I tell myself I am not arming up.
I tell myself this is contingency preparation.
I tell myself I am only mapping options.
My fingers wrap around the grip of the nearest plasma pistol anyway.
It is warm from the ambient temperature of the room, the textured polymer biting faintly into my palm in a way my body recognizes too well.
I eject the power cell, slot in a fresh one, and thumb the safety off with a movement so automatic it makes my stomach twist.
The shock baton comes next.
Then the monofilament blade.
Each piece slides into place against my body with soft, lethal clicks that sound far too much like commitment.
I don’t look at my reflection in the matte metal of the rack.
I don’t want to see what my face looks like right now.
The terminal continues scrolling intel in my peripheral vision.
The convoy is three minutes out from the restaurant district perimeter.
Two minutes from branching into the alley network.
I swipe my hand through the air, pulling the route schematic closer, and my brain begins mapping interception angles whether I authorize it or not.
Choke points.
Power alley dead zones.
Service corridor intersections where the walls are too close for heavy weapons to pivot.
My mind is doing tactical geometry like it always does when violence is imminent.
I hate it for that.
“You are not doing this,” I tell myself, out loud, sharply.
The pressure behind my sternum answers by tightening again, a hot, insistent ache that makes my breath hitch.
The sirens in the audio feed crest into full alarm now, overlapping in discordant waves.
Public emergency alerts begin flashing through lower-district networks.
The first emergency alarm hits the public channels.
A municipal tone bleats through the terminal speakers, shrill and unmistakable.
I flinch.
Something in my chest snaps.
Not breaks.
Aligns.
