Am I An Echo:
The first thing I see is white. Not a friendly, cloud-like white. This is the aggressive, sterile white of a Solar Center ceiling, which basically translates to: you're already in debt.
I don't even need to move to know how screwed I am. Every part of me aches with a deep, throbbing pain that feels suspiciously like a second mortgage. The air smells like antiseptic and regret. You know that smell? It's the scent of your life savings evaporating.
My body is wrapped in crisp, white bandages. Very fashionable. Underneath, I can feel the angry heat of second-degree burns. Courtesy of my fiery savior, I assume. Agent Flare and her very hot"gift." Thanks for not letting the spider eat me, but did you have to cook me medium-rare in the process?
I push myself up, and the room does a little spin. Classic Solar Center welcome. The window looks tempting. Jumping out might be cheaper than the bill for this view.
My gear is gone. Probably incinerated. My rusty katana… ah, who am I kidding, they probably classified it as a biohazard. All I have is this flimsy hospital gown that leaves my backside feeling breezy and vulnerable.
I shuffle to the mirror on the far wall. This should be good.
I look… survivable. My hair's a mess, dark circles under my eyes, but the main attraction is a mild burn on my cheek. It's red and angry, but not disfiguring. Could be worse. Could be a spider snack.
See? Always look on the bright side of near-death experiences.
The door slides open with a hushed, expensive sound. Of course it does. Nothing in Solar Center makes a noise that might disturb the calm calculation of your financial ruin.
A man in a white coat steps in, followed by two robotic nurses on silent treads. The doctor has that perfectly calm, detached face that says he's never had to worry about a credit balance in his life. His name tag reads 'Victor.' Of course it does.
The robots hover behind him, their optical sensors glowing a soft blue. No warmth, no compassion. Just efficient, billable care.
"Ah, you're awake," Victor says, his voice as sterile as the room. "Good. We can proceed with the discharge paperwork."
Discharge? Already? That can't be good. That means the meter is running, and they want me out before I rack up any more debt.
He consults a datapad. "You were admitted by Agent Flare. Colour Class. She was quite… insistent on one particular matter."
Let me guess. She wanted a review of my stalling technique? A performance evaluation?
"She sponsored a Comprehensive Pathological Screening and Anomaly Detection," he continues, not looking up from the pad. "Standard procedure for Echo suspect. To rule out Infection."
Infection. That word hangs in the air, heavier than the antiseptic smell. So that's why I'm here. Not to heal. To be inspected. Like a piece of meat that might be spoiling.
My relief at being alive curdles into something colder, sharper. She didn't save me out of kindness. She saved me for data.
So… am I an Echo?
"The results were negative," Victor says, finally looking at me. His eyes are flat, devoid of any real interest. "You show no signs of Infection. Anomalous, given the circumstances, but within acceptable parameters."
Anomalous. I like that word. It sounds better than "lucky bastard who should be dead."
"So I'm free to go?" I ask, my voice rough.
"After settling your account," he says smoothly. "Agent Flare's sponsorship covered only the screening. The treatment for your burns, the room, the pharmaceuticals… that is your responsibility."
Of course it is. The main philosophy of the west: die for your job, or pay for the privilege of almost dying.
He hands me the datapad. The number on the screen has so many zeroes it looks like a phone number. My stomach drops. This is more than I've made in my entire freelance career.
I'm about to say something suitably cynical when the door slides open again.
This time, it's not a doctor.
A squad of figures in black, form-fitting armor and mirrored masks files in. They move with a quiet, lethal grace that makes the robotic nurses seem clunky. The air grows cold, the antiseptic smell overwhelmed by the scent of ozone and pure authority.
I have been there just for a while so I knew who these people are.
Center operatives.
Now I don't know the reason why there's more than one Center dweller in the West, but it can't be just because of me, right?
The lead operative's mask turns toward me. I can't see their eyes, but I feel the weight of their gaze.
Victor takes a step back, suddenly very interested in the floor. He even unwrapped a sweet into his mouth!
The operative doesn't speak. They just stand there, filling the room with a silence that screams one thing: this is no longer about medical bills.
And I thought the spider was bad.
The lead operative's mirrored mask tilts, studying me like a bug under glass. I can see my own reflection—pale, bandaged, and thoroughly unimpressed. Great. Now I have to look at my own terrified face while being interrogated.
"State your name and classification," a voice says, synthesized and genderless. It comes from the operative, but the mask doesn't move.
"Alias. C-Class Agent." My voice is steadier than I feel. "Unbound."
The operative doesn't write anything down. They just stare. "You engaged a Higher Being designated Smiling Spider. Describe the encounter."
I shrug, which pulls at my burns. "It was big. Had a lot of legs. Tried to eat me. Standard Tuesday."
"The other Agents died," the voice states, flat and factual. "Trained Thorns. Bound agents. You survived. Explain."
Explain? How do I explain luck? How do I explain that when everyone else was charging heroically to their deaths, I was hiding behind a desk?
"I'm better at staying alive," I say, letting the sarcasm drip. "It's a special skill. You should try it."
One of the other operatives steps forward, holding a datapad. "Your record shows a prior incident. The 97th Incident. Rose Sector. Five years ago."
The air in the room gets even colder. They dug that up. Of course they did.
"Four sections of Rose were destroyed," the operative continues, reading from the pad. "Casualty rate: ninety-nine point eight percent. You were hospitalized at T Hospital for three months. Cause: unknown trauma."
They look up from the pad, their collective gaze heavy. "Two catastrophic encounters with Higher Beings. Minimal physical degradation. Explain the statistical anomaly."
Statistical anomaly. That's what I am now. A glitch in their perfect, deadly system.
I cross my arms, ignoring the pain. "Maybe I'm just lucky."
Also the first one took hell of a toll from me. I was put back to pieces just so they can ask me question about the Anomaly… which I didn't because I can't.
It's complicated.
The lead operative takes a step closer. The ozone smell is overpowering. "Or perhaps you are evolving. Adapting. Survivors of such events sometimes develop... inclinations. Desires beyond human limitation."
Desires? My only desire is to not be in this room and eat something.
"Do you know about Higher Being? How much do you know?"
I answer, "Yes. Just what Academy taught me."
The Infection infect a human, distressing them emotionally, turning them into monster that manifest into an element they feel close with, and... I guess they want to infect more people?
They ask another question, "Do you know about Echo?"
I nod, "Sure."
Simply explain, Echo are people that the Higher Being infected. I guess if I have to add something... You can only turned into Echo if both you and the person who turned into a Higher Being, have an attachment to each other.
And I follow the norm culture around here, don't get attach to people, just to be safe from the Infection.
So I don't think I can be infected.
"Do you feel a pull?" the voice asks, almost curious. "A desire to become more?"
I look from one masked face to another. They're serious. They really think I'm turning into some kind of monster.
"I prefer being broken, burnt, and human," I say, my voice flat. "It's cheaper."
For a long moment, there's only silence. Then the lead operative produces a device from their belt. It looks like a gun, but with a crystalline tip that glows with a soft, blue light.
They press it against my chest. The crystal is cold, even through the gown.
The device beeps. Once. Twice. A series of rapid chimes.
A holographic display projects from the barrel. Lines of data scroll past. Then, one word in bold, green letters:
CLEAN.
No Infection. No anomalies. Just... me.
The operative pulls the device away. The blue light dies. The silence that follows is heavier than any accusation.
They don't say a word. They just turn, as one unit, and file out of the room. The door slides shut behind them, leaving behind the scent of disappointment and ozone.
Doctor Victor lets out a breath he seems to have been holding forever. He offers me a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Well. That's a relief."
Is it? They looked like I'd just spoiled their favorite experiment.
He picks up the datapad with my bill and hands it back to me. "Now, about your financial obligations. The screening was covered, as stated. However, the extended stay, burn treatment, pharmaceuticals, and room service..."
Room service? I didn't order any room service.
"...are your responsibility." He taps the staggering number on the screen. "Given your... Agent status, what kind of method of payment can you do?"
I look from his hollow smile to the number on the pad. It's more than I'll make in a lifetime. It's more than I'm worth.
The robotic nurses hover, their blue sensors watching, waiting.
I look at the doctor. I look at the bill. I look at the door the Center agents just left through.
"Let me check my account."
Welcome to the West.