Saints in a Chip

Brandon stood in the middle of the street, the rain thick and yellow like oil paint smeared across glass. It blurred his vision, masking the world in a hazy fog. His chest tightened, every breath scraping against his throat. He had forgotten how toxic the air was outside the prison's walls.

His ledger was gone, his mask lost—nothing to shield him from this pollution and no idea where to go from here. He glanced back at the towering building, its steel gates just behind him. Yet, a question echoed in the pit of his thoughts: who had pulled him out of his cage? He didn't know. He had no friends. No family besides Lucy. So, he stood, paralysed, unsure where his next step should lead.

As his mind tangled with too many questions—decisions, regrets, numbers—a yellow blur splashed to a stop in front of him, breaking the rain's steady rhythm. The back window lowered, and a familiar voice cut through the haze.

"Brandon Smith!"

His heart jolted. That voice. He blinked against the rain, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before he could stop it.

"Marta?" The name slipped out, and there was no hiding the warmth in his tone.

She leaned out, rainwater beading on her fake brown hair. "Get in!" With a wave, she pushed the door open wider.

Without a second thought, he darted through the rain, slipping into the taxi beside her, the door slamming shut as they peeled away from the prison behind them.

"To Church Avenue, 42," Marta directed as if they'd done this a hundred times.

The taxi driver's eyes focused on the road as the car made a sharp U-turn, the wet tyres hissing against the slick pavement. The prison, now a shrinking shadow in the rearview mirror, faded into the distance, swallowed by the rain.

Brandon turned to Marta. "Did you pay my bail?"

She didn’t look at him, her gaze steady out the window. "Yes, I did."

His stomach twisted, a wave of awkwardness washing over him. She had already done so much—first the Nirvana CD, now this. How could he ever repay her?

“You didn’t have to,” he mumbled, guilty. "Thank you, I—"

She cut him off with a gentle smile, finally meeting his eyes. “Don’t think about it, Brandon. What are friends for?”

Ten minutes slipped by in a blur of rain-streaked windows and passing lights. When they reached their stop, Marta leaned forward, tapping her ledger against the taxi's glowing screen. The soft beep and flash of approval filled the small space before she stepped out into the downpour.

“It’s here, on the right,” Marta whispered, her voice taut with effort as she rested one hand on her swollen belly. They approached a narrow, ageing building squeezed between two others; its walls faded with graffiti and neon posters with holographic ads. She pushed against the heavy door, which squeaked in protest, and stepped inside.

The hallway felt stifling, the air thick as if the very atmosphere was pressing down on them. Brandon’s breath caught in his throat, the dampness clinging to his skin like a second layer. The walls, supposedly white, were now streaked with yellow stains, remnants of the impure humidity creeping from all corners.

He followed her, the narrow space closing in around them, the floorboards groaning beneath their weight. As Marta inserted her card and then pushed the door open, it let out a groan of protest after the beep, revealing a small apartment.

Two rooms at most, the space felt as tight as the air outside. But at least here, they could breathe normally.

“Make yourself at home. I really need to pee,” Marta said, rushing past him and disappearing down the hallway.

Brandon stood awkwardly in the narrow hall, glancing around.

He shrugged off his soaked coat, draping it over the edge of a worn couch. The place was chaotic—plates stacked in the sink, crumpled tissues scattered across the table, half-eaten meals forgotten in corners.

The low hum of the television buzzed in the background. "Breaking news, the volcanic eruption began just hours ago, and officials are urging residents and visitors in the surrounding areas to evacuate immediately. The U.G.S. Geological Survey has confirmed that the eruption has been classified as a VEI-6 event, meaning we are looking at potentially catastrophic impacts on air quality and weather patterns around the world."

The TV flickered while Brandon walked around the apartment. "Residents within a 200 km radius have been strongly advised to seek shelter and prepare for major disruptions, including transportation and power outages. The scale of this eruption could lead to ash clouds affecting flights and causing global temperature shifts."

He found her bedroom, clothing spread on the floor, shirts, jeans and dresses lay tangled in forsaken piles, and the bed, tangled in sheets, looked as if it hadn’t been made in days. It all spoke of someone too tired, too burdened, to care for anything but survival. She was pregnant and alone, after all.

"This marks the fifth volcanic eruption this week. Reports suggest that two previously dormant volcanoes are also showing signs of activity. Experts are calling it an unprecedented awakening of the planet."

Brandon barely registered the news. It was the same as yesterday—evacuations, eruptions, chaos. The world outside was falling apart, but he was too drained to care.

His gaze drifted to the cluttered table. It had been a while since he had been bothered about the world. It's always the same thing.

Instead, a pile of papers caught his attention. Several ARF forms lay scattered, each stamped with a bold red "REJECTED" seal. His brow furrowed as he leaned in, trying to make out what Marta had been requesting access to, curiosity gnawing at him. Just as his eyes began scanning the text, a sharp noise broke the quiet.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” Marta muttered, her voice carrying a note of apology as she glanced around the cluttered room. She shifted her weight awkwardly, her swollen belly making each movement difficult. “Jude usually handles the chores. It’s been hard to move these last few days without him. I didn't realise he had done so much since the beginning of the pregnancy.”

She gave a small, weary smile before turning, her steps heavy as she shuffled back toward the hallway. “Come,” she said, gesturing with a soft wave. The strain of nine months was evident in the way she braced herself against the doorframe before moving on.

But Brandon’s gaze caught on something before he could follow. A digital frame on the cluttered shelf flickered, displaying a man in uniform, his hand raised in a sharp salute. His chest tightened. He knew that face. The stern eyes, the rigid posture. It was the same man who’d twisted his life, the same one responsible for landing him behind bars.

"Who is he?"

"My husband, Jude."

His stomach twisted. "That’s the guy who—"

Her smile was soft, cutting him off with a quiet understanding. "I know."

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was in prison, Marta."

She leaned relaxed against the doorframe but her eyes bore into him. “You were pointing a gun at innocent people, Brandon. There was a child among them. I read the report.”

Brandon flinched at her words.

“Your despair can’t justify putting a child’s life in danger. It’s not right, and you know it,” she continued. “What if it had been Lucy?”

The mention of his daughter twisted something deep inside him, leaving him without words, and his throat tightened. "It was terrifying… what he did to me." His voice cracked. "I still have nightmares, Marta. He completely stripped me of any willpower. And I was not going to hurt anyone; I just wanted a CD to burn."

Marta’s gaze softened as she looked past Brandon, almost as if she could see Jude standing there. "Everyone has something to say about him. But people don’t get him," she said. "They see the temper, the rough edges. They think he’s rude, arrogant… dangerous." Her eyes flickered with something fierce. "Some even call him evil."

She paused, her hand resting on her belly as if to steady herself. "But they don’t know him like I do. When Jude cares about someone… he doesn’t stop. He’ll give everything he has, no matter the cost." A small, proud smile touched her lips. "He would walk through hell for the people he loves, for the ones he trusts. That’s the man I know. The one I love."

Brandon’s eyes lingered on Marta, searching her face for some crack, some doubt, but there was none. She stood steady, unshaken, her pride in Jude shining through like an unmovable truth. His gaze shifted to the cluttered room, unsure of what to say. "I’m sorry, I..."

His words trailed off as he glanced back at her, realising that whatever he felt about Jude didn’t matter. It didn’t touch her. The quiet confidence in her eyes told him everything—she wasn’t waiting for his approval. For a moment, a hollow ache gnawed at him. That kind of pride, that unwavering belief—had anyone ever looked at him that way? He couldn’t ask it of Lucy; she had her own battles to fight.

Marta’s voice broke through his thoughts. "Come, there’s someone who wants to see you." Brandon followed Marta down the narrow stairs. The basement opened up into something far from ordinary. The walls gleamed black, covered in smooth vinyl, and the hum of machinery filled the room. A four-screen desktop flickered with data, casting a cool glow over the space, and a sleek, metallic pod sat in the centre, its design unmistakably military. This was Jude’s world—his workspace, built for missions and survival but probably mostly for training in SiC.

But something jarred against the cold efficiency of the room. The pod, meant for harsh terrain and combat, was plastered with colourful stickers—hearts, rainbows, unicorns, and stars. The childish decorations struck Brandon like a punch to the gut, and the contrast was too much. His legs wobbled, and as he stepped closer, the breath left his lungs.

Inside the pod, beneath wires and tubes, lay Lucy. Fragile and bald, her small body barely more than skin and bone. The sight of her, surrounded by those innocent, bright stickers, nearly buckled his knees.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. She seemed too fragile, like a doll made of glass, and yet, she looked as if she was simply lost in sleep.

"Lucy… my little girl," he whispered. "She is so pretty... my little pink princess."

Marta stood beside him, her hand absently rubbing her swollen belly. "She’s on a feeding tube. Chemo, Mercaptopurine and Azacitidine every day. So far, she’s holding on. And I’ve been giving her hGH, human growth hormone —high doses. Almost four times a day."

Brandon’s brow furrowed, eyes still fixed on Lucy. "Hormones? Why?"

"She needs to reach a certain physical age in order for the sleeve… to work, to make sure it doesn’t reject her," Marta explained. “Once she disconnects...”

"I don’t…" His words trailed off as he struggled to process. His eyes remained on Lucy, her peaceful face. She looked like she could wake up at any moment, but the wires tethered her to a harsher reality.

Marta’s voice lowered, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Brandon, if I explain to you what is really going on, everything... I’m not sure I can protect you from what comes next." She bit her lower lip, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "I don't know if you'll be able to accept the consequences."

Brandon’s voice trembled, his eyes still on Lucy, struggling to find a foothold in the swirl of emotions. "She’s… inside Nirvana, isn’t she? She doesn’t feel pain, right?" His throat tightened, caught between the relief that she wasn’t suffering and the overwhelming grief threatening to spill over. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or heartbroken. But the urge to cry pressed against his chest.

hesitated, her hand resting on the pod. "Well... she’s probably feeling the pains of growing up, the kind every girl goes through," she said quietly. "But she’s still too young to really understand what’s happening. I just hope she finds the proper people to help her get through. But I have no way to know."

Brandon turned to face her, his gaze desperate, searching her face for something that could make sense of what was happening to his daughter. He locked eyes with her as if the truth would somehow become clearer if he just looked long enough.

"I sent her into Nirvana so she could live... if only in her mind. I wanted her to feel something close to a normal childhood, even if it’s just in her last moments." Brandon’s heart clenched, the words sinking in like lead. "But… what are you really saying?"

Marta’s gaze sharpened, meeting his with a mix of hope and something heavier. "If she makes it through phase three... if she survives until level sixteen, Lucy will save billions of children. She’s the key to something far greater than you or I."

"What are you trying to tell me, Marta?"

Marta’s face softened, but her words carried the weight of a buried truth. "The war... we lost it a long time ago. But the enemy... it was never the Eidolons."

Brandon froze, his stomach dropping. "Then who?" His voice was barely a whisper now. She looked at him. "Do you really need to ask?"

"The ARF you are asking for..."

“They’re for Nirvana’s communication access. I’ve been trying to verify if my husband’s really in there or if he’s just… in a replica. Others want the same—people trying to reach loved ones. Like you.”

Brandon’s jaw clenched as he absorbed her words. His gaze sharpened, the weight of a decision forming behind his eyes. “If I give you full access—everything, the whole mainframe—will you tell me the truth? The whole truth? The whole story? No lies… no omission.”

Marta smiled. “And you’ll do the chores?”

A playful grin tugged at his lips. “I even cook.”