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Tell us what happened to Sniper and we won’t expose you to the rest of O.S.”
“Tell them if you like. They won’t believe you. When you run that DNA, you won’t believe you.”
“Tell me what happened to Sniper or—” “Thirty-three million.” “What?” “I was paid thirty-three million for delivering Sniper.
“According to this sample, genetically, that’s Casimir Perry.”
The man who burned the world down to avenge himself upon Madame and Andō, the man whose love for Danaë turned poison,
not care one jot about Carlyle even upon discovering she was his real child, such a man does not have hate left over for Mycroft Canner.
Papa and I answered that one together: “The Chicago Museum of Science and Industry Junior Scientists Squad.”
He tapped his tracker. «While we were all here chasing Cato, someone sprung Thisbe Saneer.»
It is with a heavy heart that I take up this chronicle. Mycroft Canner—long your guide and my beloved teacher—was killed in action six days ago, on Sunday the sixth of September, 2454.
apologize for interrupting my successor, reader, but I should tell you: I am not actually dead. This universe is not so unjust as to grant Mycroft Canner rest.
9A.
“introduce myself, my background and qualifications, and tell you by what chance or Providence it is that the answers you seek are in my hands.” After setting up this expectation, Mycroft flagrantly did none of it except to give their name. I shall do the opposite, and tell you everything about myself, except my name.
I have already appeared six times in Mycroft’s history, but Mycroft never named me, or let you realize I was the same person.
when Achilles told me my uniform designs were stupid.
they gave me the playful title Outis, ‘No-one’ in our native Greek; in other words, Anonymous. I
in the history I used to edit out the signs of Mycroft’s madness, though
am a Greek, and a Servicer. I was a Humanist, raised in a mixed Humanist-European bash’ with one Brillist member, all Greek save two.
When I was twenty-two, and still deciding which of two newly forming bash’es to join, three fellow Humanists abducted my youngest bas’sib, abused, tortured, and murdered them, for sport. A hiccup in the law acquitted them. Shortly thereafter, I lured them into a warehouse and beat the three of them to death with a steel bar very, very slowly.
Humanist law made me a Servicer. That was just over three years ago.
The Eleventh Hive, as Servicers sometimes jokingly call ourselves, is strangely familial and fulfilling.
heard whispers that there was a “Beggar King” among us, but had no further clue before I realized I was being watched by several very veteran Servicers, the unofficial elders of our unofficial tribe.
So I became Mycroft’s apprentice, and babysitter to the Beggar King.
“Mycroft, there’s no way you don’t know who the Anonymous is. In fact, I bet you weren’t secretly informed like Papa was, but you figured it out on your own. In fact, you’re the next Anonymous, aren’t you?”
Flag Bearer away from Krathis Piteras, the first biological female to ever take gold in the open division javelin throw.
That made me realize what it was: a Weeksbooth Counterbomb, like what Sniper used at the Forum to short out the Prince’s security and give themself a clear shot.
The footage from the Opening Ceremony had made everyone realize at last that the faint glow you could see around the Prince on the video of the assassination was Their suit’s Griffincloth rebooting.
Suddenly what had seemed to be evidence of something supernatural was instead evidence that They conspired with Utopia. If Griffincloth could fake Hugo Sputnik creatures, it could certainly fake a brain getting spattered across the Rostra. There was plenty of proof that one Griffincloth suit jacket had no power to trick many cameras from many angles, or to produce the stains science had verified as Their cerebral-spinal fluid on the stones, but people wanted to doubt, so they seized this thread and ran.
“Atlantis! They’ve attacked Atlantis!”
New Atlantis nestled on the seafloor between the encircling coasts of Sardinia and Corsica, like a chick cupped by kindly hands. I
Someone had attacked Atlantis. The blast had been big, big enough to feel thirty kilometers away, but how big? Small enough to crush some structures, flood the airy sections, but leave the swimmers safe?
I suppose Atlantis will become one of those city names that means ‘atrocity’ forever now,
