After slouching onto my couch, I soak my fist in a bowl of anti-gel. The cool, clear medicine takes the pain and swelling away. Ironic, really. Hose up all the sap in the Gap. Refine it, skim off the fuel, and you’re left with two very different pools of runoff goo. Crystal-clear anti-gel, a regenerative source of healing, and black sap, the murky narcotic that’s fried far too many brains. Auguste sits beside me, and we catch the recap feed on the nearest flex wall. I watch the security team herd me off the stage and out of the ballroom. Apparently, the media goons trained me all too well. Even though I was shaky and scared, that doesn’t show up on the feed at all. Shockingly, after the sucker punch to Courant’s jaw, I smiled the whole time. An incoming call preempts the feed. I move to swipe my flex and accept the linkup, but it seems this particular caller doesn’t need my permission to hijack my screens.
