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Getting To Know Your Allies
After her introduction to Captain Siers, Lieutenant Reals retraced her route back to quarters in a stunned fog of denial. Eerily empty corridors and the curiously overused breakroom came and went; hatches and bulkheads slid out of the way and quietly closed. She barely remembered getting to her room, although the awkward shoulder pat from Paul roused her just enough to respond.
"What?" Her mouth tasted like dust, teeth sticky. How long had she been walking with it open?
"I said," he palmed the hatch release. "Welcome aboard. It is a bit of a shock, I know. Take your time, no hurry; I will let Emilia know to reinstate your system access." His curiously atonal voice managed to sound sympathetic even though it came from somewhere nearly two feet above her head.
Jamet walked inside, paused and turned. "Thank you. Wait!" Something occurred to her.
Paul turned halfway back, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Yes?"
"How are you so tall?" She demanded. "Regulation height is capped at six and a half. You're way over that. Why haven't you been reassigned-" she noted his face, now expressionless but somehow angry, like hardened lava crust over boiling magma. She blinked. "What?"
"Still making friends, I see." He turned and stiffly stalked away, shoulders drawn upwards and hands fisted. The hatch slid neatly closed behind him.
Abruptly alone, Jamet spent a second pinging the system for lights before remembering to use the manual toggle. What had that been about? "He could have just said he had a waiver. Or at least been more professional about it. I swear this entire crew is insane from the Captain on down, absolutely everyone should be on charges or disciplinary files." Which was a bit of a problem, actually: Who do you report a Command Executive Officer to, when you need to go through the ship's CEO to even reach anyone higher at Corporate? If they were station- or planet-bound perhaps Human Resources would take an appeal, but during planetary transmission? All avenues led through the Bridge. It was a failure in the reporting system she'd never considered before and there didn't seem to be a way out.
Frustrated and still without systems access, Jamet fell back on one of her oldest hobbies: Reorganization. When she'd accepted an assignment to the CES Kipper her personal trunk had moved right alongside her, automatically priority-shipped through Station systems alongside any professional gear the new position required (none) and any authorized Corporate-approved mementos (rescinded and confiscated). But by long convention the trunk itself-- and anything she could fit in it-- was sacrosanct and untouchable. Not even the vultures gleefully watching her fall from grace had been able to deny a personal goods transfer.
And now that she knew for sure this was the right assignment Jamet set to unpacking for real. She'd hesitated during those long days alone, wandering around a seemingly abandoned ship: What if the assignment was an error? What if a Security group showed up to escort her out? Repacking with impatient monitors from Corporate standing over both shoulders would have been intensely embarrassing.
She'd just been so grateful to get any offer after half a year of desperate appeals that she hadn't hesitated to accept the first one that came through. Which, in hindsight, should have been a big tipoff something was wrong. But at the time, with Station Residency sending eviction notices and debt collection hounding every step, getting a notification to report to the dock and get aboard seemed like a lifeline. Even if no one met her there to escort.
In the past, now. Well at least until Collections forwarded her debts to the ship ledger and the wage garnishments started. Problems on the horizon.
Three long steps took her across the bare room, past the meager bulkhead-mounted bunk and the currently useless ship's console. She knelt next to the hardened case of her personal trunk, briefly resting a hand on the six foot long, knee-high storage while keying in the access code on the inset screen. "Eleven, nineteen, sixty four," Jamet muttered, pretending not to notice as the date prodded the still-fresh scar on her heart. The trunk thought about it for a second, then obligingly retracted wheels and clicked open.
She threw the lid back and got to work on the tightly packed items within, carefully prying out knickknacks and awards crammed side by side with electronics. Absolutely everything was wrapped up with her spare clothes for padding; while all personal storage units came premade with foam lining to secure items everyone ripped it out to increase available space. You had to pack clothes anyways: Why not use them? She lost herself in a flurry of organization, taking comfort in finding a place for everything and putting everything in its place. Some of her greatest successes came from being meticulous on details, finding things overlooked or people slipping: She wasn't about to let those skills lose their edge.
Jamet had all of her uniforms in the closet and most of the biggest awards tucked onto the room's display shelves when the hatch beeped to announce a visitor. She threw a surprised glance at the time on the ship console, concerned to note almost an hour had gone by. "Who is it?"
There was a pause. "Oh, right. No systems access." Banging noises came from deck level, exactly like someone kicking the bottom of the hatch. "It's Emilia! Want your dumb access back or what? Open up!"
Jamet lunged for the controls, slapping the indicator and levelling a glare at the same time. "About time. Were you planning to keep me offline forever? If I could have you on charges I wouldn't hesitate to- get back here!"
The shorter woman was already walking away, headset bobbing and visor flashing colors on both corridor walls. "Make me, Corpo."
For a long, painful instant Jamet seriously considered physically tackling the diminutive figure. It was a tempting outlet for a hellish weeks' worth of pent up fear and anger. Ultimately pragmatism won through-- If the ship's crew really was this small there was no one else she could win over. And she really needed system access back: Lack of situational awareness and control was making her climb the bulkheads.
Jamet swallowed pride like a rough stone caught in her throat. "Please come back."
Emilia stopped and put both hands in her green jumpsuit pockets. "Ouch. That sounded like it hurt."
"You have no idea." She was going to need a dental checkup after all this grinding. "Now, please restore ship system access. I'll trade you a favor."
Which was a hefty concession: Backroom dealing and personal favors were how one got promotions and advancements in Corporate. Everyone kept a tally of who owed them and how to cut out an advantage from it-- offering a favor for something this low tipped the balance heavily towards the short technician.
Who was... currently laughing? "Oh wow, you're Corp to the core. Still doing the favor bit and everything! Yeah, okay, whatever. I'll get you set up. Janson's going to laugh his heart out over this one, though."
Jamet turned sideways to let her stomp through, mystified but willing to play along. "Everyone trades and deals. It can't be that different here."
Emilia snatched the console off the stand near the bunk, holding one wrist over the sensor to unlock the biometrics. "Nope. Not here." She tapped through several commands, swiped twice and made a face. Well at least from the cheekbones down she was frowning: That blasted visor made reading her eyes impossible. "Dammit. Get over here, register your ID."
"Just use my public one. It's in the registry."
"It's not; I looked. Someone scrubbed your public profile half a year ago. Did a bad job, but they got most of the important bits."
Her vision went red with rage as memories popped up. "Kent, you miserable son of a-" She broke off when Emilia looked up, eyebrows raised and interested. "Fine, give it to me."
Swirling colors watched as Jamet snatched the console and held the scanner over the biochip in her wrist. With her identity confirmed the profile cheerfully opened, displaying garbage where every single Corporate experience and recommendation should be. She angrily fixed it one entry at a time, wiping the bad data and restoring from backup until everything was back to normal. Everything, that is, except for the giant red note at the top that listed her as barred from any Upper Management position.
With a growl of hate she flung the thin console on the bunk like it was personally to blame for everything. "Asshole." Belatedly she realized Emilia was still in the room, quietly watching her personal struggle with a wry grin. Even her visor looked engaged, the colors muted to a lazy swirl.
"Well, well, well. Look at you. That seemed a little heated."
"Old business, and none of yours. Uh, business." She took a deep breath, reorganized and reattacked. "None of your business. There."
Emilia held both hands up, palms facing the overhead lights. "If you say so. Just saying, you know."
Which was a clever play on Jamet's stammer. She narrowed eyes at the smaller woman. "No, I don't know. Honestly I'm more than a little furious over how much in the dark I am considering I'm the co-CEO of the goddamn ship. None of you," she thrust a finger at the door, indicating everyone at once. "Follow a single regulation, everyone is both way out of standard while somehow filling far too many roles. Not to mention the captain is- is a-" she stalled as career instincts leapt to the rescue. One did not speak ill of Upper Management.
Emilia looked amused both above and below her ridiculous visor. "Go ahead. It's okay. Raging alcoholic? Chem addict? Unstable lunatic?"
Jamet sputtered. "Some of those, perhaps, but I didn't say so!"
"'Course not."
"And as for you," she accused. This was safer ground: Throwing insults downrank was practically encouraged. "You're insubordinate, outright rude, too short for duty and breaking every possible accessory rule that ever existed, ever." That might have been too many 'evers'. "How you're even allowed in the Corporate Navy is mind boggling!"
There was a beat pause. "You done, princess?"
"Princess?!"
"Yeah, I'm definitely putting 'Princess' in the running for your nickname. Although Paul's got another bet on naming you 'Impossible', he swears it's a verbal tic for you or something."
If her jaw kept dropping this often she might need to look into a stretching routine. "And I suppose the Engineer-"
"Janson, honey."
"Janson has a nickname for me also?"
"Nah." She waved one small hand in a 'what can you do?' gesture. "He likes you."
This hit harder than it should have, some small part under her heart unclenching a bit. "Oh. That's... that's good."
"He's got a big heart, willing to wade through a lot of bullshit to find a gem." Emilia boosted herself onto the bunk, casually picking up the console and redocking it nearby. "In your case it's more like a mountain of crap but hey, he's an optimist." She grinned evilly, lip curling up under hidden, rainbow colored amusement.
That tore it. Jamet squared up, facing the seated woman. "Remove that visor. Right now."
Emilia went still, head cocked to one side. "What if I said no?"
"Then I'll remove it for you, and don't think for a second I won't enjoy it." In the heat of the moment she almost meant it, but enough intent got through to make the threat sound legitimate.
Eyebrows shot upwards, then returned to a kind of grudging neutral position. "Huh, didn't think you had the salt." She considered, feet kicking thoughtfully. "Alright, you'd have gone through my ship record soon anyways. Give me a second, though."
Jamet watched, puzzled and suspicious, as Emilia hopped down and crossed to the room lights. She dimmed them low; dark enough to make the meager bunk, her trunk and the room console start to blend together. "What are you doing?"
"Avoiding a two week stay in Medical. Janson was pissed last time and he carries worry around like he's paid extra for it. Now take a good look, Princess: You asked for it." She came to stand in front of Jamet, both hands lifted towards her ears as they fiddled with something.
Jamet started to get a bad feeling, but before she could open her mouth it was done: With a click and pop, the earpieces of the colored visor came away, revealing short prongs and the silver gleam of surgical interface. Emilia carefully rocked the curved lens forward over her nose, cupping the swirling display protectively in both hands while tilting her head upwards. "Well?"
She noticed the discoloration first-- everything covered by the visor was a pale white, soft and puffed. She never takes it off, even to air it out. Skin coloration formed a perfect outline around the edges, sloping across both small cheekbones and across her forehead beneath an unruly curl of black hair. In that expanse of startling white her eyes stood out in stark relief, almost too big to be real. And there, in the middle, Emilia's wide-open pupils watched her pitilessly.
They were abnormally large, relaxed and widened to ridiculous size. But even worse they were slotted: A large square of black that thrust outward from each rounded pupil clear into the whites. It was sickening to look at. Jamet took a shaky breath. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Emilia scowled. "Nothing is wrong with me, asshole. It's called a coloboma and I was born with it. Freaking messes with my vision, I have a hard time with lights and colors get smeared. Not that you'd care."
She matched her, scowl for scowl. "How did you even join the CN with a birth defect?"
"Fuck me, you're all heart. Typical Corpo." Emilia carefully reversed the process, edging the visor back over her eyes and snapping the interface prongs back into her skull. Jamet winced as each clicked into place. "And to answer-- not that you deserve it but it's in my fucking file so why not-- I was a Corpo campaign promotion. 'Differently Abled Service' they called it; grabbed a bunch of us and let us in if we could pass the basic tests."
"And you stayed?" Jamet couldn't believe it. "Lower Management is ruthless about, uh... non-performers," she finished lamely.
"Didn't have anything to go back to. My parents," she hissed the word. "Were indentured workers on Agro farms, debt to the ceiling. They had me as an investment; they were hoping with three people working they could finally squeeze out from under their contract. When I came out like this," she pointed both thumbs bitterly at her visor. "Well. Let's just say they made the disappointment known. But I was smart, the tests were easy, and if I could hang on long enough to get a Corpo sponsor..."
Which they both knew was next to impossible. "What happened?"
"Role purge." Jamet winced sympathetically; when Upper decided to go through the contracts-- usually to improve their bottom line, but sometimes an Exec wanted to make a name for themselves-- it was usually a bloodbath for everyone below. "They tossed anyone with a disability who didn't have a guaranteed sponsor. I had to throw my contract on the open market."
Jamet tried to hide a flinch, but with her visor on Emilia didn't miss much. "You too, huh? Fuck us both, then." She turned and headed for the hatch, slapping the release and the lights at the same time. "See you around, Princess."
"Wait." Then, hesitantly: "Please."
Emilia stopped without looking back. "Yeah?"
"How'd you end up here? On the Kipper?"
She seemed to consider it for a long time, standing just outside the room with her head tilted downward in thought. Finally she shook, just once, a bitter left and right of negation.
"Ask the Captain. He saved your ass too, after all."
The hatch whooshed shut, leaving Jamet more concerned than she'd been in her life.

The closet door creaked open and the wire hangers screamed in protest as I sifted through my boring formal attire for something that wouldn’t require too much ironing.
“Court tomorrow?” My wife yawned from the bed; face still buried in her Kindle. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. Some stupid old case from homicide. Dude’s appealing his previous guilty plea.” I inspected the suit jacket of a garment older than any of my kids and put it back once I saw the puffy shoulder pads. “Wasting everyone’s time. He confessed the night of the stabbing – literal blood on his hands, we have him on video doing it for God’s sake.”
“Sorry.” She rolled over and pulled the covers up. I flopped an old, grey number onto the foot of the bed, figuring it was the best I’d do. I hadn’t been to court in almost a year. My new job – actually an old job that I returned to, the Fugitive Squad – had a much lower instance of being subjected to that particular drudgery. I dragged the iron slowly across the lapel of an ancient, white dress shirt and internally complained about the coming day.
After getting fancy in the morning, I headed into the office. I was greeted by the expected catcalls and wolf whistles. Most of my coworkers had never seen me in anything but jeans and a t-shirt. “What’s the occasion?” John called from his desk as I logged in to my computer.
“Dumbass appealing a stabbing plea.” I grunted back. “Anything going on today?”
“Nah. I think your guy is the only active case we got.”
I had been tracking down a gang member who had warrants out for abducting and robbing a prostitute. “Oh, cool. It’s in a holding pattern until I hear from the place I think he works. The manager seems to want to cooperate. You good if I call you if he reaches out?”
“Yeah. I don’t have to be all fancy like you. I’ll just be hanging here, ready to roll.”
I turned back to my computer, happy with my backup plan, and tapped out a few emails before heading out the door for court.
My meeting with the prosecutor went about as predicted – she hadn’t really prepped thanks to a hefty case load, so she quickly scratched notes as we walked to the elevator bank. The crime scene detective and patrol guy who was first on scene were waiting for us in front of the court room, ready to brief the frazzled attorney with their contributions. We entered the courtroom and I greeted the victim who surprisingly had showed up. I settled in and awaited the judge and the defendant to enter – both from back hallways of the courthouse. Motions passed with me and the motley crew of witnesses being ordered to wait outside the courtroom until we were summoned. I knew voir dire was usually a lengthy process so quickly claimed a comfortable spot overlooking the busy street outside the floor to ceiling windows of the courthouse.
Just as I was about to start vegging out to Reddit, my phone buzzed. It was the manager of the dude I was tracking.
“Yeah, this detective EMR?”
“It is.” I answered. “Thanks for calling Mr. Abdullah.”
“Pedro coming in today. This morning, probably round eleven.” He grunted.
“Oh, did he call?” I pulled a pen and paper from my jacket pocket and wrote “11” on it.
“No. I called him. I told that sonuvabich he better be here today or else. Good, right?” I could hear his smile on the other side of the phone and his expectation of being patted like a retriever with a dead duck in its mouth.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks for, um, reaching out to him for me.” It was definitely not what I wanted – not only because I was in court, potentially for the rest of the week, but also because it didn’t seem very natural to order a warehouse worker who knew he’d just robbed a hooker in to his minimum wage job with the threat of “or else.”
“I call you when he get here.” He hung up before I could give any further instruction. My scant notes seemed lonely on their sheet of notebook paper.
I quickly dialed John. He answered on the third ring. “What’s up? How’s court treating you?”
“Sucks. Hey, you busy? Just got a call from the manager of my target.”
“Oh, yeah. We got called out to sit on this dude’s apartment for homicide. I think it’s nothing, but boss wanted to get out of the office.”
I cracked my neck in aggravation and paused before responding. “You think anyone can break off for my guy? He’s a runner and fighter and I don’t trust the manager to be subtle with him when he gets in. He basically ordered the guy in today so that I could grab him.”
“Huh. That sucks… yeah, I’ll see what we can do. I’ll hit you back in five.” John hung up, leaving me to ponder my other options. Patrol had become castrated since I had last been working fugitive – new policies made the street supervisors afraid of their own shadows let alone a police-fighting, prostitute-robbing, gang member. That was no option. I next thought about reaching out to any of my federal buddies but quickly realized that without the already-laid groundwork getting the case adopted it would be an insurmountable obstacle to get their help. I leaned back in semi-defeat, hoping my boss would bail me out and make this arrest easy.
“Do you got a case working?” The patrol guy asked from the other side of the couch.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. This court crap really hampers my style, y’know?” I replied, rubbing the bridge of my nose and glaring at the courtroom door.
“Yeah. I feel you. I had traffic court yesterday. Got weed court tomorrow. And a few prelims Thursday.” He shook his head and leaned back on the couch; arm draped casually over the back of it.
“I remember those days and don’t miss them.”
“What’s this case you’re working. You’re still in homicide, right?” He asked.
“Nah. Made my way back to fugitive operations, thankfully. Hence my annoyance at court – there’s none of this nonsense in my current gig.” I glanced at my phone, hoping John would be calling with good news. “I’m looking for a dude with abduction paper.”
“Oh, nice. So, you just like, go out and find people?” He scooted a little closer on the couch, now more engaged in the conversation.
“Pretty much, yeah. We also work with federal agencies, helping them on odd jobs when needed. But finding wanted guys is our bread and butter.” I looked down and confirmed there was still no indication John remembered I was alive.
“So, how do I get to do what you do?” Another scootch in my direction.
“Well, I guess get good at mining social media? Get to know your police databases. Get comfortable with interviews. Work on tactics… oh and shooting. We all must qualify expert. Drill down your fourth amendment stuff.” I could see him shrinking with each item as I went down the list. “We keep fitness standards too, so make sure you’re good with your sprints and mid distance. Oh, and try to get ahead on how to author search warrants for tech stuff. We’re all into phone tracking and IP address monitors. Do you know the pen register and trap and trace process?”
“Oh, cool. Yeah. I know about that stuff.” He leaned back again and gazed in the opposite direction down the hall as he scooted back to his end of the couch. “I mean, I can find people. No problem.” He mumbled to himself a little, but I stopped paying attention as my phone began to vibrate.
“John. Give me the good news.”
“Well, it’s good news and bad news. I think we’re going to break this thing down soon.” He started.
“Great! What’s the bad news?”
“We may not be leaving for a couple hours.”
“Well, that doesn’t help. I guess it’s better than nothing? I’ll call back the manager and have him stall for us.” I glanced at the time, 10:30. “I’d put money on the guy being late anyway.”
“Ok. Your guy is the priority once we get the go-ahead to roll. I’ll keep you updated man.”
A short while later, the door swung open from the court room as I hung up on John. The frazzled prosecutor was first out, legal pad clutched tight and eyes darting in search of someone. Her gaze stopped on me and she pulled a finger towards an interview room up the hall. “How’d that go?” I asked upon entering.
“Juries suck. This judge sucks. This defense-“ she cut herself short, glanced out the door, then in a lower voice continued, “-this defense attorney sucks. And your suspect sucks. Everyone is fighting me on everything.” She settled into a chair at the awkward 90’s era table and flopped her now much-fuller legal pad of notes on top. “Fifteen-minute recess. Let’s go over the witness list.”
“I’ll go first!” I volunteered hopefully.
“No, no. I think we’ll call the victim first. That’s the longest and I bet I can get most of what I need from him.”
“So, I’m second?”
“Hmmm… I’m thinking patrol second for timeline purposes, keep it flowing.” She was scratching the order down as she said it.
“Ah, cool.” I hesitated, dipped my head into her field of view. “So, I’ll go third?”
“Well. I wonder if I should call crime scene next. That way we can get over any questions about the scene and get all the evidence they collected in.” She tapped her pen a few times, a metronome of tension that seemed to pound in my ears louder with each tap. “Yep. That’s best.” She scribbled the crime scene detective’s name down.
“So, I guess I’m last.” At first, I was bummed out. Then, opportunity rang! “If I’m last, can I take off and come back after lunch recess?”
She scrunched her face in contemplation. “I guess? I mean, I’ll still need you here for most of it in case they pull something crazy out their hat.”
I checked my phone for the time – 10:41. I’d be pushing it, but I could make it to Pedro’s job by 11:15 if I left then and there. I pulled out my wallet, threw a business card in her direction, and took off. “My cell’s on the card! Call me if you need me! See you at 13:00!” I was too far away to hear any reply and began pounding the down button at the elevators.
My car’s tired squealed a bit on the parking garage surface but I didn’t care – sweet freedom and a chance to make an easy closure were worth any griping from command staff who may have been within ear shot and wanting to pick a fight. I pulled onto the main drag, then onto the highway in the direction of my target before calling John.
“I was just about to call! We broke off early, heading to your guy’s place in a few.”
“I’m on my way too. Escaped the courts clutches for a couple hours. I think,” my tires may have squealed again as I hit my exit at warp three, “I’m going to beat you there.”
“Ok, I’ll start early. Everyone needs to jump on the conference call so we can hear what’s going on. If you get there first, what’s the plan Mr. Fancy Pants?”
I remembered my attire wasn’t exactly the typical “undercover” but there was nothing I could do about it. “I’ll throw on a gun, grab some cuffs, and get my guy I guess.”
“Hell yeah!” I could envision John’s fist pump. “That’s how we do it! Get on the call, see you in a few.”
I pulled into a grocery store parking lot and dug in my center console for my Airpods. We had recently purchased them to go with the pay-service conference call program to overcome the usual radio issues that would spring up on operations as well as to maintain better undercover look. I dialed into the conference line from my personal phone, leaving my work phone available in case the manager called me back.
As if answering my internal monologue, the manager’s number buzzed onto my phone. “Mr. Abdullah! I’m on my way. Any sign of Pedro?”
“Ah, yes. He’s here. I tell him ‘get in my office now!’ and he get very angry. You come get him now.”
“That’s the plan, I’m about ten minutes away.” I pulled back into traffic, no decked out with my Apple gear.
“No ten minutes. He’s here now.”
“I know but I’m getting there as fast as I can. Are you able to make him wait somewhere else? I don’t want him to leave.”
Mr. Abdullah sighed heavily into the phone, making me aware I was putting him out by my request. “Fine. I tell him to go stock. You need to hurry.” He hung up abruptly, again, and I got caught in traffic at a red light.
“EMR, you up?” John’s voice piped in through the Airpods.
I unmuted my side. “Yup. Dude’s at work. I’m ten out. You guys close?”
“About fifteen. Traffic sucks.” My boss chimed in, having dialed in to the line too.
“Ok. I had the manager send him out to work the stock. He was going to pull him into the office and yell at him… or something?” My light turned and I was able to get ahead of the traffic clot with some almost legal maneuvers. “I’ll get set up, lets just try and surround the joint as we get there, cool?”
All my team members agreed in some fashion and I continued towards my destination. A few minutes later I pulled into the industrial area where Pedro worked – a large complex of cinderblock constructed warehouses. Mechanics and metal workers were the bulk of the occupants, but I found Mr. Abdullah’s medical supply warehouse located towards the back. I gave an update over the Airpods then waited. John was the first to arrive and about the time he got settled, the rear door to the warehouse flew open and Pedro stormed out – red faced and looking pissed.
“You see the target John?”
“Got him.” He replied, “He doesn’t look too happy.” Pedro kicked a bucket of cigarette butts on cue then pulled his own pack out and lit up a Newport. “You and me can take him if we get someone to watch the front.”
“Two out.” My boss answered. “I’ll take the front.”
Pedro huffed and puffed for a cigarette’s span then entered the warehouse again. Once my boss indicated he was in position, John and I met at the back of a trailer. “Did I mention you were looking fancy today?” He asked.
“Yeah, yeah. You brought it up.”
We walked to the landing outside the rear door as other team members voiced up saying they too were falling in place. The boss gave the order to mute all phones other than mine so that they could monitor and react if things broke bad inside. John and I popped open the door and walked into the dark warehouse.
Pedro and a burly companion were manhandling a pallet of boxes, slicing strapping with box cutters and cursing up a storm. I gave them a nod and John made himself small, slipping along the wall to our right and down an aisle of shelves acting like he owned the place. I pretended to not notice Pedro, instead addressing his partner.
“Excuse me. Can you point me to Mr. Abdullah? I’m here to talk about a very large order my company is placing.” I figured I might as well act the part of a guy in a suit.
The burly guy just pointed to the opposite end of the warehouse, down another aisle. I nodded like I knew what he meant but stayed still, realizing if I abandoned the rear door, we might not have coverage on the outside due to only a few guys being set up on the perimeter.
“Oh. Down there? Where exactly. I’ve never been here.”
The guy’s eyeroll was almost audible. “Down there, turn left. He’s in the office. It’s the only one.”
“Ah. Gotcha. Do… do you think you or your friend could show me?” I put on what I hoped would be a meek expression, praying for some pity and luck. I noticed John slipping into the row the burly guy had indicated.
Another eye roll but this time the guy straightened up, turned to Pedro, and with a dismissive flick of his wrist said, “Go. Show him.” Pedro’s shoulders slumped but he complied, stomping ahead of me without a greeting. We departed the burly gentleman who went back to slashing the stack of boxes.
“Mr. Abdullah said I should look for a guy named Pedro. You know him?” I asked the back of Pedro’s head.
“Nah.” He muttered, still stomping ahead.
“Oh.” I let a pause pass. “What’s your name?” I figured I could try and be a friendly businessman.
“Mario.” He answered, not missing a beat.
“Huh. Weird.” We continued in the direction of John who was pretending to browse an array of adult diapers on a shelf. As we got within striking distance, I addressed my guide again. “Ok, hold up. Pedro, I’m with the police. You got any ID? You’ve got warrants and are under arrest.”
Pedro froze in his tracks. John squared off on him, flanking him on the side opposite of me. I placed my hand on my gun, taking a sidestep to clear the crossfire with John and forming an “L” with Pedro in the role of the right angle. He seemed to mull his options as John addressed him.
“Keep your hands where we can see them. Reach for the knife and it won’t end well.” John drew his gun and tucked it to a low-ready position. Pedro decided to act, attempting to plow through John towards the front. I rushed forward and grabbed him by the collar while John used his off hand to give him a Heisman shove to the chest. Pedro fell to the floor and John and I quickly spun down onto him, knees into his back and grasping for his right arm. I pulled my cuffs and roughly clicked them into place.
“Were you trying to run? Smart.” Pedro struggled for a moment but quickly gave up. “You good?” I asked John.
“Yeah.” He puffed. “But what’s that smell?”
I sniffed a sample. Pungent, stinging my nose, familiar. “Pedro… did you… poopy? Did you poop your pants Pedro?”
He didn’t answer but I was suddenly greeted with guffaws through my Airpods.
“Did EMR just ask him if he made poopy?”
I had forgotten about the new equipment in my ear and felt my cheeks reddening.
Mr. Abdullah came waddling over. “You get him? Good! You no come back Pedro. I no want bad guys here.” He waddled away, ending the conversation as though it was one of his phone calls.
We dragged Pedro out the back door – his legs seemed to stop working with the new hardware on his wrists. The burly guy froze at the boxes, staring at us with a confused look.
“You police?” He asked.
“Sometimes.” I replied, and we exited back into the bright sunlight. A line of undercover vehicles sat awaiting us and my boss walked up.
“That was easy!” He looked over Pedro. “Are you Mr. Poopy Pants?” Pedro sulked in silence.
“Ha!” John called from his car while lathering several pumps of hand sanitizer into his palms. “We got Mr. Poopy Pants and Mr. Fancy Pants!”
After everyone had a good laugh, John took lead on finding a transport that could be more easily decontaminated than our undercover cars. “Get back to court, dude. I got this.”
I gave copious thanks and took off back to the drudgery. I swung through a Popeyes drive thru once I realized I had skipped lunch and wouldn’t have another opportunity until dinner to eat. I figured a celebratory sandwich may lift my spirits. My phone began ringing on my second bite, an unknown number. I swallowed and answered.
“Detective EMR.”
“Hey, it’s Smith.” The prosecutor. “You want an update?”
“Sure. I’m sure it’s gonna be great.” I lathered the sarcasm onto that statement like buttercream icing on a sheet cake.
“Actually, yeah. We heard the victim’s testimony, we broke for lunch, and his attorney just called. He’s going to put in a plea!”
A load lifted off my shoulders and I said a little prayer of thanks. “That’s amazing. Do you need me there?”
“Nope. You’re clear. I’ll call if it goes bad but otherwise, we’re all set. Go change out of your terrible suit.”
“Hey! I thought I looked pretty professional. Fooled a warehouse worker just now.” I feigned injury.
“Wow. Well, had I known such a bastion of style advice approved maybe I wouldn’t have judged so harsh.”
After the call, I finished my sandwich and took a few quiet minutes, glad I was done with court for the foreseeable future and hoping to avoid any permanent nicknames from the day’s events.

I could describe every single step I take through the cramped, greasy, crumbling and wire-strung back streets toward it, but that would probably be boring. You can imagine what these warrens look like. People leaning from sheet metal balconies to yell at one another about laundry or who gets to use the water pump next. Hawkers trying to drum up business for their clapboard knick knack stands. Groups of brave unattended urchins buzzing around me asking if they can ride on my shoulders like a domesticated elephant (which I oblige, because why not). Street toughs with knives and shock batons lurking in shadowy alleys, turning away once they see that 1) I’m giving shoulder rides to six children at a time and 2) my wallet belongs to a guy that weighs almost half a ton.
I disentangle myself from the intestinal side streets, cross the mostly-empty parking lot, and reach one of the rear utility entrances to the arena, which is now blocking out the sun eight stories above my head. There’s a security booth near the door, and I stride up to the guard inside while smiling as sunny as you please. I’m hard to miss, and the guard follows my approach with a raised eyebrow.
“Hi! Testing consult, here to see Tennima Earthboon.”
The security guard behind the glass, who has the sideburns of a spider monkey and the bored, apathetic facial expression of a security guard, looks up at me with the requisite amount of mild disdain. He looks down at his little desk, punches through a few screens on his computer, then looks back up at me.
“Ms. Earthboon doesn’t have a consult scheduled for today.”
Uh oh. We’ve got an overachiever on our hands. This guy wants to earn his paycheck. I don’t believe this man ever went through the Security Guard Academy - I’m pretty sure actually doing your job is frowned upon by the regulatory commission.
I can’t remember if I’ve seen this guard before. If I don’t recognize him, he doesn’t recognize me from all other times I’ve been through here. I run a short comparative facial scan through my internal database. And… nope, it returns only a 0.09% probability of a match in recent memory. That makes sense. I probably would have remembered those ridiculous mutton chops anyway. Time to improvise.
“Well, she only called me a couple hours ago. I might not be in there. You know how it is with these engineers - if it’s not circuit cards or lugnuts, they’ll probably forget about it.”
This is a lie. I’m the scatterbrain here. In my frazzled spur-of-the-moment mental state I completely forgot to call Tennima ahead of time. That would have made this a lot easier.
He squints at me, apparently not appreciating my attempt at good-natured solidarity. “ID?”
Crap.
“Yeah, sure.” I fish it out of my wallet and hand it to him under the glass. This is about to get a lot harder.
He doesn’t even have to look at the text on the card. The entire thing is bright purple, with “ARCANIST” in yellow block letters at the top. He beetles his brows at me in a combination of indignation and disbelief. It’s a shame that false IDs of any quality cost more than I make in six months.
He hands my ID back like it’s a hungry steam worm and grunts, “Get out of here before I call the Watch, freak.”
Admittedly, I probably could have thought this through a little more.
I plead, “C’mon, you can look me up in your logs, I was here on a call last month. Or call Tennima’s garage, she’ll vouch for me.”
“Fat chance. You’re not even the seventh weirdo this week to try and pull that one on me. I’m not gonna be the guy that let a deranged throwback like you walk in here to do who knows what. Go cast a spell somewhere else, or I’m calling for backup.”
While he’s saying this, I bring up Tennima’s tablet in my database and compose a quick message.

I’m outside at the gate. Wanted to surprise you, but the guy won’t let me in. Can you call the booth? 

I send it, suppressing a shiver as my internal antenna hums the data out of my skull and into the air. Now I just have to stall for time. Hopefully she has her screen on her and isn’t busy with something.
I reply, “I don’t know any spells. They’re illegal. And I’m not deranged! Do I seem deranged? Look, I can even make complete sentences! See?”
The guard scowls. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look plenty deranged. Non-deranged people are smaller, and have way less scars and, uh… technology, on their faces. If deranged took out advertisements, it’d be your mug on the billboards, creep.”
It’s my turn to frown. “That’s not very funny.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, I quit the comedy circuit to be a security guard. ‘Cause I like the uniforms, see? And these boxes are nice and sweaty, just how I like it.”
I fix my lenses on him. “Okay, did you really quit comedy to be a rent-a-cop? Because I’ll admit, you’re actually unusually witty.”
Two words flash at the corner of my vision.

hang on 

Mr. Dedication replies, “Everyone wants to be talented and famous when they’re young, pal. Except you, apparently. Looking at you, I’m guessing you wanted to be a cargo train. Or a human petri dish. Now fuck off outta here before I get in-”
The phone in his little security box rings. He rolls his eyes very dramatically, then jabs his finger toward the parking lot at me while putting the receiver up to his ear.
“Gate 2C, this is Springberry.”
His eyes lock onto mine from behind the glass, and his face congeals into an expression somewhere between exasperation, disbelief, and resignation. I smile at him.
“Oh. Hello, Ms. Earthboon. Yes, there is. Uh… two stories tall, black hair, green clanker eyes. Oh yeah. Yeah, like if- yes, at least three gorillas’ worth. Yes. It’s alright, no problem, just… warn a guy next time. Okay. Have a nice day, Ms. Earthboon.”
He hangs up the phone, eyes not leaving mine for even a second. He leans forward.
“I like Ms. Earthboon. She’s a nice girl. And if I find out about anything freaky happening to her, I’ll make sure something happens to you about it, get me?”
I shrug. “You’d have to fight a lot of other people just to reach my corpse afterward, buddy. And I’ve been friends with her longer than you have, anyway.”
The guard puts his attention on his computer and gets ready to type. “What’s your name?”
“Baulric Featherlight.”
He gives me a look. “What, like from the story?”
Okay, this guy is definitely a faker. I’ve never met a security guard that didn’t collapse into myoclonic seizures every time their eyes contacted print.
“Yep.”
A sarcastic chuckle. “And that last name is just poetry on a creep like you. Your parents must be so happy that they got their wish.”
“Nah, they’re dead.”
“Yeah? Join the club, pal.”
“Okay. Where do I sign up?”
He squints. “Where what now?”
“Where do I sign up? For the Dead Parents Club. That sounds like one of those ones with free coffee.”
He slides a clipboard and pen under the glass. “Bottom line right here, smartass.”
I pick up the form and look at it. “What’s this?”
Still typing, he says, “Never learned how to read, huh? Clearance badge form. If you’re a consult you shoulda got one the first time you came through, but every other guard here is a lazy piece of shit. Pretend to read all of it very thoroughly for the cameras, then sign so we don’t have to do this song and dance ever again.”
I glance at the paper, then run my text comparator program to get the gist in about a third of a second. Don’t lose the badge, don’t eat the badge, et cetera et cetera, just bureaucratic boilerplate. I sign and give it back to him. How’s that for reading, huh? Bet you wish you had one of these. Or… well, maybe not, because modern intracranial processors still have only about a 60% compatibility with normal human brain tissue and the list of post-implantation side effects is about as long as your spinal cord. Which uh, has a good chance of exovertebral herniation after getting one of these, incidentally. Look, basically what I’m saying is, don’t get a computer slotted in your head unless you want to use hallucinations as a replacement for the viewscreen you won’t be able to afford anymore, or you’re itching to add some real humdingers to your tumor collection.
The clipboard completes its pilgrimage back under the glass with my signature in tow, then Mr. Vigilance holds up an ancient-looking camera.
“Say ‘regret’!”
The flashbulb goes off before I even realize what’s happening. The badge comes out of the laminator and he hands it to me. In the picture I look like an overexposed, electronically-enhanced moron. I squint my shutters at him.
“That’s hysterical. No wonder they pay you the big bucks, you absolute winner, you.”
He smiles pleasantly and pushes a button. A buzzer sounds, and the door opens, showing me a passage leading into the arena.
“Have a great day, Mr. Featherlight. Do anything stupid in there and there’ll be so many shock batons up your ass you’ll try to take the next power transformer you see out on a date.”
Walking down the steps into the arena, I wave a hand and say without turning back, “Revisit that old dream of yours, Mr. Springberry. You’re in the wrong line of work.”
The door crashes shut behind me, leaving me surrounded by quiet, fluorescent-lit concrete.
I send Tennima another message.

Thanks. Where are you? 

After a minute, she replies:

major league garage bay 89 

Major league? Wow. That’s new. I guess there’s some congratulations in order.
I slither my way through the utility tunnels toward the arena grounds. There’s no paint and no decorations - the fans aren’t allowed back here. Just anonymous gray-green concrete and the occasional door marked “MAINTENANCE” or “BOILER”, stuff like that. Not very exciting. On my right are some high half-windows, where I can see the fight turf. This place on its own is bigger than most neighborhoods, so it’s going to take me a bit to work my way over to the garages.
I realize I have no idea where she actually is. This place is a labyrinth. I give up and find the nearest door to the pitch. The garage numbers are painted below the stands so the fans can identify their favorite engineers, so it shouldn’t be too hard.
Back out in the sun, I scan the place for a bit. It’s not a fight day today, so it’s quiet, and the stands are mostly empty. Only some scouts, coaches, and diehard fans for whom even automech maintenance is something to cheer about. The pitch is just bare brown-orange desert earth, smoothed and compacted down by rolling machines at the end of every event. There are some automechs and engineers out here, sparring against one another, troubleshooting, practicing maneuvers, or just talking amongst themselves.
Tucked under the stands all the way around the perimeter of the pitch are the shadowy dugouts, where the engineers’ garages are kept. Alcoves numbered “1” through “200” for the minor leaguers on the east side, and one-hundred larger nooks for the majors on the west. I find the one with a big yellow “89” painted above it and just cut directly across the pitch, keeping a respectful distance from the gearheads and their fighting machines as I walk.
I pass by two contenders with minor league emblems on their jackets. One’s a shrimpy-looking mousey guy wearing welder’s goggles, with the number “174” on his back. He’s sweating a bit, and grimacing like he’s got a weasel in his work coveralls. His vitae is blue-red and wispy, like seaweed. The other’s a… distinctive-looking hefty lady with sky-blue lip paint, two-inch rainbow-colored artificial eyelashes, glittery eyeshadow, and not a single hair on her meaty head. She looks like a huge vanilla cupcake with rainbow sprinkles came to life and decided to start a career as a heavyweight wrestler. Her vitae is a big, blocky red-purple fortress around her body, with clouds of something like multicolored flower petals drifting around its ramparts. I’ve never seen someone so imposing in my entire life.
They’re standing across from one another on opposite ends of a white circle painted on the ground. Their mechs are in the ring, sparring.
Mouse’s machine is a sleek, headless, fast-looking thing with four arms and reverse-jointed legs. It’s painted red and orange, with two or three sponsorship decals on the shoulders. Two of its arms have hands, and the longer upper pair are equipped with a guttering flamethrower and a circular saw with glinting teeth. No engine - probably running entirely on an electrite reactor to cut down on weight.
Rainbow Suplex’s mech looks basically exactly like her - hulking, heavily-armored, and slow, with massive hydraulic pistons in the arms, a roaring engine in its chest, twin chrome exhaust pipes jutting from either side of its clavicle, and the most terrifying candy-coat of eye-bruising neon rainbow paint I’ve ever seen on anything ever. I don’t see any obvious weapons on it, or even cameras in its heavy head. Aside from its utterly blinding paint job, of course, which in the sunlight is forcing me to turn down my eyes’ goddamn brightness setting.
Mouse punches a few keys on his wrist-mounted data relay, and Spider-Arms trains its flamethrower on the Oglitzerator. An angry jet of liquid fire sprays all over the giant’s body - I can feel the heat from where I’m standing. The massive mech just walks forward, which is honestly the most menacing thing it probably ever needs to do. Each one of its footsteps brings a pneumatic tsss and an earth-rattling rumble. No matter how heavy its armor is, it can’t just stay in the fire - it’ll overheat.
The multicolored monster stomps forward, but Spider-Arms launches ahead and right on what looks like jet-powered rollerskates. In an impressive display of agility, it reaches the titan’s flank and swipes an arm left. Its buzzsaw screeches against its opponent’s armor plates - probably looking to sever a hydraulic line. A shower of sparks flies in all directions.
The much larger Oglitzerator turns and waves its own arm, like a bear trying to swat a bee. Spider-Arms ducks under the swing, then shoots another jet of fire right in the hulk’s back.
Rainbow Suplex, her face in a determined scowl, closes her sparkle-coated eyes and punches a button on her own wrist rig.
Then it becomes apparent why Mouse is wearing welding goggles.
A horrible blinding flash explodes from hidden photoplates on the Oglitzerator’s armor. I’m lucky I already turned my brightness down - the rainbow flare only lasts for a split second, but was bright enough to outdo the sun and cast shadows all the way up in the nosebleeds.
There must’ve been an extra little electromagnetic something in the flare. My implants are pretty well-shielded, but there’s a little static in my vision, and Spider-Arms suddenly looks a lot more confused. It tries to get out of range, but flounders, like it’s not sure which direction to go in. The Oglitzerator takes advantage of the momentary confusion, to gruesome effect. It lunges forward and grabs its opponent’s left two arms at the shoulder, plants its other hand around Spider-Arm’s middle, then pulls. The smaller mech’s left arms shriek briefly and then separate from their sockets. Oil and hydraulic fluid splatter the dry earth. The giant tosses the leaking limbs to one side, lifts up the rest of Spider-Arms, then throws the poor, defeated mech overhead about twenty yards through the air. It lands outside the ring with a metallic crunch, in a pitiful-looking heap of tangled scrap metal.
Mouse falls to his knees, hands on his head and mouth agape in despair.
Rainbow Suplex, arms crossed over her… regal bosom, yells to him, “You shoulda kept yer distance! The fire woulda worked if you’d just dodged around more, but you had to get cocky.”
Mouse doesn’t reply, eyes down, apparently still reeling from his 45-second defeat.
The Oglitzerator picks up the dismembered arms, then stomps over to gather up the whirring corpse of Spider-Arms. Rainbow Suplex, still scowling like a bull, crosses the ring to cast Mouse in her domineering shadow. She leans down, picks up her shell-shocked opponent, and slings the kid over her shoulder like a dejected sack of potatoes. She strides off with purpose, the Oglitzerator following behind.
“C’mon, Silverbell, it ain’t the end of the world. Let’s look at some pulse shielding, then I’ll buy ya a milkshake and one a’ them nice sausage sandwiches you like. Y’all gotta eat more. You’ll feel better in two shakes of a rattler’s tail.”
From somewhere between Rainbow Suplex’s shoulder blades with his butt in the air, Mouse sniffs and mumbles hopefully, “... Alright.”
The strange duo saunter off toward the garages. I can’t tell if what I just witnessed was a friendly training session or a kidnapping.
A lilting female voice somewhere around my left elbow says, “Kind of reminds you of the old days, huh?”
I turn and look down.
Coming up to just above my waist is a diminutive young woman with silvery blond hair bound in a messy bun. She’s wearing a tan tanktop with goggles on her forehead, and the sleeves of her gunmetal green mechanic’s coveralls are tied around her waist. She’s pretty enough, in a miniature kind of way, with a tiny button nose and big green eyes that seem to scan everything around them. Kind of like mine, but without the need for any circuitry. She’s got a narrow frame and probably doesn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, but her arms still show some muscle from working with power tools and metal all day.
Her vitae is very geometrical. Regular angular shapes, like a bunch of ghostly armor plates. They’re varying shades of gray, and they orbit around her body interlocking and separating at random, forming new shapes or breaking up into smaller ones. The metallic assembly smells pretty much like you think it would - hot metal, grease, and exhaust.
I smile at her and say, “Yeah, a little. How are ya, shrimp?”
She gives my hip a hug (that’s all she can really reach), and I give her a careful pat on the back. My hand is wider than her shoulder blades. We separate. She crosses her arms and looks up at me.
“Probably better than you, fatty.”
“Yeah, probably.” I thumb at the sparring partners receding into the distance. “Who’s the cute couple?”
Tennima snorts. “Panlon Silverbell and Charla Longmarch. They’re very much not a couple. Pan’s too shy to get a girlfriend and Charla’s… well, you can probably put two and two together on that one.”
“You know them?”
She shrugs. “He’s new, just entered the league a few months ago. I don’t know much about him. He seems quiet, but he’s pretty talented for his age. Charla’s been here almost as long as the arena has. She looks… daunting, but she’s actually very nice once you get past the… intensity. Basically the minor league den mother. She shows all the new fighters the ropes.”
“I didn’t see her rank.”
“Number one, in the minors. She’s been there for the last ten years or so - her and Painbow are the last obstacle to the big leagues.”
I frown. “She’s been rank one in the minors for ten years?”
Ten nods. “She’s refused every major-league contract they’ve tried to give her. Honestly, she’s good enough that she could move up whenever she wanted, but I think she keeps her rank to force all her adopted children to exceed her if they want to move on. Cares more about being a coach and surrogate mom than personal glory. That’s one reason why she has so few sponsorships. The other reason is that she refuses to ruin Painbow’s paint job with corporate decals.”
“Huh. What a character.”
“She’s a little weird, and loud, and pushy, but her heart’s even bigger than her biceps. I owe her a lot. I’m thirsty. You want a drink?”
“Hell yes I do, walking here was murder.”
“Follow me.” Tennima starts off to the left, toward the major league garages.
I slow my pace as we cross the expanse of hot dirt. Every one of my steps is worth about three of hers. We pass by some training equipment, and more mechs and engineers deep in their training.
“So you’re in the majors now, huh? When did that happen?”
“About a month ago. You’d know if you came out to see my damn matches.”
“I’m broke! Why don’t you use your dang prestige and get me some free tickets, huh?”
“Minors aren’t allowed to do that. But now I’m a bigshot, I’ll see about floating you some freebies in the nosebleeds. Hope you’re not prone to altitude sickness.”
“I guess we’ll find out. You and Crunchy must be on fire lately.”
“Yeah, we’ve been leaving a pretty terrifying wake of scrap behind us. I got picked up by Halfmoon, you know.”
I whistle. “No kidding? That’s gotta be the big bucks, right?”
She nods. “They treat their fighters pretty well. I’ve got a fancy new apartment in Sector Nine and everything.”
“You really are a bigshot. You should let me come over and stay for a few years.”
“I think you violate about seven different clauses in my lease. But sure, you should come visit sometime.”
All these garages are basically the same. Some have their doors open, some don’t, there are some subtle decorations depending on the engineer currently inhabiting it, but they all have standardized equipment. The fighters are always moving up and down depending on their rank, moving closer and closer to the coveted Champion’s Workshop, so if they’re performing well, they never get the chance to stay in their designated spot for long. Tennima’s garage is always identifiable, though, no matter what her rank is. From a distance.
Because none of the other fighters have Mr. Crunch.
Tennima crosses the threshold of her nook, under the awning and out of the sun. I stay a short distance away, for just a moment. That’s the thing about being around something bigger than you. No matter how big and strong you are, you’ll meet something bigger and stronger. And when you do, that little primeval part of your brain will activate and remind you that you could be prey. There’s that small instant where your instincts have to come to terms with the fact that you aren’t the big fish anymore. That’s the feeling that I wind up planting in most people’s heads when I’m around them, whether I want to or not. And Mr. Crunch does it to me.
I rest my hands on my hips and call to the thing in the garage’s loading bay, “Long time no see, Crunchy!”
The iron beast in the shadows raises its colossal left arm with a riot of clanks, ratchets, and hisses. It holds up its hand, opens it, and waggles it left and right on its wrist joint, making metallic tink tink tink sounds as it waves at me. A happy electric warble comes from somewhere in its chest, like a synthesizer crossed with a purring cat and a songbird. But loud enough to shudder my sternum.
I might have given you the wrong impression when I told you that Painbow, the colorful mech from earlier, was big. Now, that’s not technically incorrect. By my estimation, Painbow is probably a square ton and a half of metal, capable of tearing a man in half at the waist without so much as a rev of its engine. Mr. Crunch makes Painbow look like a plastic windup toy. Next to Mr. Crunch, everyone and everything is small.
It’s not a complex mech. Far from it - Tennima’s magnum opus is an exercise in proving the elegant simplicity of uncompromising brute force. Two legs, relatively small, only really there to absorb shock and carry the beast from one place to another. A small head, more of a decoration than anything else, with two steel eyes and a permanent metal frown, resting in a high collar of armor plates. But the arms. The arms are what’s carried Tennima into the major leagues. These things are so massive that each of its shoulders has its own dedicated exhaust manifold and hydraulic booster engine just so they can move faster than a heavily concussed snail. They reach nearly down to the ground even when Mr. Crunch is standing fully upright, but it usually isn’t - it often moves on its knuckles for balance, like a brushed-steel gorilla. Either arm weighs more than my entire body, and Tennima can’t remove them without a hydraulic lift.
Strung across the creature’s back and shoulders are reels of high-test loading cable, which end at harpoon projectors in the wrists. These are the reason Mr. Crunch is able to dismantle the competition so efficiently. It’s too gigantic and slow to catch anyone, so it impales them with pneumatic spikes like a fisherman, and just reels them in before literally tearing them apart with its titanic hands.
Nine feet tall. Over eight thousand pounds of pure heavy metal might. And it’s waving and chirping at me like a small child.
I approach his loading rack and pat the humming colossus on the elbow. “And a hearty beep boop to you too, buddy.”
His other arm crosses his chest, and he mimics my gesture, patting me on my elbow with two fingers. Very gently. He makes a sound similar in tone to my “beep boop”, but distorted and electronic. He’s such a copycat.
Mr. Crunch isn’t a person, but it’s hard not to think of him as a “he”. That’s what Tennima calls him, and it’s always felt somehow disrespectful to call him “it”.
And that’s kind of a problem. For both of them.
Crunchy makes a staticy “scoot over” noise and gives me a nudge with a finger. I get out of his way, and he disengages from his charging rack, apparently full. He takes a few booming steps on his boot-shaped feet, out into the sun. He shakes himself, kind of like a dog, rolling his huge shoulders and stamping the ground with his fists. Then he ducks back into the garage and starts rummaging through a pile of what looks like trash.
Tennima comes back over to me with two cans and two cigarettes. I take one of each.
We light our smokes and sip our fizz (Ten doesn’t like alcohol much), and Mr. Crunch pounds his way over to us on his undersized legs. He’s got his hands clasped together, like a kid that’s caught a cool bug.
He stops in front of us, blocking out the sun, and opens his palms. Inside is a partially-crushed bright red oil can. I look down at it, then to Ten.
She rolls her eyes. “He wants to play Hide the Can. I did it one time a couple weeks ago to calibrate his targeting system and he’s completely obsessed now. It’s his new favorite game. No, Crunchy, we’re not playing right now.”
Mr. Crunch holds the can out a little further and pleads, “Bwoowoop?”
Tennima sighs. “Alright, but only one. Give it to Uncle Baulric.”
Crunchy exclaims, “Fweebeep!” and offers me the can. I take it, and the four-ton steel toddler immediately covers his head with his hands.
Tennima shrugs in resignation. “Go ahead and hide it. It’s never taken him longer than five seconds to find it, but it’ll make him happy anyway.”
I scratch my chin contemplatively. “Hmmmmm. Where oh where should I hide the can, I wonder?” Mr. Crunch waggles a little at the waist and makes a few sing-songy notes in anticipation.
I walk into the garage, and pace around a bit, like I’m looking for a good place to hide it. But while I’m doing so, I slip the empty can into the back pocket of my trousers. I make some noise and rifle through a few containers to complete the illusion, give Ten a wink, then go back over to her.
“Okay Crunchy, find it!”
Mr. Crunch takes his hands off his rudimentary, always-frowning face and gives a few contemplative bleeps. His eyes, simple steel ball cameras in sockets, light up yellow, then pan around his immediate environment. They stop on me. He takes two steps forward, leans over my shoulder, holds up the back of my coat like a curtain, and dexterously plucks the can out of my pocket. He pulls back, then holds up the recovered can with a very proud “Ba-bwaaarb!”
I raise my eyebrows and clap appreciatively. Tennima also joins me in the round of applause, but with a much less impressed look on her face.
“Alright, now go play with your other toys while we talk.”
Mr. Crunch tosses the can over his shoulder. It flies through the air and clatters precisely back in the pile of things where he found it. Then he turns about and goes back to the pile, inspecting different items and beeping happily.
I say to Tennima, “How did he do that?”
She scoffs. “He’s a big cheater. I installed a chemoreceptor module in his head and now he can smell with his eyes. It doesn’t matter where you put it, he’ll be able to detect the oil residue in the can as long as it’s somewhere nearby. His adaptive behavioral subroutines are still figuring out how to make the best use of it, though, so for now, it’s a game. That he always wins.”
I nod. “And how does that uh… how do the rest of the fighters, uh…”
She knows what I’m angling toward. “He knows when people are watching, and I’ve taught him how to act when they’re around. It’s not perfect, but I wear a fake wrist rig when we’re in the ring and no one’s said anything yet.”
I sip my drink. The bubbly sugar is a godsend in this heat. “Aren’t you kind of a cheater? Isn’t all of this sort of… a formality?”
She huffs smoke and gives me a laser-cutting look. Tennima might be little, but she has an iron glare that’s on par with Emaphra’s.
“I’m the best engineer in this goddamn city, and I’ll prove it. Right here, regulations be damned.”
“And if you get found out?”
She jabs her smoke at me. “If you don’t dare to think the things that everyone else is too afraid to consider, you’re not an inventor, Baulric. You’re just another pair of arms, turning wrenches in the dark. No better than a maintenance automech, with a tech manual where your brain should be. If anyone thinks Mr. Crunch is a catastrophe waiting to happen, well… they can take it up with him.”
I look over at the massive machine and consider that. Yeah, she might have a point. Even the Brotherhood would have to think twice about how to confiscate a four-ton literal fighting machine that doesn’t want to be locked up.
Technology never stops marching. Even if the Brotherhood wants to tell it where to step and in what cadence, it’ll always move forward, whether they like it or not. Once the automech hit the scene, people asked questions about labor and entertainment. But a few strange people, people like Tennima, started asking more difficult questions. Questions like, What if we could make them act for themselves? What if they had their own essence? What if automechs not only looked like people, but started thinking like them too?
Animechs are even more illegal than I am. They’re so illegal that they don’t even exist. Not officially, anyway. All it took was the Brotherhood and the Tribunal to agree on this one point, and animechs went from intriguing scientific possibility to dangerous myth. A deeply ironic cautionary tale, meant to dissuade the hubris of innovators everywhere. If machines were alive, how would we control them? What would happen to poor old humanity? For all we know, we’d wind up with the cold metallic heel of a machine race on our necks before we even had the chance to heal from the bruises the magical one left. It’d be necromancer kings and elven empires all over again, except now they’d all be made out of metal.
The rare ones like Tennima think differently, though. They don’t acknowledge fear or taboo. They just gather up their genius and charge headlong into discovery, whether it means doom or a new golden age. Men like the Prime Controller think they can stop this train, but they can’t. They’re along for the ride like everyone else.
Now I’m not saying I live my life voiding my bowels every time I see an adding machine. But I’m also not saying that I completely let my guard down whenever Mr. Crunch is hulking in the corner of my vision, no matter how adorable he is. I give him the same respect I’d give any other thinking animal on the street. He’s the bigger killer, so my eyes aren’t coming off him.
I nod. “I know. I’m not saying you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve always had a better grip on that than I ever have. I’m just… looking out.”
She slugs me on the arm. It actually hurts a little. She’s got a hell of an arm for someone smaller than some dogs.
Her bright green eyes are on mine like my target has been acquired. “I’m not an orphan anymore, Baulric. You said it yourself, I’m a bigshot now. I traded you in for a bigger bodyguard a long time ago, so you can give it a rest, huh? Go be caveman daddy for someone else.”
I frown and rub my arm. “Ow. Tiny fist, punch like bullet. Baulric arm hurt. Tenny hurt Baulric.”
Tennima snorts like a miniature bull. “And there’s more where that came from.”
I sigh. “I get your point. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. It’s just... hard to update your firmware sometimes.”
She hops up to sit on an oil drum. “Then install some new drivers, you overgrown sap. Is that why you came down here? Worried for the safety of my tiny fragile body?”
I snicker. “You said it yourself. If anyone thinks that’s all the body you’ve got, they’re in for a nasty surprise.” I nod toward Mr. Crunch, who is twanging a large shock absorber spring repeatedly in his enormous hands and burbling what sounds almost like synthesized laughter.
My hand goes up to my hair, scratching humbly. “No, uh… well, I did want to visit you just for the sake of it, but, uh… well. You know how you’re a lot smarter than me?”
She takes a smug drag off her smoke. “Yeah.”
“I’m in kind of a pickle. Maybe a big one. Alright, it’s a whole damn bowl of sour cabbage. I’m not sure what to do, so maybe you can use one of these very fancy power tools to bash some perspective into me.”
Tennima leans her back against the support stanchion. “Okay. Hit me with it.”
I hit her with it. The whole thing, from the crime scene to now.
At the end of the tale, she just raises an eyebrow at me. “You need me to tell you what to do here?”
I frown. “You say that like it’s obvious.”
“Because it is.”
“Elucidate me, bite-size sage.”
She groans in frustration. “Are you seriously considering taking the Brotherhood’s blood money? Seriously?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I need it? In order to not die?”
Tennima wipes her face with her hands. “They’re playing you, Baulric. You said as much. They are an organization built out of every hateful, narrow-minded, despotic brick in all of Almarest, and you want to play directly into their hands? You want them to get their way?”
“No. I want money. So I can pay the angry zappy man, so he doesn’t zap me.”
“Is that so? That’s what you want?”
“... Is this a trick question?”
“No, but if you want to play games, we can play games. What do you want, Baulric? What do you really want?”
“To not get killed by the crazy electricity criminal, please.”
“And that’s it.”
“... Yes. Wait… no, yes, that’s it.”
She sighs. She won’t meet my eyes, looking away instead.
“If that’s all you want, then you’re not the same anymore, either. You’re not the same man that gave me food when he didn’t have any, and used his back as a roof to keep me dry when his own was too leaky. You’re not the same giant that used his strength to scare away the men that wanted to turn me into something I didn’t want to be. If all you want is to stay alive, then you’re not a giant at all anymore. You’re small. Smaller than I’ve ever been. I did replace you, but I didn’t think you’d ever become obsolete.”
I look down at my arm, covered in scars. “I never asked to be a giant. I’m not a bad man.”
“The only ones who do are the ones that don’t deserve it. And anyone can be not bad. It takes effort to be good. So tough. If all you want to do with your strength is sit there and take money from the same men that screw us both over every single day, if you want to take the easy way out, then you can fuck off. I don’t have any patience for outmoded little people that don’t have the backbone to try and solve their own problems. I don’t have sympathy for another redundant freeloader. You taught me that. You can either live it and do what’s right, or get out of my sight.”
Her words come down on me like a rain of hammers.
How long has it been since I wanted something other than survival? How long have I been drifting on a raft made out of advantages that I never earned?
I think I used to be useful. I helped Tennima when she didn’t have anywhere to go. I’ve stepped between the weak and the predatory a few times, mostly to prove to myself that I didn’t have to be a predator either. To prove that I was better than that. Not a cheater or a monster like other powerful men. I used to hunt children. Not to hurt them, but to pull them out of gutters when they were lost, and take them somewhere safe. I used to use my unfair advantages to protect people who never got a fair shot, and I’d do it free of charge.
Now… well, what do I do all day now? Look at things on my computer. Read the books I’m allowed to have. Take naps. Stay inside. Stomp bugs and bad men when the food runs out, but even then, only sometimes, only if there’s money. Then repeat. I barely do anything at all. I can weave Life energy like the threads of a tapestry, and I use it to take the place of meals when I’m too lazy to buy a damn sandwich. When did I become so afraid of being a predator that I became a parasite instead?
The only things I’ve ever been good at are hunting and loafing around, and I didn’t even have to earn the first. It was given to me, whether I wanted it or not, and all I’ve done with it is use it as an excuse to coast, on a wave of my own cowardice and indolence. Maybe it’s time to stop being a big animal and be a big man instead. No more drifting.
It’s time to hunt.
I huff a haughty breath. “Well, Ten, it’s been good seeing you, and I hate to cut this short. But if you’ll excuse me, something important just came up, and I have to chase after it.”
I turn and walk away, pretending like I’m not concerned with her reaction. But behind me, she calls out from her barrel throne.
“Oh Tennima, I’m such a big dumb idiot, thank you so much for reminding me not to be stupid! Why, you’re welcome, Baulric, any time!”
I smile. It’s true that I’m usually too lazy and fearful to make friends. But the ones I do have are worth keeping.
​
[this story has over 30 posts now, which you can find through my reddit profile. hundreds and hundreds of pages of ol' Featherlight. and i update pretty much every week, so you can look forward to more ♥]
[you can read this story on Royal Road too, if that's the kind of thing you're into. reviews would be greatly helpful for a new guy on the scene ♥]
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First of all, before anyone asks, I'm fine financially. My wife is an essential worker, somehow (don't ask me why an event planner is essential... I guess rich assholes aren't going to stop having $10000-a-plate fundraisers even in the middle of a pandemic). So we'll be ok. And it'll be nice to spend more time with the kids.
I'm not worried for myself. I'm worried about... ah, it'll be easier if I start from the beginning, I guess.
I work IT. Nothing exciting, really, nothing glamorous, and it's not what I was expecting to do with a CS degree, but you do what you gotta do to get by. To be honest, my job isn't very hard, and it pays pretty well. I work-- I worked, until last week, I guess-- in one of the big buildings in Midtown. I'm not going to say which one, but if you live in Manhattan, you've seen it. My employer is a bank, but I sort of work for the whole building. See, we have kind of an unusual setup. The bank's servers are located on our floor, but there's a set of backups in the subbasement, shared between all of the different businesses in there. I say backups... I don't really know what they are, but we use them as backups. See, apparently this building used to be owned by a big university, or least they rented space in it. Way back in the 40s and 50s, when computing was just getting started, they rented out two whole levels for their machines. These were big, the old room-sized computers with vacuum tubes, and they put them in the basement because they were sensitive to temperature. Didn't run well when it got too hot, I guess, and they didn't like direct sunlight. Anyways, the university operated their computing department out of there for about a decade and a half.
Well, progress is what it is, and pretty soon those old machines were outdated. They didn't use them much, and the new ones they were building didn't need the space. And I don't have to tell you that rent in Midtown Manhattan is murderous. So they gave up the lease. They left the machines behind, though. Apparently they had modified them pretty extensively, and they didn't even know if they would still function if they took them apart and put them back together. And there were plenty of grad students who still wanted access to these machines to run experiments, calculations, that kind of thing. So the university and the new owners made a deal: grad students would still have access to the mainframe, and in return, they'd teach the businesses moving in here how to use the computers. It was pretty basic stuff back then: you know, keeping track of stock for department stores, the kind of thing we take for granted now. At the time, though, it was revolutionary. You can see why the building owners thought they got a great deal. They had a unique value add for their tenants.
Well, that kept going for a few decades, but the personal computing revolution kind of made it obsolete. Anyone could buy a computer off the shelf that was ten times as powerful as those old vacuum tube monstrosities. Plus, nobody was really upgrading the old machines. The grad students would tinker, but there were fewer and fewer of them every year, and it was all they could do to keep the computers-- which were really antiques by now-- functioning. Little by little, it just became a quaint story. I heard that every couple years someone would propose just cleaning out the subbasements and throwing away all the old junk, but that would have been a multi-week project which would require shutting down all the retail on the first floor, and the tenants weren't having it. Plus, it's not like they needed the space. This is a big building.
When I first heard the story, I didn't believe it. I mean, there's no freakin' way a multi-billion-dollar financial titan stores anything valuable on punch-card computers, right? I thought the old-timers were having some fun with me. They just shook their heads and smiled. "Come on, I'll show you," my supervisor told me. That would be Harry-- he was my mentor for my first five years on this job. Just retired last year, in fact. Even at the time he looked like a fatter Gary Gygax, ponytail and all. "It's time for me to check up on things anyways."
What the hell, I figured. It'll kill some time before lunch.
The elevator took us down to the lobby, and I obediently followed Harry into the stairwell. He had a ring of keys that let us into the basement. Nothing unusual-- tiled floors, fluorescent lights, a bunch of doors labeled MAINTENANCE ONLY or NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION. He led me down the hallway and to a door labeled EMERGENCY STAIRWELL. Another key let us in, and now things started to look a little grimy. This stairwell was all bare concrete with iron bannisters, and the lights were flickery incandescents. Not all of them lit up when he hit the switch, and a few of them fizzled unhappily as we descended. Something weird about this stairway, too: it didn't go up. The basement was the top level. Not much good in an emergency, I joked. I remember, Harry looked directly at me. "No, son," he said, his voice suddenly grave. "That's exactly what you want in an emergency."
I didn't ask him to elaborate-- old coot was obviously just yanking my chain. I just followed him in silence. We descended for a long, long time, a lot longer than one story. A couple times we passed doors on concrete landings, but he skipped those. "Nothing useful back there," he told me. "Just storage."
Finally we reached the bottom. The last bulb was about fifteen feet above us, and shadows were pooling in the corners here. It was cold, too, and I shivered a bit. I wish he'd warned me. I was just wearing my cotton work shirt. The door in front of us even looked like it came out of the 1950s, frosted glass and all. COMPUTER LABORATORY, it said in block capitals, and below that KEEP OUT.
"Hey, hold up, Harry," I said. "It says keep out." I smiled to show him I was joking. He didn't smile back.
"Not us," Harry said. "But that's good advice, sonny. Don't come down here if you don't gotta."
He unlocked the door and let me inside. I don't know what I expected, but this certainly wasn't it. I figured out right away why the stairs were so deep between doors-- the ceiling here was high, high overhead, vaulted like a church's, criss-crossed by metal buttresses. A few lights dangled from chains way up there. More incandescents, and more than half of them were out. "How do you change those?" I asked.
"We don't," Harry said.
All around us rose the hulks of those ancient computers. They were the only furniture in the room, the only feature at all. Their surfaces were covered in the weirdest crap, almost like something out of a classic sci-fi set: dials, gauges, lights, slots, that type of thing. A few of them even had old-style reel-to-reel tape. Some of the reels were even moving, though nothing was spooled through them. Thick bundles of cable snaked between the machines, or dangled out of holes in their sides like limp tongues. Craning my neck, I could see sheaves of them disappearing up into the ceiling. The interlink, I guess, between these machines and ours. Lights would pop on and off erratically, and if I listened, I could hear a faint but repetitive clicking in the distance.
"You're kidding me!" I breathed as I looked around. "These things are still running?"
"Thank God for that," Harry said, and there was some real conviction in his voice. "Else we'd all be fucked."
"Come on, you can't ask me to believe we run our high-speed trading through this junk?" I asked. There was no way. Those algos were fast, but they were murderously hard on the processors. My cell had more computing power than everything in this room, probably. Harry looked at me, momentarily dazed.
"What? No, no, nothing like that. We just store some historic data down here. You know, back from the COBOL days." He grinned at that. Harry had been a COBOL superstar in his time, and part of his longevity at the bank was simply due to the fact that he was one of the last guys working who knew his way around that code.
"So why do we have to come down here at all?" I asked. I was starting to feel a little creeped out.
"Oh, it takes forever to access anything down here from up there. It's much quicker to do it in person." Harry beckoned me forward. We navigated the maze of computers for a few minutes-- and I do mean maze. The memory banks were taller than I was by a lot, and they were set up with little rhyme or reason. I was sure I'd end up lost until Harry pointed out the duct-tape arrows on the concrete beneath our feet. "Don't wander off the path, sonny," he warned me. "No reception down here. You don't wanna end up like Kevin Mullens."
"W-what happened to him?" I asked. I cursed the quaver in my voice. From the sight of his grin, Harry had noticed it, too.
"Oh, he spent an hour and a half down here and missed lunch. We all made fun for him for months. Called him Kevin the Explorer." We rounded one last corner and Harry pointed ahead of us. "There, that's the interface."
Up ahead, the pathway terminated in a dead end. All around us, massive metal bulwarks rose, clicking and occasionally flashing. At the end of the cul-de-sac someone had set up a little desk and chair. Sitting on top of the desk was an old Apple II. A huge bundle of cables, thicker than my leg, jutted out from the back of the machine.
Harry sat down and called me over. "Here, lemme show you. You can check out the storage here." He typed a few lines in the command prompt, and data scurried past, too fast for me to see. "There's a printer, too. Check it out."
Indeed there was, a modern inkjet, looking incongruous among such ancient technology. Harry's hands flew across the keyboard and it started to chug. The pages it spat out were crisp and clean. I thought I even recognized some of the data. I shook my head in wonder. The mad old bastard had been telling the truth.
As I watched, though, the screen of the Apple II flashed. The code Harry had been working on vanished, replaced by that old lime green. The whole screen flickered, then a line of black text printed itself across the middle:
RUN PROGRAM Y/N
I tapped Harry on the shoulder to get his attention (he'd been gathering up papers) and pointed at the screen. "Uh, Harry?" I asked. "What's it want?"
Harry looked at the screen and cursed. His finger stabbed the N. I saw the letter pop up on the screen and hang there for a moment, and then the whole thing disappeared. The command prompt returned.
"What was that about?" I asked. "What program?"
Harry turned to me, and I actually recoiled a little. The expression on his face had completely changed. Gone was the jolly old fat man. He looked deadly serious, and about twenty years older. "Sonny," he said, his voice thick. "I wasn't gonna tell you about that yet, but... that's part of why we have to come down here." He laid his hand on my shoulder, and his fingers dug in almost painfully. "When it does that... when it asks if you want to run the program... say no. No matter what."
"What? What's the program?" I pulled myself back, a little more sharply than I'd intended, but I was suddenly scared. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up. "What are you talking about?"
Harry sighed. "I never got the full story. It was something Stephen Kalnick, who trained me, told me. But you can't let it run the program. I'm serious. You can't."
"What program?" I asked again. Now I was getting a little angry. He'd actually scared me for his stupid joke.
"I don't know!" Harry said, and his defeated tone shocked me. "I don't know, ok! It was something the last students were working on, back in '69. They never finished it. But they told Stephen never to run it, and I think they told him what it did, but he never told me."
"Ok, Harry, ok!" At that point I would have said anything to get him to leave me alone.
He relaxed a little. "Anyways, that's part of the job," he said, a little roughly. "Try to come down here once a week or so. It's not always predictable, but if you come down here and you see that little text box, you just hit N and go about your business."
"But what happens if--" I insisted. Harry shook his head.
"At a bare minimum, from what I understand, it'll completely fuck up our network upstairs," he said. "And our asses would be on the street within days. So do it for your paycheck, if nothing else." I nodded, and that little assent seemed to calm him down. "Come on back upstairs," Harry said, getting up. "I'll buy you lunch and we can talk about your work on the options software."
Well, after that, I guess I was initiated. I noticed that every so often, one of the senior guys would make a big show of getting up and stretching. "I'm going down to the basement," he'd say. Or, "I'm going for a walk." This formulation usually came up when there was a trader in the room. I asked about that once. Harry scoffed.
"These finance boys think they're hot shit. If they knew about that computer in the basement, they'd want to mess with it, maybe even press Y just to see what happens. They have no respect for technology. That computer's ours, sonny. We take care of it. Nobody else."
Still, once a week, one of the old-timers would "go for a walk." And nothing bad ever happened.
Marvin retired in '02, Henry in '07. Poor Richard got the big C in '10, seemed like he was getting better, then died suddenly over Christmas. Harry was the last of them, and the day after he announced his retirement, he took me aside.
"Listen, sonny," he said (I would always be sonny, apparently, even though I'd been there for nearly twenty years). "I've got something for you." He fumbled in his pocket, ignoring my protestations, and handed me a key ring. "You know what this is?"
I did. I'd been down to the basement a few times over the past couple decades, though never solo.
"And you know what it means?"
"Harry, I--"
"Take it," he insisted, pressing the ring on me with so much force that it started to hurt. I acquiesced.
"Fine!" I said. "Fine, I'll take care of it."
"You will? Honestly?" Harry looked me right in the eye. Age had melted some of the fat off him and disintegrated his precious ponytail, but his eyes were the same as I remembered. "It's important, sonny. It has to be you. Has to be. These kids, these newbies..." he shook his hand dismissively at the thought of our junior staff, "they don't know. They wouldn't take it seriously. You have to keep it running. And the program..." he looked around, left and right, until he was sure it was just us in our corner of the office. "You can't let it run."
I told him I would take care of it. What else was I supposed to do? Poor guy gave the company his whole life. Of course he's a little weird.
I think Harry enjoyed his retirement party. He seemed a little on-edge the whole time. I promised him I'd go down to the basement as soon as it ended, and that seemed to mollify him. I hope he enjoyed his retirement. What little of it there was, at least... six months after he left, he went quietly in his sleep. Massive heart attack.
So now I'm the Old Man (yeah, at forty-four!), and the kids I've got working for me are just that: kids. I can't believe I was ever that young. They all know about the basement mainframe, but I haven't told any of them about Run Program Y/N. Why not? I guess I'm just embarrassed. It's a weird superstition, really. I don't want them to think that I'm a doddering old COBOL-jockey like Harry was. But did I go down to the basement once a week to press N? You bet your ass I did. I guess I'm a little superstitious after all.
At least, I was pretty good about it. But starting in March, you know, this whole pandemic thing, New York's been basically shut down. All the IT staff were told to go remote. I managed to convince them that I needed to be able to come into the building to service the mainframe, and they seemed to buy it, so it's just been me for a while. It's kind of nice. Peaceful. I admit, though, it's very strange being almost alone in a giant building like that. It's too quiet. You hear things... the building settling, maybe, the pipes banging. New York is old. It gets worse when I go down into the basement. That clicking... it sounds like insects scuttling around inside the computers. I think of them like giant termite nests, swarming with creepy-crawlies. I've never liked bugs.
And of course there's still lots to do. Idiot brokers don't know anything about working remotely, and I get calls about dick pics in Zoom every other hour. So I'm run off my feet. You can't expect to shift a building with thousands of employees to WFH and keep your IT staff constant, all right? You just can't. It's unrealistic. So who can blame me if I fell down a little? If I forgot to go for a walk as often as I should?
I was working alone at about 6pm when I started getting flooded with calls. "My trades aren't executing!" "My account's frozen!" I tried to swat down each problem as it popped up, but nothing worked. I was dealing with the third irate email from management when I remembered Harry's words. "It'll completely fuck up our network."
Shit. I hadn't been down there in three weeks.
I practically ran down the staircase, almost tripping on the sharp-edged steps. That would be a real treat, wouldn't it, braining myself in the subbasement of our building and not being found for months? I made it to the bottom in one piece, somehow, and fumbled madly with my keyring. It took far, far too long to find the right key, and for a moment it hitched in the old-style wooden door. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to calm down, and when I opened them again, I slid the door open easily.
Inside, something felt... different. The bulbs overhead were flickering much more than normal, and another couple of them had gone out. As I watched, there was a loud crackle, and one of the lights fizzed out. The machines around me seemed to be running faster than normal, too, the reel-to-reel spools whizzing along. Lights strobed on and off. The clicking was louder than ever. Clicking? Almost like scuttling. That mental image, of swarms of gigantic mutant termites, came back with a vengeance. The air seemed to be full of tension, and I could smell ozone. I practically sprinted over to the Apple II's desk.
What I saw was a mess. The printer had been turned on, apparently, and had spewed paper everywhere. Loose sheets littered the desk and the floor. I picked one up and tried to make sense of it. It was just random characters, scattered randomly, along with a couple of blotchy inkstains. I shoveled the paper off the Apple II's keyboard, and as I did, the printer shuddered to life and spat out another sheet. The characters on this one were thicker, almost covering the page, but they were still gibberish. Well, almost... I squinted at them. I could make out a couple of actual words here and there. "hECaT0mB" was one, and "TElesTeRI0n."
What got my attention, though, was the screen. As I'd expected, it was asking if I wanted to RUN PROGRAM. I didn't know how long it had been stuck on that screen, but it didn't look quite the same as it had before. A bunch of pixels were dead; others were showing up as weird, multicolored smears, colors I didn't even know the Apple II could make. It was a little difficult to make out what the message actually said. I leaned in close and tried to read.
Below RUN PROGRAM, there was a new line of text.
NO INPUT DETECTED>>> PROGRAM RUNNING AUTOMATICALLY IN and a counter. It was ticking down by seconds. Currently, it stood at: 00:00:00:00:09:12 As I watched, it ticked down. 12... 11... 10...
You better believe I stabbed that N button with full force.
I want to say that something huge happened: the lights all blew out, or the computer exploded, or something in the distance roared. None of that occurred. The computer beeped happily, and the screen returned to the familiar readout of COBOL. But did the towers of ancient technology all around slow down, just a little? Did the clicking subside? Did the LEDs dim? Did the palpable sense of urgency, of wakening, fade?
Maybe. Maybe. I think so.
I didn't want to spend one more second down there than I had to, so I booked it upstairs. By the time I was back at my desk, people were reporting resolution of their problems, one after another. I breathed a little easier. And you better believe that from then on I was down in the basement once every three days at most.
Until now. Last week, I got an email. Due to the ongoing situation with COVID-19, all nonessential employees are furloughed until further notice. There was a list of names excluded, but mine wasn't on it. Of course I emailed the bosses. They were sympathetic, but they explained that they were expecting huge quarterly losses, and they just couldn't justify keeping IT on payroll. They'd subcontract it out to some low bidder.
I asked if I could just get into the building to retrieve some things. They explained that no, it was locked, and offered to have a maintenance man search my desk. I told them about the old basement mainframes and they said that they were planning to get rid of them anyways, and that they'd bring in a decommission team as soon as the pandemic ended.
I didn't bother explaining after that. What would happen if I told them that I had to get into their basement once a week or... or... or what? The network would crash? The building would collapse? The world would end?
They wouldn't believe me even if I knew what to say.
I'd like to say I'm enjoying the time at home, but the truth is, I can't. I can't stop thinking about those towers, brooding in the darkness. I can't stop thinking about that clicking. I hear it in my dreams. It's the same dream every night: I'm alone, on a lightning-blasted plain, those massive towers rising up in front of me. The ground beneath my feet is all made up of cables, and they twist and squirm like snakes. The smell of ozone fills the air, and I watch those towers rise, higher and higher and higher, basalt monoliths clawing at the sky.
Today, I started noticing some problems with my work email. Stuff's loading slowly, and messages I know I saved have vanished. I know I shouldn't be checking it. I'm furloughed, after all. But I can't help it. I can't stop thinking about those words I saw on the printout, and imagining the counter, all alone in the basement, ticking down.
RUN PROGRAM Y/N
What happens when it hits zero?

The closet door creaked open and the wire hangers screamed in protest as I sifted through my boring formal attire for something that wouldn’t require too much ironing.
“Court tomorrow?” My wife yawned from the bed; face still buried in her Kindle. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. Some stupid old case from homicide. Dude’s appealing his previous guilty plea.” I inspected the suit jacket of a garment older than any of my kids and put it back once I saw the puffy shoulder pads. “Wasting everyone’s time. He confessed the night of the stabbing – literal blood on his hands, we have him on video doing it for God’s sake.”
“Sorry.” She rolled over and pulled the covers up. I flopped an old, grey number onto the foot of the bed, figuring it was the best I’d do. I hadn’t been to court in almost a year. My new job – actually an old job that I returned to, the Fugitive Squad – had a much lower instance of being subjected to that particular drudgery. I dragged the iron slowly across the lapel of an ancient, white dress shirt and internally complained about the coming day.
After getting fancy in the morning, I headed into the office. I was greeted by the expected catcalls and wolf whistles. Most of my coworkers had never seen me in anything but jeans and a t-shirt. “What’s the occasion?” John called from his desk as I logged in to my computer.
“Dumbass appealing a stabbing plea.” I grunted back. “Anything going on today?”
“Nah. I think your guy is the only active case we got.”
I had been tracking down a gang member who had warrants out for abducting and robbing a prostitute. “Oh, cool. It’s in a holding pattern until I hear from the place I think he works. The manager seems to want to cooperate. You good if I call you if he reaches out?”
“Yeah. I don’t have to be all fancy like you. I’ll just be hanging here, ready to roll.”
I turned back to my computer, happy with my backup plan, and tapped out a few emails before heading out the door for court.
My meeting with the prosecutor went about as predicted – she hadn’t really prepped thanks to a hefty case load, so she quickly scratched notes as we walked to the elevator bank. The crime scene detective and patrol guy who was first on scene were waiting for us in front of the court room, ready to brief the frazzled attorney with their contributions. We entered the courtroom and I greeted the victim who surprisingly had showed up. I settled in and awaited the judge and the defendant to enter – both from back hallways of the courthouse. Motions passed with me and the motley crew of witnesses being ordered to wait outside the courtroom until we were summoned. I knew voir dire was usually a lengthy process so quickly claimed a comfortable spot overlooking the busy street outside the floor to ceiling windows of the courthouse.
Just as I was about to start vegging out to Reddit, my phone buzzed. It was the manager of the dude I was tracking.
“Yeah, this detective EMR?”
“It is.” I answered. “Thanks for calling Mr. Abdullah.”
“Pedro coming in today. This morning, probably round eleven.” He grunted.
“Oh, did he call?” I pulled a pen and paper from my jacket pocket and wrote “11” on it.
“No. I called him. I told that sonuvabich he better be here today or else. Good, right?” I could hear his smile on the other side of the phone and his expectation of being patted like a retriever with a dead duck in its mouth.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks for, um, reaching out to him for me.” It was definitely not what I wanted – not only because I was in court, potentially for the rest of the week, but also because it didn’t seem very natural to order a warehouse worker who knew he’d just robbed a hooker in to his minimum wage job with the threat of “or else.”
“I call you when he get here.” He hung up before I could give any further instruction. My scant notes seemed lonely on their sheet of notebook paper.
I quickly dialed John. He answered on the third ring. “What’s up? How’s court treating you?”
“Sucks. Hey, you busy? Just got a call from the manager of my target.”
“Oh, yeah. We got called out to sit on this dude’s apartment for homicide. I think it’s nothing, but boss wanted to get out of the office.”
I cracked my neck in aggravation and paused before responding. “You think anyone can break off for my guy? He’s a runner and fighter and I don’t trust the manager to be subtle with him when he gets in. He basically ordered the guy in today so that I could grab him.”
“Huh. That sucks… yeah, I’ll see what we can do. I’ll hit you back in five.” John hung up, leaving me to ponder my other options. Patrol had become castrated since I had last been working fugitive – new policies made the street supervisors afraid of their own shadows let alone a police-fighting, prostitute-robbing, gang member. That was no option. I next thought about reaching out to any of my federal buddies but quickly realized that without the already-laid groundwork getting the case adopted it would be an insurmountable obstacle to get their help. I leaned back in semi-defeat, hoping my boss would bail me out and make this arrest easy.
“Do you got a case working?” The patrol guy asked from the other side of the couch.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. This court crap really hampers my style, y’know?” I replied, rubbing the bridge of my nose and glaring at the courtroom door.
“Yeah. I feel you. I had traffic court yesterday. Got weed court tomorrow. And a few prelims Thursday.” He shook his head and leaned back on the couch; arm draped casually over the back of it.
“I remember those days and don’t miss them.”
“What’s this case you’re working. You’re still in homicide, right?” He asked.
“Nah. Made my way back to fugitive operations, thankfully. Hence my annoyance at court – there’s none of this nonsense in my current gig.” I glanced at my phone, hoping John would be calling with good news. “I’m looking for a dude with abduction paper.”
“Oh, nice. So, you just like, go out and find people?” He scooted a little closer on the couch, now more engaged in the conversation.
“Pretty much, yeah. We also work with federal agencies, helping them on odd jobs when needed. But finding wanted guys is our bread and butter.” I looked down and confirmed there was still no indication John remembered I was alive.
“So, how do I get to do what you do?” Another scootch in my direction.
“Well, I guess get good at mining social media? Get to know your police databases. Get comfortable with interviews. Work on tactics… oh and shooting. We all must qualify expert. Drill down your fourth amendment stuff.” I could see him shrinking with each item as I went down the list. “We keep fitness standards too, so make sure you’re good with your sprints and mid distance. Oh, and try to get ahead on how to author search warrants for tech stuff. We’re all into phone tracking and IP address monitors. Do you know the pen register and trap and trace process?”
“Oh, cool. Yeah. I know about that stuff.” He leaned back again and gazed in the opposite direction down the hall as he scooted back to his end of the couch. “I mean, I can find people. No problem.” He mumbled to himself a little, but I stopped paying attention as my phone began to vibrate.
“John. Give me the good news.”
“Well, it’s good news and bad news. I think we’re going to break this thing down soon.” He started.
“Great! What’s the bad news?”
“We may not be leaving for a couple hours.”
“Well, that doesn’t help. I guess it’s better than nothing? I’ll call back the manager and have him stall for us.” I glanced at the time, 10:30. “I’d put money on the guy being late anyway.”
“Ok. Your guy is the priority once we get the go-ahead to roll. I’ll keep you updated man.”
A short while later, the door swung open from the court room as I hung up on John. The frazzled prosecutor was first out, legal pad clutched tight and eyes darting in search of someone. Her gaze stopped on me and she pulled a finger towards an interview room up the hall. “How’d that go?” I asked upon entering.
“Juries suck. This judge sucks. This defense-“ she cut herself short, glanced out the door, then in a lower voice continued, “-this defense attorney sucks. And your suspect sucks. Everyone is fighting me on everything.” She settled into a chair at the awkward 90’s era table and flopped her now much-fuller legal pad of notes on top. “Fifteen-minute recess. Let’s go over the witness list.”
“I’ll go first!” I volunteered hopefully.
“No, no. I think we’ll call the victim first. That’s the longest and I bet I can get most of what I need from him.”
“So, I’m second?”
“Hmmm… I’m thinking patrol second for timeline purposes, keep it flowing.” She was scratching the order down as she said it.
“Ah, cool.” I hesitated, dipped my head into her field of view. “So, I’ll go third?”
“Well. I wonder if I should call crime scene next. That way we can get over any questions about the scene and get all the evidence they collected in.” She tapped her pen a few times, a metronome of tension that seemed to pound in my ears louder with each tap. “Yep. That’s best.” She scribbled the crime scene detective’s name down.
“So, I guess I’m last.” At first, I was bummed out. Then, opportunity rang! “If I’m last, can I take off and come back after lunch recess?”
She scrunched her face in contemplation. “I guess? I mean, I’ll still need you here for most of it in case they pull something crazy out their hat.”
I checked my phone for the time – 10:41. I’d be pushing it, but I could make it to Pedro’s job by 11:15 if I left then and there. I pulled out my wallet, threw a business card in her direction, and took off. “My cell’s on the card! Call me if you need me! See you at 13:00!” I was too far away to hear any reply and began pounding the down button at the elevators.
My car’s tired squealed a bit on the parking garage surface but I didn’t care – sweet freedom and a chance to make an easy closure were worth any griping from command staff who may have been within ear shot and wanting to pick a fight. I pulled onto the main drag, then onto the highway in the direction of my target before calling John.
“I was just about to call! We broke off early, heading to your guy’s place in a few.”
“I’m on my way too. Escaped the courts clutches for a couple hours. I think,” my tires may have squealed again as I hit my exit at warp three, “I’m going to beat you there.”
“Ok, I’ll start early. Everyone needs to jump on the conference call so we can hear what’s going on. If you get there first, what’s the plan Mr. Fancy Pants?”
I remembered my attire wasn’t exactly the typical “undercover” but there was nothing I could do about it. “I’ll throw on a gun, grab some cuffs, and get my guy I guess.”
“Hell yeah!” I could envision John’s fist pump. “That’s how we do it! Get on the call, see you in a few.”
I pulled into a grocery store parking lot and dug in my center console for my Airpods. We had recently purchased them to go with the pay-service conference call program to overcome the usual radio issues that would spring up on operations as well as to maintain better undercover look. I dialed into the conference line from my personal phone, leaving my work phone available in case the manager called me back.
As if answering my internal monologue, the manager’s number buzzed onto my phone. “Mr. Abdullah! I’m on my way. Any sign of Pedro?”
“Ah, yes. He’s here. I tell him ‘get in my office now!’ and he get very angry. You come get him now.”
“That’s the plan, I’m about ten minutes away.” I pulled back into traffic, no decked out with my Apple gear.
“No ten minutes. He’s here now.”
“I know but I’m getting there as fast as I can. Are you able to make him wait somewhere else? I don’t want him to leave.”
Mr. Abdullah sighed heavily into the phone, making me aware I was putting him out by my request. “Fine. I tell him to go stock. You need to hurry.” He hung up abruptly, again, and I got caught in traffic at a red light.
“EMR, you up?” John’s voice piped in through the Airpods.
I unmuted my side. “Yup. Dude’s at work. I’m ten out. You guys close?”
“About fifteen. Traffic sucks.” My boss chimed in, having dialed in to the line too.
“Ok. I had the manager send him out to work the stock. He was going to pull him into the office and yell at him… or something?” My light turned and I was able to get ahead of the traffic clot with some almost legal maneuvers. “I’ll get set up, lets just try and surround the joint as we get there, cool?”
All my team members agreed in some fashion and I continued towards my destination. A few minutes later I pulled into the industrial area where Pedro worked – a large complex of cinderblock constructed warehouses. Mechanics and metal workers were the bulk of the occupants, but I found Mr. Abdullah’s medical supply warehouse located towards the back. I gave an update over the Airpods then waited. John was the first to arrive and about the time he got settled, the rear door to the warehouse flew open and Pedro stormed out – red faced and looking pissed.
“You see the target John?”
“Got him.” He replied, “He doesn’t look too happy.” Pedro kicked a bucket of cigarette butts on cue then pulled his own pack out and lit up a Newport. “You and me can take him if we get someone to watch the front.”
“Two out.” My boss answered. “I’ll take the front.”
Pedro huffed and puffed for a cigarette’s span then entered the warehouse again. Once my boss indicated he was in position, John and I met at the back of a trailer. “Did I mention you were looking fancy today?” He asked.
“Yeah, yeah. You brought it up.”
We walked to the landing outside the rear door as other team members voiced up saying they too were falling in place. The boss gave the order to mute all phones other than mine so that they could monitor and react if things broke bad inside. John and I popped open the door and walked into the dark warehouse.
Pedro and a burly companion were manhandling a pallet of boxes, slicing strapping with box cutters and cursing up a storm. I gave them a nod and John made himself small, slipping along the wall to our right and down an aisle of shelves acting like he owned the place. I pretended to not notice Pedro, instead addressing his partner.
“Excuse me. Can you point me to Mr. Abdullah? I’m here to talk about a very large order my company is placing.” I figured I might as well act the part of a guy in a suit.
The burly guy just pointed to the opposite end of the warehouse, down another aisle. I nodded like I knew what he meant but stayed still, realizing if I abandoned the rear door, we might not have coverage on the outside due to only a few guys being set up on the perimeter.
“Oh. Down there? Where exactly. I’ve never been here.”
The guy’s eyeroll was almost audible. “Down there, turn left. He’s in the office. It’s the only one.”
“Ah. Gotcha. Do… do you think you or your friend could show me?” I put on what I hoped would be a meek expression, praying for some pity and luck. I noticed John slipping into the row the burly guy had indicated.
Another eye roll but this time the guy straightened up, turned to Pedro, and with a dismissive flick of his wrist said, “Go. Show him.” Pedro’s shoulders slumped but he complied, stomping ahead of me without a greeting. We departed the burly gentleman who went back to slashing the stack of boxes.
“Mr. Abdullah said I should look for a guy named Pedro. You know him?” I asked the back of Pedro’s head.
“Nah.” He muttered, still stomping ahead.
“Oh.” I let a pause pass. “What’s your name?” I figured I could try and be a friendly businessman.
“Mario.” He answered, not missing a beat.
“Huh. Weird.” We continued in the direction of John who was pretending to browse an array of adult diapers on a shelf. As we got within striking distance, I addressed my guide again. “Ok, hold up. Pedro, I’m with the police. You got any ID? You’ve got warrants and are under arrest.”
Pedro froze in his tracks. John squared off on him, flanking him on the side opposite of me. I placed my hand on my gun, taking a sidestep to clear the crossfire with John and forming an “L” with Pedro in the role of the right angle. He seemed to mull his options as John addressed him.
“Keep your hands where we can see them. Reach for the knife and it won’t end well.” John drew his gun and tucked it to a low-ready position. Pedro decided to act, attempting to plow through John towards the front. I rushed forward and grabbed him by the collar while John used his off hand to give him a Heisman shove to the chest. Pedro fell to the floor and John and I quickly spun down onto him, knees into his back and grasping for his right arm. I pulled my cuffs and roughly clicked them into place.
“Were you trying to run? Smart.” Pedro struggled for a moment but quickly gave up. “You good?” I asked John.
“Yeah.” He puffed. “But what’s that smell?”
I sniffed a sample. Pungent, stinging my nose, familiar. “Pedro… did you… poopy? Did you poop your pants Pedro?”
He didn’t answer but I was suddenly greeted with guffaws through my Airpods.
“Did EMR just ask him if he made poopy?”
I had forgotten about the new equipment in my ear and felt my cheeks reddening.
Mr. Abdullah came waddling over. “You get him? Good! You no come back Pedro. I no want bad guys here.” He waddled away, ending the conversation as though it was one of his phone calls.
We dragged Pedro out the back door – his legs seemed to stop working with the new hardware on his wrists. The burly guy froze at the boxes, staring at us with a confused look.
“You police?” He asked.
“Sometimes.” I replied, and we exited back into the bright sunlight. A line of undercover vehicles sat awaiting us and my boss walked up.
“That was easy!” He looked over Pedro. “Are you Mr. Poopy Pants?” Pedro sulked in silence.
“Ha!” John called from his car while lathering several pumps of hand sanitizer into his palms. “We got Mr. Poopy Pants and Mr. Fancy Pants!”
After everyone had a good laugh, John took lead on finding a transport that could be more easily decontaminated than our undercover cars. “Get back to court, dude. I got this.”
I gave copious thanks and took off back to the drudgery. I swung through a Popeyes drive thru once I realized I had skipped lunch and wouldn’t have another opportunity until dinner to eat. I figured a celebratory sandwich may lift my spirits. My phone began ringing on my second bite, an unknown number. I swallowed and answered.
“Detective EMR.”
“Hey, it’s Smith.” The prosecutor. “You want an update?”
“Sure. I’m sure it’s gonna be great.” I lathered the sarcasm onto that statement like buttercream icing on a sheet cake.
“Actually, yeah. We heard the victim’s testimony, we broke for lunch, and his attorney just called. He’s going to put in a plea!”
A load lifted off my shoulders and I said a little prayer of thanks. “That’s amazing. Do you need me there?”
“Nope. You’re clear. I’ll call if it goes bad but otherwise, we’re all set. Go change out of your terrible suit.”
“Hey! I thought I looked pretty professional. Fooled a warehouse worker just now.” I feigned injury.
“Wow. Well, had I known such a bastion of style advice approved maybe I wouldn’t have judged so harsh.”
After the call, I finished my sandwich and took a few quiet minutes, glad I was done with court for the foreseeable future and hoping to avoid any permanent nicknames from the day’s events.

Part 2 of 3

Part 1 Right Here: https://dfaroto.com/nfl/week-16-matchup-guide-strategy-guide-part-1

Part 3 Right Here: https://dfaroto.com/nfl/week-16-matchup-guide-strategy-guide-part-3

GLOSSARY

DVOA (Defense-adjusted Value Over Average): calculates a team's success based on the down-and-distance of each play during the season, then calculates how much more or less successful each team is compared to the league average.
DVOA Pass/Run Defense Rank: Team’s NFL rank in DVOA pass or run defense so far this season. #1 means best DEF against the pass/run, #32 means worst DEF against the pass/run.
Weighted DEFENSE: is adjusted so that earlier games in the season become gradually less important. It better reflects how the team was playing at the end of the season.
ATS = Against the spread
DVOA from https://www.footballoutsiders.com/stats/teamdef/2019

Jacksonville Jaguars at Atlanta Falcons (-6.5)

Jaguars ATS: 6-8-0 Falcons ATS: 6-8-0
Projected Point Totals: Jaguars 19.75 Falcons 26.25

Jaguars

Opp (ATL) Pass DVOA: #25
Opp (ATL) Run DVOA: #13
Opp (ATL) Weighted DEF: #20
Injuries to Watch DEF (ATL): None
Injuries to Watch OFF (JAX): Gardner Minshew (Q, likely to play) DJ Chark (Q) OL Brandon Linder (Q)
Key WCB matchups: None
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): Leonard Fournette (21%) DJ Chark (21%) Dede Westbrook (17%) Chris Conley (16%) Seth DeValve (7%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Leonard Fournette (96%, 20, 7)
QB/WTE Breakdown
The Jags were able to pull out a close win over a Raiders squad limping to the finish, and Gardner Minshew (upgrade) put together a decent final line in the victory. This week, he’ll take on a Falcons squad allowing the 5th most FPPG to QBs on the season, but playing better defense over the last two months. Minshew’s floor has been relatively trustworthy in his starts, but his ceiling isn’t something to get overly excited about, considering Jacksonville hopes to rely on the run. He’s a high-end QB2 worthy of streamer consideration this week, but don’t expect a league-winning performance necessarily.
Signs point to DJ Chark (WR2/3 if active) suiting up this week, after being held out against the Raiders, which would be a nice gift to his owners and to the passing game overall. He’s likely to be listed as questionable, but assuming he’s full go, he’s worthy of consideration. The Falcons are league average in FPPG allowed to WRs, but rank bottom-third in pass DVOA. Chark has shown a strong connection with Minshew this year, and has incentive to produce through the end of the season as he’s chasing a 1000 yard campaign (44 yards away). Consider him on the WR2/3 borderline, but only if he is cleared in time for kickoff and there are no reports of a snap-count limitation. Assuming Chark plays, neither Dede Westbrook or Chris Conley would present as trustworthy options. Conley grabbed two TDs last week, but is extremely boom-or-bust, and Westbrook is a low-volume possession receiver. If Chark is ruled out, they both become dart-throw WR3/4s, but with him active they are off the radar entirely. Keep an eye on the injury reports. You can safely ignore the TE position for the Jags.
RB Breakdown
Week 15 wasn’t a great performance for Leonard Fournette (volume upgrade) and the run game, but it was an example of how high his floor is given the workload. Despite an inefficient day, he racked up almost 10 points (.5 PPR), due in large part to his five catches on seven targets. The Falcons pose a somewhat challenging matchup this week - they are above average in both DVOA and FPPG allowed to RBs. Still, the weekly high touch and target totals keep Fournette in the RB1 range, although his ceiling is not as high as most elite fantasy backs at this point in the season. Ultimately, if you own Fournette and you’re still alive in the playoffs, you should be starting him this week as a volume-based RB1 who looks due for a TD.

Falcons

Opp (JAX) Pass DVOA: #21
Opp (JAX) Run DVOA: #31
Opp (JAX) Weighted DEF: #30
Injuries to Watch DEF (JAX): DL Calais Campbell (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (ATL): WR Julio Jones (Q, likely to play) K Younghoe Koo (Q) RB Kenjon Barner (Q) TE Luke Stocker (Q)
Key WCB matchups: Julio Jones vs. AJ Bouye (Rotoworld)
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): Julio Jones (28%) Russell Gage (16%) Austin Hooper (16%) Devonta Freeman (10%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Devonta Freeman (79%, 14, 3)
QB/WTE Breakdown
The Falcons turned in a Week 15 performance that reminded fans around the NFL the promise this team was supposed to hold heading into the 2019 season. By beating the Niners, Matt Ryan (slight upgrade) and company may have saved Dan Quinn’s job, at least for the time being. The Jaguars will be a potentially exploitable home matchup for the Falcons’ offense, ceding the 11th most FPPG to QBs and ranking 21st by pass DVOA, so Ryan is back in the QB1 conversation. He has all of his weapons healthy, and has nothing to lose by trying to gunsling his way through the end of the year. Consider Ryan a mid-range QB1; he’s below the elite tier but has a solid floor that should ensure owners get at least a baseline of points in their most important matchup of the year.
The blowup week that owners were so desperately hoping for finally came through last week, as Julio Jones (upgrade) went off for 134 yards receiving and 2 TDs. His second came on a game-winning TD to seal a huge momentum-building win for the Falcons. That momentum unfortunately has nothing to do with actually making the NFL playoffs. Jones is set up well even with likely shadow coverage from AJ Bouye, as Bouye has been targeted often and performed only average in coverage grade (PFF). Consider Jones a strong WR1 for the championship this week. The downside of Jones’ control over the target share was that no other option was able to emerge with much fantasy production. Austin Hooper (volume downgrade) put up a dud, but he is still in TE1 territory as a strong red zone target that Matt Ryan trusts implicitly. The Jags are league average in FPPG to TEs, and Hooper hasn’t had a good week since returning from injury, so just weigh your options before plugging him in. The rest of the supporting cast should be left on benches (or the wire) with Calvin Ridley out for the year. Russell Gage (deep streamer) is the only realistic consideration, but he’s no more than a risky WR4. He would have a favorable outside matchup if Bouye is fully focused on Jones, but is virtually impossible to trust.
RB Breakdown
The Niners were able to successfully shut down an already anemic Falcons run game last week, but the outlook is significantly better this week against the Jaguars. They have allowed the 2nd most FPPG to RBs and have the 2nd worst run defense by DVOA metrics, so Devonta Freeman (slight upgrade) may finally have an opportunity to come through for patient owners that have survived his overall disappointing season. The biggest issue is whether owners can trust him in an offense that hasn’t shown an ability or a commitment to running the ball. Freeman is at least the clear lead back in this offense, playing 79% of snaps last week, so his touch potential is strong and he has a floor of at least 2-3 targets. Consider him a low-ceiling RB2 this week with a bit of matchup upside. If you are in need of a flex with a decent floor, Freeman should be in your lineup.
Score Prediction: Falcons 27, Jaguars 20

New Orleans Saints (-1) at Tennessee Titans

Saints ATS: 9-5-0 Titans ATS: 7-6-1
Projected Point Totals: Saints 26 Titans 25

Saints

Opp (TEN) Pass DVOA: #22
Opp (TEN) Run DVOA: #5
Opp (TEN) Weighted DEF: #19
Injuries to Watch DEF (TEN): LB Daren Bates (Q) CB Adoree Jackson (Q) ILB Wesley Woodyard (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (NO): G Larry Warford (Q) G/T Andrus Peat (Q) T Ryan Ramczyk (Q) T Terron Armstead (Q)
Key WCB matchups: None
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): Michael Thomas (32%) Alvin Kamara (22%) Jared Cook (14%) Ted Ginn (9%) Tre’Quan Smith (6%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Alvin Kamara (63%, 19, 5) Latavius Murray (33%, 11, 3) Dwayne Washington (9%, 3, 0)
QB/WTE Breakdown
In near perfect form, Drew Brees overtook Peyton Manning as the NFL’s all-time passing touchdown leader. Brees was magnificent in the Monday night performance, tearing apart the Colts zone defense with ease, throwing for 307 yards and four touchdowns, with only one incompletion. On tap is a Titans team who have been mediocre against the pass this season - surrendering 17.5 FPPG to QBs and 21.9 to WRs. Fire Brees up as a QB1, just be aware that the pace of this game may limit opportunities: New Orleans is ranked 31st in pace of play, while Tennessee is 20th (footballoutsiders).
Three things are certain in life, death, taxes and Michael Thomas (upgrade) catching passes. He’s on pace to break Marvin Harrison’s single-season reception record, needing just 10 catches to tie. I wouldn’t bet against him getting there this week, even with some expected coverage from Adoree Jackson (PFF’s No. 13 CB). He’s THE WR1. Beyond Thomas, it’s a crap shoot for production at wideout. Tre’Quan Smith or QB/RB/WR hybrid Taysom Hill are probably the best bets, but their production is far from reliable. Ted Ginn has been non-existent in the offense this year. Fade the peripheral pass catchers. Jared Cook (upgrade) had come on strong since Brees returned from injury, so his 4-54-0 receiving line last week should be considered a disappointing outing. The Titans have struggled against tight ends all year - ceding 8.2 FPPG to the position - so fire Cook up as a sure-fire option this week.
RB Breakdown
The disappointing campaign for Alvin Kamara (downgrade) continued last week. He produced only 66 scoreless yards on 14 carries, while adding 5 catches for 23 yards. A major hindrance to his value has been his lack of red zone touches this year; he received 34 touches inside the 10 yard-line during the 2018 season, scoring 11 touchdowns. However, this year, he’s only been given 11 touches, scoring once. (pro-football-reference). This can be partially chalked up to his injury and the games missed, but he also isn’t converting opportunities at the same rate. Owners should consider Kamara a boom-or-bust RB1 - TEN boasts a top-5 Run DVOA but cedes 18.7 FPPG to RBs - so it’s still an exploitable matchup. Latavius Murray is low-floor touchdown dependent flex.

Titans

Opp (NO) Pass DVOA: #10
Opp (NO) Run DVOA: #9
Opp (NO) Weighted DEF: #7
Injuries to Watch DEF (NO): S Vonn Bell (D) CB C.J. Gardner-Johnson (Q) CB Patrick Robinson (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (TEN): WR Adam Humphries (Q)
Key WCB matchups: A.J. Brown vs. Marshon Lattimore (Rotoworld)
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): A.J. Brown (27%) Jonnu Smith (14%) Corey Davis (14%) Anthony Firkser (12%) Adam Humphries (13%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Derrick Henry (56%) Dion Lewis (36%)
QB/WTE Breakdown
The Titans fell to divisional rival Houston last week, losing 24-21. It was a game Tennessee likely should have won, yet they fell victim to a few unfortunate breaks. Ryan Tannehill has been a godsend for this offense, continuing his breakout against the Texans soft secondary. On deck is a much tougher matchup, New Orleans is top-10 in both Run and Pass DVOA, ranking 7th in Weighted Defense. However, they do cede 19 FPPG to QBs and 26.2 to WRs - so the matchup is exploitable. Plus, the Titans are playing for their season, needing a win to have a shot at the division when they play the Texans again in Week 17. Consider Tannehill a back-end QB1, but keep expectations tempered, this projects as a floor week.
A.J. Brown. Wow. After doubting Brown due to his low volume the last several weeks, it’s time for us to eat more crow; he’s cobbled together the lion’s share of Tennessee’s targets (27%) over the last six weeks. Plus, he’s optimizing his limited volume, ranking 2nd in yards per target as a rookie since 1992 (Rotoworld). This is still a run-first team, but Brown has clearly demonstrated that he’s the Titans second best playmaker, and he’s going to be a huge part of the game plan every week. On tap is likely his toughest test, facing stud Marshon Lattimore (PFF’s No. 27 CB), but you can’t bench him. He’s defied critics, and owners that rode him are likely squaring of in the fantasy finals. Consider him a feast-or-famine WR2. None of the other wideouts are realistic fantasy options. Jonnu Smith has shown explosiveness this year, but his low-volume keeps him out of the TE1 ranks. Still, with options being so thin, you could likely do worse. He’s a low-floor, high-ceiling play - the Saints cede 6.6 FPPG to the position.
RB Breakdown
Stud running back Derrick Henry (slight downgrade) has been hobbled by a hamstring injury the last two weeks, and was a DNP on Thursday. His status is worth monitoring, but he doesn’t appear in danger of missing Sunday’s contest. He’s on record last week saying that his leg would “have to be halfway off” for him to stop playing. He didn’t practice all of last week but still played (Rotoworld), so consider him closer to probable. The matchup isn’t good - New Orleans cedes just 14 FPPG to enemy running backs - but with Henry dominating touches and snaps, he’s still a volume based RB1. Just keep expectations a bit lower than normal. Dion Lewis found the endzone last week, but he’s not a realistic fantasy option.
Score Prediction: Saints 27, Titans 20

New York Giants at Washington Redskins (-3)

Giants ATS: 6-8-0 Redskins ATS: 6-8-0
Projected Point Totals: Giants 20 Redskins 23

Giants

Opp (WAS) Pass DVOA: #18
Opp (WAS) Run DVOA: #24
Opp (WAS) Weighted DEF: #18
Injuries to Watch DEF (WAS): S Landon Collins (Q) CB Fabian Moreau (Q) DT Jonathan Allen (Q) CB Quinton Dunbar (Q) S Montae Nicholson (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (NYG): OL Kevin Zeitler (Q)
Key WCB matchups: None
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): Sterling Shepard (25% Darius Slayton (24% Golden Tate (18% Saquon Barkley (14%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Saquon Barkley (79%, 28, 5)
QB/WTE Breakdown
It appears that rookie QB Daniel Jones (slight upgrade) should return to action in Week 16, relegating Eli Manning back to the bench. Manning got a nice ovation at the end of Week 15’s win, but this is Jones’ franchise now, and if cleared (practiced fully Wednesday) he will start the remaining two games. The Redskins have been relatively average against the pass this year - 18th best pass DVOA and 14th most FPPG to QBs - so this is a slightly positive matchup. Jones will be missing his playmaking TE, but otherwise should have his full arsenal of weapons. He makes for an intriguing streamer this week; his rushing upside gives him a decent floor and he tends to look better in the box score than in the actual game. Consider Jones a mid to high-end QB2 but don’t plug him into standard leagues unless you are desperate at the position.
A suddenly stacked group of pass-catchers has made the Giants’ receivers a tough group to properly evaluate. Darius Slayton went off in Week 14, but came down to earth last week with just a 2-31 line, albeit with a TD mixed in. Sterling Shepard (volume upgrade) bounced back after a few disappointing performances with a 9-111-0 line, while Golden Tate (slight upgrade) made just one catch, but took it 51 yards to the house. The Redskins aren’t an overly favorable matchup, allowing the 13th fewest FPPG to WRs, but Daniel Jones has shown the ability to support 3 targets in past games. With Evan Engram ruled out, those three WRs should be the basis of the passing game. Tate has likely the best individual matchup in the slot with CB Aaron Colvin (Rotoworld), but his lack of recent volume makes him just a boom-bust WR3. Shepard and Slayton are slightly more trustworthy, but are still no more than upside WR3s. All have upside, but all three also have a risky floor. Consider your options before inserting them into lineups.
RB Breakdown
Congratulations are in order if you made it to the fantasy finals despite a lackluster season from your top pick, Saquon Barkley (upgrade). If you traded for him right before the deadline in hopes of a late-season breakout, then last week provided a solid initial return. The real payoff could come in Week 16 when Saquon takes on a Redskins defense ceding the 7th most FPPG to RBs and ranked bottom-third by DVOA. Playing almost 80% of the snaps last week, he went off for almost 150 total yards and punched in two rushing TDs. More of the same should be in order this week in potentially positive game script, and with his health issues seemingly behind him, Barkley looks ready to make defenders foolish again. Consider him an elite RB1 this week, and get him fired up in your top RB slot.

Redskins

Opp (NYG) Pass DVOA: #30
Opp (NYG) Run DVOA: #8
Opp (NYG) Weighted DEF: #22
Injuries to Watch DEF (NYG): None
Injuries to Watch OFF (WAS): OT Donald Penn (Q)
Key WCB matchups: None
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): Terry McLaurin (22%) Steven Sims (19%) Kelvin Harmon (17%) Chris Thompson (16%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Adrian Peterson (60%, 19, 3) Chris Thompson (34%, 2, 3)
QB/WTE Breakdown
The Redskins blew a lead late against a disappointing Eagles squad, but Dwayne Haskins (slight upgrade 2QB) at least played his best football of the year in the loss. While he isn’t someone to target in a standard league, deep superflex owners might take notice of the fact the Giants are allowing the 8th most FPPG to QBs. Still, Haskins has an extremely low floor and likely cannot be trusted in any format in a championship lineup. He’s no more than a desperation QB2.
There is only one member of this passing offense to trust, and it’s Terry McLaurin (upgrade). Fortunately, his outlook has trended upwards with some minor improvement from Haskins, and due to the fact the matchup is favorable this week. The Giants allow the 6th most FPPG to opposing WRs and have the 30th ranked pass DVOA. Consider McLaurin an upside WR2 in the plus spot, and get him in your lineups. No other pass catcher should be considered here.
RB Breakdown
The Redskins unsurprisingly rushed their young stud RB Derrius Guice back into the lineup, leading to him re-injuring his knee in an already lost season. That left Adrian Peterson (slight volume upgrade) and Chris Thompson to spearhead the backfield in Week 15. However, it was Peterson who dominated touches last week (19-2), although that may have been in part due to positive game script for most of the matchup with the Eagles. This week projects similarly, as Washington is actually favored at home by 3 points. The Giants rank highly by rush DVOA (8th) and cede the 15th fewest FPPG to RBs, so this isn’t necessarily a favorable matchup on paper. However, his workload on the ground and position as home favorite make Peterson an intriguing flex option this week. Consider him on the RB2/3 borderline with a slight upgrade in standard leagues. Thompson is off the fantasy radar outside of extremely deep PPR leagues.
Score Prediction: Giants 21, Redskins 13

Pittsburgh Steelers (-3) at New York Jets

Steelers ATS: 9-5-0 Jets ATS: 5-9-0
Projected Point Totals: Steelers 17.75 Jets 20.75

Steelers

Opp (NYJ) Pass DVOA: #24
Opp (NYJ) Run DVOA: #2
Opp (NYJ) Weighted DEF: #16
Injuries to Watch DEF (NYJ): S Jamal Adams (Q) DL Henry Anderson (Q) CB Arthur Maulet (Q) DL Steve McLendon (Q) CB Brian Poole (Q) DL Quinnen Williams (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (PIT): WR JuJu Smith-Schuster (P) TE Nick Vannett (Q)
Key WCB matchups: None
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): James Washington (20%) Diontae Johnson (19%) Vance McDonald (13%) Jaylen Samuels (11%) JuJu Smith-Schuster (11%) James Conner (9%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: James Conner (58%, 12, 5) Jaylen Samuels (29%, 3, 1) Kerrith Whyte (10%, 1, 0) Benny Snell (3%, 2, 0) Trey Edmunds (2%, 0, 0)
QB/WTE Breakdown
Devlin “Duck” Hodges showed his true colors against a good defense on Sunday Night Football, failing to move the ball consistently and throwing 4 interceptions. It’s clear neither he, nor Mason Rudolph, are long term options for the franchise. The Steelers will stick with “Duck” for Sunday, but he’s not a fantasy option. The return of S Jamal Adams for the Jets hurts the outlook of the Steelers offense - he’s gunning to break the single-season NFL record for sacks by a defensive back (profootballtalk).
JuJu Smith-Schuster (upgrade) is on track to make his return, and draws an extremely favorable matchup - the Jets give up 24.9 FPPG to wideouts - so there is some appeal to sliding him in lineups right away. However, due to the anemic nature of this offense, and the question marks surrounding his usage, he’s no more than a WR3. His return would relegate James Washington and Diontae Johnson to WR4/5 dart throws. If JuJu is inactive, both can be considered as boom-or-bust WR3’s. Vance McDonald is also likely to play, but there isn’t much to get excited about, McDonald hasn’t surpassed 40 yards in game this year (Rotoworld). He’s a touchdown dependent TE2.
RB Breakdown
The Steelers used five running backs last week, however, James Conner (downgrade) immediately dominated snaps and touches in his return. The Jets possess a much better run defense than pass defense, but it remains to be seen if “Duck” Hodges is capable of exploiting a secondary. With a mediocre signal-caller at the controls, the Steelers will still rely on the run and short passes, keeping Conner in the volume-based RB2 conversation. The rest of the RBBC can be safely dropped to the wire.

Jets

Opp (PIT) Pass DVOA: #5
Opp (PIT) Run DVOA: #3
Opp (PIT) Weighted DEF: #2
Injuries to Watch DEF (PIT): CB Joe Haden (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (NYJ): OL Tom Compton (Q) WR Demaryius Thomas (Q) OT Kelvin Beachum (Q) RB Bilal Powell (Q)
Key WCB matchups: None
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): Jamison Crowder (22%) Robby Anderson (18%) Demaryius Thomas (15%) Le’Veon Bell (11%) Ryan Griffin (10%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Le’Veon Bell (86%, 23, 2)
QB/WTE Breakdown
The Jets were predictably outclassed by the Baltimore Ravens last week, but would love nothing more than to ruin the playoff dreams of the Steelers by upsetting them at home this week. Sam Darnold (downgrade) was overall not very effective against the Ravens, but ended with a decent fantasy line courtesy of two passing TDs. The Steelers are almost as difficult a matchup as the Ravens, giving up the 5th most FPPG to QBs. They’ve been outstanding against the pass since solidifying their secondary earlier in the year, and currently rank 5th by DVOA on the season. Consider Darnold no more than a risky QB2 this week; he’s unlikely to approach his already limited ceiling against such a quality defense.
The Steelers defense will look to put its clamps on the Jets two top receivers, Robby Anderson and Jamison Crowder, in this week’s offensively challenged matchup. They’ve allowed the 10th fewest FPPG to WRs this year, so both WRs will have their hands full. Crowder surprisingly went off against the Ravens last week, going 6-90-2 in the tough spot, while Anderson stayed relevant with a 4-66 line and added a 2 point conversion. Both players have the ability and connection with Darnold to overcome the difficult matchup, so they are worth a look if you are light on options this week. Still, consider Crowder a WR3 with a bump in PPR leagues, and Anderson a WR3 with a bump in standard leagues. The chances for a TD are decreased by the low projected point total. No other option in this pass-game need to be considered.
RB Breakdown
Things haven’t come easy for Le’Veon Bell (slight downgrade) and this Jets’ running game, but Bell remains one of the few heavy workhorse backs in the NFL. It’s no guarantee he’ll even be in a Jets uniform come 2020, but at least for this week, we know what his role is projected to be. The Steelers are stout against the run - 3rd ranked by DVOA and 4th fewest FPPG - so Bell will face a tough matchup on the ground for the second week in a row. His likely high workload is game-script dependent, however, and he might actually be more valuable if he catches more passes in catch-up mode, than if he simply runs up the middle behind an ineffective O-line. However, the Steelers are tight defensively, and this projects as an extremely low scoring game with both offenses running inefficiently. Consider Bell a volume-based RB2 with a matchup downgrade, and leave his backups Ty Montgomery and Bilal Powell safely on the wire in all formats.
Score Prediction: Steelers 16, Jets 13

Cincinnati Bengals at Miami Dolphins (-3)

Bengals ATS: 5-9-0 Dolphins ATS: 7-7-0
Projected Point Totals: Bengals 21.25 Dolphins 24.25

Bengals

Opp (MIA) Pass DVOA: #32
Opp (MIA) Run DVOA: #29
Opp (MIA) Weighted DEF: #32
Injuries to Watch DEF (MIA): DT Zach Sieler (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (CIN): WR A.J. Green (OUT) G John Miller (D) RB Joe Mixon (Q)
Key WCB matchups: None
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): Tyler Boyd (22%) Auden Tate (16%) Alex Erickson (15%) Tyler Eifert (10%) Joe Mixon (9%) John Ross (9%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Joe Mixon (67%, 28, 3) Giovani Bernard (33%, 7, 2) Trayveon Williams (2%, 0, 0)
QB/WTE Breakdown
The Bengals have zero incentive to win this week against the Dolphins, a loss secures the No. 1 pick in the upcoming 2020 NFL Draft. Andy Dalton (slight upgrade) has done a masterful job of tanking the season away, and isn’t doing himself any favors on the trade market with his recent play. He’s thrown five interceptions against two touchdowns since returning to the starting lineup, and hasn’t completed better than 60% of his passes in game (bengalswire). He’s not a realistic fantasy option, even in the amazing matchup - The Fins cede 21.7 FPPG to QBs and 28.3 to WRs.
Tyler Boyd and Alex Erickson worked well ahead of John Ross last week, but coach Zac Taylor did say he wouldn’t expose Ross to a full workload in his return from the IR (Rotoworld). Boyd is a realistic WR2 this week against a defense that has been routinely dominated by slot receivers (Rotoworld). Erickson and Ross are no more than dart throws considering their usage. Ross has the upside, but he could easily be limited again. Don’t consider a tight end in this offense.
RB Breakdown
Seeing a resurgence in the last six weeks, Joe Mixon (upgrade) has popped up on the injury report late-week with a calf strain. It doesn’t appear that he’s likely to miss Sunday’s contest, which is fortunate considering the dream matchup - Miami hemorrhages 22.9 FPPG to RBs - get Mixon active as an RB1. If he does miss, Giovani Bernard becomes an interesting flex play. He hasn’t done much this year, but in past years when given starter’s volume, he’s filled in admirably.

Dolphins

Opp (CIN) Pass DVOA: #27
Opp (CIN) Run DVOA: #27
Opp (CIN) Weighted DEF: #28
Injuries to Watch DEF (CIN): CB Darius Phillips (Q)
Injuries to Watch OFF (MIA): WR Allen Hurns (Q) K Jason Sanders (Q)
Key WCB matchups: DeVante Parker vs. William Jackson (Rotoworld)
Relevant Target Share %’s (Last 6 Weeks): DeVante Parker (21%) Mike Gesicki (17%) Allen Hurns (13%) Albert Wilson (13%) Patrick Laird (10%)
RB Snap %/Touches/Targets Week 15: Patrick Laird (48%, 14, 5) Myles Gaskin (48%, 11, 3)
QB/WTE Breakdown
The Dolphins disaster of a season continued on the road against a bottom-feeding Giants squad. However, unlike early season, the Fins have produced viable fantasy contributors over the second half. Ryan “Fitzmagic” (upgrade) continued his gun-slinging ways last week, throwing for 279 yards and two touchdowns with no interceptions. He’s an interesting QB streamer in all formats, drawing a great matchup against an awful Bengals secondary - CIN surrenders 20 FPPG to QBs and 20 to WRs - consider Fitz a back-end QB1.
DeVante Parker’s (upgrade) breakout continued in his return from concussion, he caught 4 passes for 72 yards and two touchdowns. He’s earned every week WR1 treatment, and he’s a must play in the dream matchup. He’ll square off against William Jackson (PFF’s No. 84 CB). It’s an exploitable matchup, and Parker has demonstrated that he’s capable of taking on any CB in the league. Albert Wilson (upgrade) played a near full-time role last week (80% of snaps), well ahead of Allen Hurns (46% of snaps). Wilson has some appeal as a home run hitting dart throw - CIN gives up explosive pass plays (20+ yards) on 13% of plays, the second worst rate in the NFL. Hurns and the rest of the wideouts should be avoided. Mike Gesicki is seeing plenty of targets, but failing to parlay them into meaningful production in most games. Still, considering the matchup, he has TE1 streaming appeal.
RB Breakdown
It was Patrick Laird (upgrade) leading the Fins backfield again, with Myles Gaskin mixing in. Gaskin received his highest snap percentage last week since Kalen Ballage (IR) fell to injury, and it appears the backfield is devolving into a timeshare. Still, Laird seems to be in play for about 15 touches a week, making for a decent flex option. The matchup improves his outlook - CIN has been eviscerated by opposing backs, ceding 22.6 FPPG to the position. Gaskin still can’t be trusted.
Score Prediction: Dolphins 27, Bengals 24