you with maximum credits will not graduate if you fail. Those of you who may have made it here by a single point will of course graduate with a pass.”

Laird’s heart beat thuds in his throat. While he gazes at the back of another cadet’s head, Laird’s vision is flooded by images of McQueen and his squad, the Shadow Fist, and the empty seats in the service elevator.

“Follow me,” says Asuga, turning and pushing open the huge double doors.

The cadets follow closely behind her, walking into a huge room with a ceiling so high, each and every cadet immediately gazes up at it. Ahead of them, a huge high wall spans the width of the room and looms over a row of doors numbered one to twenty. At each side of the room are Utility hubs, wide cages containing Patrol suits, E.D.G gear, and the same ISPC weapons the cadets used in their weapons module.

“Suit up cadets’, cries Asuga. “Once you’re ready, take a seat at the back of the room.”

The cadets get dressed, attaching their E.D.G gear and weapons. One of the last to be ready, Laird sits down in one of the remaining seats on the front row. He tightens the strap beneath his headgear, adjusting his helmet.

Asuga delivers her full engagement briefing, striding up and down in front of the cadets, demonstrating the safety features of the E.D.G units. Her words drift by Laird like muted white noise. He catches sporadic, recognisable phrases between his loud and unrelenting inner narrative of excited and anxious expectation.

A loud buzzer sounds, hurling Laird into the stark reality of the present. Asuga looks high above the cadets raising her thumb into the air.

“Control room ready?” she murmurs into her comms unit.

Laird looks over his shoulder, bending his neck to look up at the large window that hangs above the staircase before the entry.

“Kennedy! You’re up!” says Asuga, waving one of the cadets over and leading her to door number one. Laird watches while Asuga reassures the cadet before the door slides open and the cadet leaps inside. A loud snap rings around the cavernous room as the door quickly slides shut behind her. Asuga turns and quickly marches over to the cadets.

High up in the control room, Patrol Officers watch the monitors for testing zone one. The view from the cadet’s goggles appears on the first screen. The second and third screens display a high resolution image of the test through drone cameras that follow her.

Laird gazes down at his boots until, finally, he hears his name called. 

“James, Laird, you’re up!” says Asuga.

Laird can barely feel his body move as he stands, but as he walks over to doorway number sixteen, the weight of his gear grounds him before he’s immediately uplifted by the Captains voice.

“I’m looking forward to working with you Laird,” says Asuga. “My whole squad is rooting for you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” says Laird.

“Call me Kato,” says Asuga.

Laird takes a deep breath, gazing up at the red light as they stop before the door.

“Eyes down cadet,” says Asuga.

Laird pulls down his goggles activating his targeting system and heads up display.

“Now… when you step inside you’re gonna go blind for a split second,” says Asuga. “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just the system switching transmitters so we can see you up in the control room. If you hear a voice say Stop, in your comms… You will stop, stand still and await further instruction. Go-get-em, cadet.”

Asuga slaps the button on the wall, making the door slide open. Laird scowls into the darkness before taking a leap of faith through the doorway.

As the door snaps shut, Laird’s system goes dark before it reboots, revealing the alleyway before him. He looks around, unable to recognise the street, the blocks, even the signs on the buildings in the distance are completely new. Regardless, in the corner of Laird’s heads-up display a countdown timer ticks away. 

Outside the test zone, Asuga strides over to the cadets, completely unaware of a dark spectre that glides towards her. As the spectre passes, Asuga stops. The spectre glances over her shoulder as Asuga straightens her uniform before resuming her stride towards the four remaining cadets. The spectre continues towards the testing zone and glides through door sixteen.

High up on level four, running over a recreation bridge in the central gardens, Lori looks at her wrist console as it buzzes. The levity in her expression falls away as sweat trickles down her brow. A message from Laird, containing nothing but an exclamation mark, lights up the screen. Lori taps her console.

“I’ll meet you at your waterfall, I’m on my way there.” Lori’s voice breaks slightly as she leaves her message. She turns and races back across the bridge, brushing past people walking by. Stunned by her disbelief, Lori can’t begin to understand how or why Laird might have failed. With deep knowledge of the effort and sacrifices Laird has made for this day to come, Lori cannot hold back the tears forced from the corners of her eyes.

As she arrives at the level two fountain, Lori leans over, her hands on her knees as she catches her breath. She stands tall, inhaling deeply, looking around the gardens, searching for any sign of Laird. Finally, beyond the crowds that gather before a group of dancing spectres, Laird ambles through the shadows and into the bright haze of the sun. Lori remains still, watching as Laird approaches, his head hung over his chest, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jacket. As he lifts his head, Lori’s heart twists in her chest on sight of the dismay on Laird’s face.

“This can’t be happening,” says Lori, shaking her head, “Please help me understand.”

“I’m not sure I can even explain what happened. First off, I’m-like only a few levels down in the building, but then the test starts and I walk into this alley way with full city blocks ahead of me that I’ve never seen before.”

“A.R?” asks Lori.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” says Laird, “But then.. When I’m firing my weapons… I’m scorching the walls and I can feel the heat through my respirator, so I know I’m live and weapon hot… Right.”

“Okay,” says Lori nodding and frowning in confusion. “So what was the test?” she asks.

“I had to find an asset and take her to a safe zone, which was like-four blocks away. So, then I’m thinking, this has to be A.R right.” Laird shakes his head while he tries to make sense of what happened. “So I’m pursued by this stage four, and I’m trying to manoeuvre through the streets while this thing is trying to recover the asset. I have to avoid firing in the direction of civilians, and then I’ve got these stage threes just getting in my way for whatever reason. So I get to the fourth block and I see the safe zone ahead of me. The stage four brings down part of a building so I have to detour. I get trapped and the asset runs.”

“The stage four recovers the asset?” asks Lori, quite sure of the answer.

“Yeah,” says Laird, “But that’s not why I failed. So, the stage four is headed towards the safe zone, so I’m thinking; if I just keep up I’ll get a chance to recover cause the asset’s still alive. I set a E.C.G trap so the S four has nowhere to go, cause it’s getting away from me. I catch up and the first thing that comes towards me is this… Face.”

“What d-you mean?” asks Lori.

Laird shakes his head in disbelief, still unsure of what he saw. “Just this face, this hideous… Face! So, of course, I’m thinking the S four has transformed. It’s coming right at me, so, I shoot. But it’s not backing up. So I keep my finger on the trigger until all of a sudden my gear powers down and I hear a voice.”

“No,” says Lori, shaking her head.

“Cadet fifteen,” says Laird, hanging his head, “Test complete, asset destroyed.”

“How is that possible?” asks Lori, “Why would the asset be a spec?”

“She wasn’t,” says Laird. “My system had confirmed her as a human non spectral entity. She was ground ridden. We never made contact, but she moved beside me, I never had her out of my sight.”

“Sounds to me like there might have been something else in there with you,” says Lori. “You’ve got to go back, make an appeal.”

“I can’t appeal a failed test,” says Laird, “It’s in my contract. Even if i did, I have no proof. Where would it leave me if I failed my appeal.” Laird stands up and throws his bag over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta tell my mom.”

“What are you gonna do?” asks Lori.

“I already accepted my transfer.” says Laird, before he walks away, leaving Lori sat beside the waterfall.

Lori is left at a loss for words as she watches Laird turn and walk away. Taking a moment to settle her frustration, she inhales deeply, relinquishing her anger in exchange for logical analysis. If Laird has come to terms with his position, Lori must support him, no matter what. Knowing it could prove difficult, Lori attempts to ignore her subconscious search for resolution. A cadet with a perfect score, cleaning the streets? Lori curls her lip in determined intent, surrendering her commitment to what she knows she must do.

As night falls, nocturnal spectres begin to rise, flooding the streets with rhythm and colour. The huge displays that wrap around the city blocks play footage of personal celebrations as the ISPC graduate results are streamed worldwide. Laird lies in the dark, trying to make sense of what happened in the testing zone. Haunting memories remind him of why he had worked so hard for all he had wished for, only to see it taken away in an unexplainable moment. That moment lingers, like the memory of his father’s perfume, like the impending return of the first born son, like eyes that see but cannot be seen. Unaware that his explanation watches on, Laird peers into the darkness, wondering why he feels the darkness peering back at him.

Monday’s morning arrives like the first drop of rain before the storm. Avoiding his mother’s inevitable, awkward, verbal consolation, Laird sits on a bench in the level one south foyer. Knowing he can complete his registration and report for his induction any time before nine A.M, Laird basks in his final moments of freedom. Headphones thud loudly in Laird’s ears while humans and spectres drift by almost oblivious to him. Peering over at a large plasmic stain beside the foyer doors to his right, Laird faces the reality of his, soon to be, life-long responsibility. Suddenly, Laird’s sombre reflection is interrupted by a deep humming sound. Laird leaps up and races across the foyer, bursting through the doors and out into the street. As he emerges beneath the morning sun lamps, a huge shadow folds over him as the Hood Wing soars above Laird’s head. Patrol carrier to Captain Kato’s Ribbon Squad, the Hood Wing is no rare sight. Champions of the people of level one, the Ribbon Squad are not only the largest of all Patrol Units, they also boast the largest fan base. Laird is no stranger to the reasons why. He smiles as children and adults raise their hands skyward, cheering in appreciation as the Hood Wing quickly disappears out of sight. 

“Laird?” says a soft diminutive voice.

Laird turns to face a tall, slim, dishevelled girl, wearing an ISPC base suit identical to his own. “Kelly?” says Laird.

“You can call me Nic, or Nicole,” she exclaims through a deep sigh, “I only used my surname because I thought it suited a Patrol Officer.”

“You didn’t pass?” asks Laird, with obvious disbelief.

“No,” says Nicole, readjusting her backpack. “I didn’t expect to see You here!”

“That makes two of us,” says Laird.

The two cadets walk south, down central, making their way to ISPC headquarters.

“Do-you mind me asking how you failed?” asks Nicole.

“I don’t mind…” says Laird, “But, I’m not sure I can explain. Something weird happened, and I shot the asset.”

“You did what?” asks Nicole, turning towards him, her wide, bloodshot eyes peeled open.

“I know how it sounds,” says Laird, “But that’s what happened. How did You fail?”

“I just lost it,” says Nicole.

“The asset?” asks Laird.

“My temper,” says Nicole. “That stupid stage four kept coming out of nowhere and I just lost it. I shot up half the street. Didn’t have the points to recover.”

They arrive at headquarters and head down to the Specular Decontamination Centre. Laird looks up at the scanner, confirming his attendance and accepting his registration. They follow one of the Team supervisors to one of the locker rooms where they change into their S.D.C suits.

“I hate this colour,” says Nicole, fastening the collar of her bright blue overalls.

“It’s not that bad,” says Laird, following her down the corridor.

“Seriously…” says Nicole, “I might commit a crime, I look so much better in yellow.”

Laird chuckles as they turn the corner. They walk into a large room where other trainee cleaners await their first briefing. Unable to fully concentrate while the supervisor recites the safety protocol, Laird glances around the room. The trainees are made up of failed cadets, retired Patrol Officers, and graduates from the program. The graduates are easy to spot, thanks to their correctional tattoos and buzz cuts. Laird avoids making eye contact with any of them, well aware of the public scepticism at the program’s terrible rehabilitation record. 

After standing through the briefing, equipment training serves as underwhelming relief. While the cadets and the officers move quickly through the equipment module, the graduates take the opportunity to break more than a handful of the safety rules.

“Wait…” says Nicole, as they march up the wide deployment hallway towards the gates. “We’re going straight out… On to the streets?”

“There’s really nothing left to learn,” says Laird, tightening the strap on his Mag-Pack. “We burn the plasma and destroy non-sentient residue.”

“Great,” says Nicole, “I already hate this job!”

Once out on the street, each trainee group is allocated an Op and a location. Ordered to reach their locations on foot, each group disperses immediately to begin their first day on the job. Upon arrival at his group’s location, Laird spots a familiar face among the cleaners already present.

“Laird… Leothorn… James?” says one of the cleaners, leaping down from a fallen domestic carrier. “Is that really you?”

“Quentin,” says Laird as the two of them shake hands. “How long has it been?”

“Last time I saw you, we were finishing grade eleven,” says Quentin, reaching out and turning up the dissipation dial on Laird’s Mag-pack. “Spec’s are getting harder to burn these days brother. Speaking of which, how is that stuck up gene monster?”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Laird.

“Okay,” says Quentin, raising his hands into the air, “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Anyway, it’s good to see you, but unfortunately for you, we really need your help out here!”

“I can see that,” says Laird, looking around at the plasmic residue all over the crime scene. “What happened here?”

“A couple of level threes were attacking the resi-carrier while that museum thing was happening,” says Quentin, walking Laird around to the other side of the carrier.

“You think the incidents were related?” asks Laird.

“Listen brother..” says Quentin, resting a hand on Laird’s shoulder. “You need to leave that patrol officer approach at H.Q. On the street, we churn and burn, nothing more, nothing less. You don’t want to start stepping on toes.”

Laird nods before drawing his Mag-staff and climbing over the rubble. He fires his mag, disintegrating the plasmic remains that drip from the hole in the wall.

“Disgusting!” says Quentin, cleaning up the other side of the hole.

“You can’t say that!” whispers Laird, glancing over his shoulders to see if anybody heard. “That’s pretty racist man.”

Quentin chuckles, “You mean prejudice,” he exclaims, “They’re dead, they’re not aliens. And anyway, this is disgusting. You don’t think they would complain if they had to clean our bodily fluids off the streets?”

“Yeah… I guess,” says Laird, “It’s not-like they can help it though.”

“They could use doors,” says Quentin, firing his mag-staff at the wall. “Do me a favour… Finish up here while I check the sub station.”

“Sure,” says Laird, grimacing at the sour smell of charred plasma. 

Satisfied that he’s cleaned the last of the plasma from the rubble inside the hole, Laird switches off his mag. As he turns around to check the room, Laird is startled by a faint spectre that drifts towards him out of the shadows. The elderly female spectre places her finger over her lips, hushing Laird as she stops a few feet before him.

“Can you hear me?” she murmurs softly.

Laird simply nods his head, somewhat captivated by the elderly spectre’s ethereal magenta glow.

“Please, follow me,” she asks, turning and drifting into the dark.

Overwhelmed by intrigue, Laird follows the woman into the evacuated offices. Leading him down the stairs and through the canteen, the old woman drifts through the closed doors, into the kitchen. Without her dim glow, Laird is thrown into absolute darkness. Tapping the button on his chest, Laird switches on his safety lights, softly illuminating the room ahead of him. He pushes open the doors and quickly follows the old lady around the corner, his boots clicking against the forged kitchen floor.

“Where are we going?” asks Laird, almost catching up with her.

The old lady turns to look at Laird before she disappears through the wall. Laird arrives at a dead end. But, as he turns to go back, a door, almost silently, clicks shut before him. 

“Hey-wait!” he cries, leaping forward and attempting to open the door. Laird pulls the handle down, but it turns freely without so much as a click. He pounds his fist against the door. “Let me out lady, what is this, some kind of joke? Because it’s not funny!” Laird leans his head against the door. “Please lady, it’s my first day.”

Laird sighs. But, to his relief, the old lady’s soft magenta glow begins to fill the room. Turning around, Laird faces the old lady who drifts towards him through the cold, metal, refrigerated wall.

“Will you open the door please,” asks Laird.

“No!” says the old lady. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it you want?” asks Laird.

“You must understand,” says the old lady, “I mean not to keep you here. But, I cannot afford to let you go until you’ve heard what I have to say.”

Remembering his comms system, Laird taps the button on his glove. The old lady looks around at the solid metal walls as the receiver behind Laird’s ear crackles and hisses.

“You must hear what I have to say,” says the old lady.

“I’m listening,” says Laird, surrendering to the fact that he has little choice.

“My name is Roanne Cassidy. I used to live in the block across the street from you.”

Laird lifts his head, his mouth peeling open as he connects this moment to his past.

“Yes, that’s right,” says Mrs Cassidy, “On the balcony, the night before last.”

Laird shakes his head, still awaiting explanation.

“Firstly, I want to apologise,” says Mrs Cassidy, her glow dimming slightly. “I had no choice but to sabotage your test. You were certain to pass.”

“You!” says Laird. “You were the face I saw in the asset!”

“Yes, that was me,” says Mrs Cassidy, “But, you must understand,” she pleads, “There was no other way.”

“No other way to what!?” asks Laird, leaning back against the door.

“Please, let me explain,” says Mrs Cassidy. “I have witnessed the births and deaths of seven generations of my family. Since my death, I have been rendered powerless, unable to help them, to guide them. I have seen inside the belly of the beast this city has become. I watched as it chewed and spat out my children and my children’s children into the streets. And now, it has its merciless fist wrapped around my only granddaughter.”

“I don’t understand,” says Laird.

“You don’t see what I see,” says Mrs Cassidy, “You can’t. That is why we need each other!”

“Need each other?” says Laird, “How? Why?”

Mrs Cassidy glances down at the ISPC emblem stitched into Lairds suit. “Do you think you know who owns the company you work for?” she asks.

“It’s a world government organisation,” says Laird, slightly unsure of himself.

“You truly believe that the public treaty owns the ISPC?” asks Mrs Cassidy. “Trillions are invested into the ISPC every month, many times the public fund. The public labour workforce is predominantly correctional stage two spectres, leaving wealthy humans to live in luxury, up in their illuminated penthouses above the clouds. And yet, there are still impoverished living children playing in the streets.”

“What is it that you’ve seen?” asks Laird.

“I have seen power change hands,” says Mrs Cassidy, curling her lip in disgust. “I have seen innocent lives sold to the highest bidder. I have been forced to watch as tyranny bleeds onto our streets. This world no longer belongs to the living. The dead are taking over… and we should have seen it coming.”

“I can’t say I don’t believe you,” says Laird, “But what does this have to do with me?” he asks.

Mrs Cassidy takes a deep empty breath, “If you were a patrol officer right now, your every word would be recorded and uploaded to the network. If they suspected you of interfering with their operations you would be interrogated by the Neural Investigative Services. You would be unable to lie, and unable to help me. You are the only person close enough to the ISPC, with the skills and knowledge to take them down.”

“Wait… Wait…” says Laird, turning his head from side to side, trying to make sense of the situation. “You’re asking me to help you to take down the ISPC, to remove any protection we have against those things that keep rising from hell and destroying our city!?”

“No,” says Mrs Cassidy, “I’m asking you to help me remove the parasitic infection of ghosts that has taken control of every city in the world!”

Laird wipes his hands over his face in disbelief. “Mrs Cassidy… I’m sorry. I wish I could help you and your granddaughter. But, I’m not some kind of hero. I’m not trying to save the world. I just wanted to be a Patrol Officer… so that I could… so that I…”

“So you could achieve your father’s dream,” says Mrs Cassidy. “So you could find out how he died, and why. So you could surpass the achievements of a brother who has never had to work as hard as you. So you could finally declare your love for the best friend who fell in love with the wrong brother. So you could feel worthy of the immeasurable love that you deny from your own mother.”

Laird presses his lips together as tears begin to coat his eyes.

“I have seen all there is to see in this city,” says Mrs Cassidy. “With my eyes, you, and only you can save it.”

Laird hangs his head, unable to deny Mrs Cassidy’s claims. “Why not McQueen?” he asks “Why not Captain Asuga, or Greystone? They… are heroes! Why wouldn’t you pick them over me?”

“I have never seen a god,” says Mrs Cassidy, “Nor have I ever denied one. But, it must work in mysterious ways. I don’t know the reason why, but, it has chosen you. It seems that you are truly unique, Mr James. Because you can do two things in this world that no others can.”

Laird twists his brow in curious expectation as Mrs Cassidy reaches out towards him and places her hand heavily on his shoulder.

“Make that three,” she says, a wide smile stretching across her weathered, wrinkled face.