“Any jobs come up?”
“I pinged everything on the message boards, but…no responses.”
Her voice held a hint of sorrow that was all too human. I’d really gotten a bargain on her personality profile.
“So I’m still blacklisted?” I asked.
“It would seem that way,” she replied.
I smashed the side of my fist into the tetraglass door in front of me, and a red warning flared.
“You know,” DITA's voice softened, “there's a maintenance access panel in the east corridor. The biometric scanner there only runs a basic pattern match. I could spoof it with your last authorized entry signature.”
"That's..." I hesitated, then shook my head. “That's technically breaking and entering.”
DITA’s avatar shrugged. A small map appeared on my Vysor display, highlighting the route. “Twenty-eight seconds of camera blackout is all I can manage.”
I stared at the blinking route. What was one more sin in a lifetime of them? “Do it.”
The security panel yielded to DITA's digital touch, the maintenance door sliding open with a pneumatic hiss. The smell hit me first—antiseptic overlaying the sour notes of unwashed bodies and processed food. I slipped through darkened corridors, passing night staff too overworked to notice another shadow.
Room 2273. I pressed my palm against the door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open.
My mother lay in the adjustable bed, her thin frame barely creating an outline beneath the institutional blanket. The left side of her face drooped slightly, a permanent reminder of the bullet that had torn through her brain. Her once thick black hair, the hair she'd kept long despite fashion trends because “Ibarra women have always worn their strength down their backs,” was now cut in an efficient crop, streaked with premature gray.
“Mamá,” I whispered, moving to her bedside. “It's me. It's Lucita.”
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then settling on me without recognition. “¿Quién eres?” she asked, voice reedy and uncertain.
“Soy yo, Mamá. Lucita.” I reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“No, no. Mi Lucita es pequeña.” She frowned, looking around the room with growing agitation. “¿Dónde está mi bebé?”
I swallowed hard, the familiar pain rising. Sometimes, in her mind, I was still just a child. This was one of her bad days.
I remembered my thirteenth birthday, when she'd taken me to the rooftop garden of our old megabuilding. It had taken us nearly two hours to climb through the labyrinth of that part of the Magenta District to reach the sky. It had been a rare clear day, the constant rain giving us a reprieve. She'd brought a small cake with a single candle and watched with unbridled delight as tiny sparks danced from my fingertips when I got excited trying to blow it out.
“¡Mira!” she'd exclaimed, eyes wide with wonder rather than fear. “My Lucita, special since the day you were born.”
We’d journeyed home, and as she had tucked me into bed, she’d whispered, “This is a gift. Never let anyone tell you different.”
Now, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as that same electricity flickered unconsciously between my fingers.
“¡Demonio!” she hissed, shrinking away. “¡Aléjate de mí!”
“Mamá, please.” I moved closer, trying to take her hand again. “It's me.”
She began to wail, a high keening sound that tore at my heart. “¡Ayuda! ¡Ayuda! ¡Un demonio!”
The monitor beside her bed began flashing, her heart rate spiking dangerously. I backed away, hands raised placatingly, my own pulse thundering in my ears.
“E, security is responding to the alert,” DITA warned in my ear. “Forty seconds.”
“Mamá, I'm sorry.” Tears burned my eyes. “I'll come back. I'll get the money. I promise.”
For a moment, clarity seemed to return to her gaze. “¿Lucita?” she whispered.
“Yes, Mamá. It's me.”
