LITMIR.BIZ

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men holding her arms. Panic seized her as she felt the man grab her feet again.

      “Sit on her!” the commander shouted. She felt a crushing weight as the man pinning her left arm sat down on her rib cage, forcing all the air out of her lungs.

      Now the leader came forward with the tool. He revved its tiny motor, and she heard the whir of the bone saw inside it. He was going to cut right through her skull. She thrashed her arms, flailed her legs, bucked her hips, and tossed her head around. As her head connected with the leader’s hand, he almost lost hold of the tool. Cursing, he grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her face down hard against the asphalt. She fought with everything in her, hands thrashing against the pavement until they bled.

      She felt the cold metal of the tool connect with her scalp. A searing pain cut through her skin.

      Then a swift boot appeared, and the tool went flying. She heard a grunt. The leader flew backward, slamming against a brick wall. The weight off her back vanished, and she lifted her head as the Repurposer slammed back against the wall. The man holding her legs cried out, and suddenly she was free.

      She punched the last man holding her right arm, sending him crashing onto his back. She was up, braced to fight.

      Standing in front of her, holding one of the men in a head lock, was the tattooed stranger. As the Repurposer struggled in his grip, another came toward him. The stranger wrenched his elbow upward, cinching tighter around the man’s neck. She heard the snap of bone, and the man slumped lifeless at the stranger’s feet.

      Against the far wall, the leader leaped up. She faced him, expecting his men to jump her all at once. But the man on the opposite wall ran for the end of the alley, vaulting over a fence there. Another followed. The leader watched them go, eyes enraged, then turned to her.

      He brushed off his jacket and calmly bent down, picking up the shiny metal tool. “I might have to do more than Repurpose you,” he said, walking toward her. “I might have to accidentally botch the operation.”

      Fear shot through her like an electric jolt. Her mouth went dry, her limbs heavy as cement bags. He didn’t even acknowledge the outsider. The tattooed stranger stepped over the fallen Repurposer and stood next to her. She could smell him when a gust of hot wind hit them, a curious mix of unidentifiable spices, sweat, and an earthy scent. The leader took in his fallen worker, then gazed slowly up at the blond-haired stranger.

      “I have no interest in you, wastrel. Go back to whatever sewer you crawled out of.”

      He advanced on H124, but she fought the urge to bolt, knowing he’d only catch up to her again, bringing more reinforcements. But she’d never fought in her life before tonight. He came forward, and she stepped back, keeping a safe distance while she figured out what to do. The tattooed stranger did the same. Then hands grabbed her from behind. The two men had circled, not run away. The leader sneered. One of the men grabbed the stranger, but he bucked him off, whirling around and kicking him in the face. H124 kicked out as the leader approached, landing a solid boot right to his knee. He went down hard, cursing. She thrashed, trying to throw off the man who held her arms. His fingers dug into her flesh as he held onto her relentlessly. The stranger’s attacker had recovered, holding on to his ruined nose. Blood streamed through his fingers. The outsider charged, sending the bleeding man sprawling into a fetid pile of garbage.

      As the leader advanced, bringing up the tool, while the other man held her head still, H124 saw a blur of motion. The stranger leaped up onto the leader’s back, twisting his body around. She saw genuine shock seep over the commander’s face as he fell back, arms flailing. The stranger grabbed the gleaming tool and pressed the trigger all the way. The machine whirred to life, flashing light from one end. The stranger brought it to the leader’s chest. H124 watched in horror as the bone saw cut through the man’s clothes and rib cage, and hit his heart with a violent crimson spray. The leader fell limp.

      The stranger stood up, tool in hand. Releasing her from his grip, the man who was holding her turned and ran down the alley. The other one picked himself up from the garbage, nose seeping blood, and limped after his partner.

      “The commander’s dead!” one shouted into his PRD as he retreated.

      “We need backup,” yelled the other. “Now!”

      H124 stood in the alley, alone with the stranger. He tucked the Repurposing tool into his satchel and glanced around at the carnage.

      He then rummaged through the clothing of the two bodies, removing their PRDs. He looked up, meeting her eyes. A pleasant thrum buzzed through her, his gaze a visceral force.

      “You have to get out of here,” he said. “Stay in the shadows. Leave the city. It’s not safe for you now. You’ve been marked.”

      “Who are you?” she asked, finding her voice.

      “Rowan. And you?”

      “Um . . . I don’t have a name. My worker designation is H124.”

      “Nice to meet you, H.” He smiled again, then turned and sprinted down the alley, vaulting over the fence at the end.

      Now she was truly alone, her attacker’s blood pooling at her feet.

      Heeding Rowan’s advice, she followed suit, taking the same course as he had. She would take these side alleys as far as she could toward the Tower.

      Chapter 7

      When she got within a block of the Public Programming Control Tower, H124 stopped to catch her breath. Leaning against a brick wall in the shadows, she stared up at the immense building. City lights reflected on the underbelly of the clouds above the shield, making the night sky a luminescent orange. Bright lights flashed along the Tower’s height. The building was massive, easily ten times the height of the surrounding buildings.

      Now that she was here, she didn’t know how to proceed. She’d never been this far away from her station. Through the glass of the lobby entrance, she spotted a guard at a long desk. A bank of floating displays gleamed above his head. She checked the street for Repurposers but didn’t see anyone. Her scalp stung where the Repurposing tool had cut into it, but at least the bleeding had stopped.

      She hurried toward the front door. It didn’t open, so she knocked on the glass. The guard peered out, then minimized one of his floating displays to get a better look at her. He stood up, brow furrowed, and came around the side of his desk.

      She knew that the media officials all lived in this building. She wondered how many people actually came and went through the entrance. Most probably worked and went to sleep with nothing more than a floor separating their work and living spaces.

      The guard stopped in front of the glass door, staring out at her. Finally he moved to the TWR on his side of the glass. The door slid open.

      H124 entered, her legs aching.

      “Where did you come from?” the guard asked.

      She decided to skip all that. “I need to see someone in charge.”

      He leaned from side to side on his stocky legs to examine her head. “You don’t have a head jack.” Deep concern wrinkled his face. “What are you doing out there? Where is your office?” He took her arm and gestured her all the way inside. The door slid shut.

      “I have important news,” she said, “and I need to talk to someone in charge.”

      He moved back to the large desk and called up one of the displays. “Not many people up at this hour.”

      “Anyone will do. I have information that needs to be passed on.”

      He scrolled through a directory, his moving eyes causing the names to cruise by. At last he stopped at a name glowing in red.

      “James Willoughby is still in his office. I could call him.”

      “Yes, please,” she said. She had no idea who that was. As a worker, she lacked a head jack and had no way to watch the media broadcasts. But meeting with anyone was preferable to standing out in the

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