Private The G.H.O.S.T of Red Spayde

[Andrew Lonek]

It had been a while since developmental defense contracts crossed my desk. Mostly... I have C.E.R.A. take care of that kind of stuff. Only prioritized code "red" alerts are worthy of my attention. Hanging out in my cliffside home, reminicing on the past. It's some type of life for sure. Then Suddenly... Seemingly out of nowhere, an encrypted message was transmitted to my com link. Using the ear piece, I answered as the hologram display window appeared before me while I sat on the white satin couch. The firewood cackled as the flames assured me that leaving the doors open to the loft wasn't the worst idea.

"What do we have here? Encrypted.... Level 3 security override .... C.E.R.A. ... Activate scrambled breakfast... Oh, and see if Aren D'Shade Would like to take a look at this. Either someone wants to wish me an early happy birthday or this could be a black market business opportunity."​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren recognized the signature almost immediately.

Not the encryption itself—that was solid, layered, deliberately impersonal—but the shape of it—the cadence. The way the packet is routed through C.E.R.A. is like someone knocking on the door instead of forcing it open.

She exhaled once, slowly, and leaned back against the couch again, the tension easing out of her shoulders even as her focus sharpened.

"Andrew," she said quietly, more confirmation than question.

Her gaze lifted to the hologram, expression unreadable but far from cold.

"So," she continued, voice steady and precise, "you went through C.E.R.A. instead of calling me directly. That tells me you don't want this logged as casual, and you don't want an audience."

A beat.

"Where do you want to meet?"

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew's smile lingered, lazy at the edges, but his eyes never left the hovering glyphs of the encrypted packet. The fire popped again, a soft punctuation, as if the room itself was listening.

"Hedway Park," he said at last, voice smooth, conversational, like he was suggesting a change of scenery rather than stepping onto a board full of nails. "Open air. Lots of foot traffic. Families, vendors, street performers who think they're philosophers." A pause, then a shrug you could hear through the comm. "Hard to assassinate a man when there's a kite festival happening ten meters away."

C.E.R.A.'s voice chimed faintly from somewhere unseen, already running probability trees Andrew hadn't asked for yet. He ignored it.

"I'll bring brunch," he added, lighter now. "Real food. None of that protein foam nonsense you pretend to tolerate. There's a stall near the eastern fountains. Old Ithorian couple. They cook like they're feeding ghosts."

The hologram flickered, the message still unresolved, still patient.

"And Aren," he said, tone shifting just a hair, gravity slipping under the silk, "this isn't me being coy. If someone wanted me dead, they'd have come louder. This feels… curated. Like someone wants me alert. Watching. Wondering."

He leaned back deeper into the couch, white satin creasing beneath him, the open loft doors letting in salt air and the distant hush of waves smashing themselves into stone.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't answer immediately.

She let the silence breathe on the line, not because she was hesitating, but because she was already mapping Hedway Park in her head—sightlines, exits, crowd density at different hours, where security drones usually pretended not to exist. Open air meant variables. Foot traffic meant noise. Noise meant cover. It was a choice that told her more about Andrew's instincts than anything he'd said outright.

When she did speak, her voice was level, precise, stripped of ornament.

"Hedway Park makes sense," she said. "Crowds complicate intent. Anyone trying to make a statement would choose somewhere cleaner." A faint pause, just long enough to acknowledge what he hadn't said. "And you're right," she continued. "This doesn't read like an execution attempt. No urgency. No escalation. Whoever flagged you wants you aware, not removed."

Her fingers tapped once against the arm of her chair as she processed the rest—kite festival, vendors, Ithorian couple. "Brunch is acceptable," she added dryly. "Especially if it involves food that doesn't come out of a tube or a ration press."

Then, quieter—not warmer, but more deliberate: "I'll meet you by the eastern fountains. I'll arrive early. If anything changes on your end, you ping me through C.E.R.A., not public channels." A beat. "And Andrew?" Her tone sharpened just a fraction, the way it did when she shifted from analysis to intent. "If this is curated, and someone's watching for how you react, don't improvise. Let them think they're seeing exactly what they expect." She didn't explain what that meant. She didn't need to.

"I'll see you at Hedway Park," Aren finished. "Try not to get philosophical with the street performers before I get there."

The channel closed cleanly, without flourish—already moving, already preparing, already there in her head.

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

"Thanks, hun." Andrew's reply came out half-grin, half-gravity, the sort of breezy line he used to defuse a room and simultaneously mark his territory. He let the comm click off and stood, the satin couch sighing as he moved. The loft smelled of sea air and burned cedar; the holographic glyphs faded but their impression lingered, bright and angular like a bruise.
He dressed with economy — well-worn dark jeans, a soft charcoal shirt, a leather jacket that had seen better and worse politics — the kind of casual that read as effortless until you noticed the seams. As he tugged on the jacket sleeves he flicked a command to C.E.R.A.

"Keep the private channel open for Aren and me. All other chatter, quarantine. Priority override: Aren D'Shade." C.E.R.A.'s soft affirmative shivered through the speakers; she already had the private thread threaded into the secure loop and a dozen silent monitors itching in the background. She also popped a small reminder: probability matrix for crowd anomalies at Hedway Park. Andrew dismissed it with a grin for himself and a nod to the machine — let her be nervous.

He wandered over to his comm-table and scrolled through past pickup logs, the little history of favs and guilty pleasures. The Bum Bum's entry blinked up—a greasy, glorious line item tagged 'late-night salvation.' He tapped the screen, fingers moving like a pianist with a taste for nostalgia, and placed an order: two cinnamon-glazed breakfast pockets, a smoky egg sandwich, and a side of whatever the Ithorian couple would call a proper cup of java. He added an encrypted note to the delivery: "Hold near eastern fountains if possible."
While the order was being processed, he drafted a second, far less savory message. Valah Hagen . Female, mando, hard eyes and a harder right hook — and the kind of friend who took reconnaissance seriously. He encoded the ping, wrapped it through three dead drops and a throwaway sig. short and clinical: Meet at Lonek Tech — recon & prep. Bring armor diagnostics, weapons check, and coffee. If busy, send ETA. He routed it through a burner route and flagged it urgent. Then he exhaled. It was that small, necessary tightening before the rope was thrown.

Practicalities done, he reached for the phone that controlled the L.T.I. fleet. His hover limo accepted the summons with a polite chime and glided to the loading pad. He paused only long enough to tap the trunk lock twice — a gesture so ordinary it would have meant nothing to anyone watching — and the compartment hummed a private, sealed tone. Inside: his armor, modular plates nested like an exoskeletal second skin, a concealed department lined against prying hands. Just-in-case technology sat quietly and obediently.

The limo lifted, haloed by the loft's open railing and the gray morning light. Andrew watched the coastline slip small beneath them and let the neighborhood shrink away; the city was awake and unaware and, for now, the only thing that knew about Hedway Park was him, Aren D'Shade, Valah, and whoever had curated that encrypted knock. He let his smile linger — irreverent, ready — and tapped C.E.R.A. one more time.

"Route: Hedway Park. Keep the channel clean. And C.E.R.A.?" he added, voice softer for the machine. "If someone's watching, let them watch a man who brought cinnamon rolls to a potential execution."

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

The reply came in while Andrew was already in motion, threaded cleanly through the private channel C.E.R.A. had quarantined just for them. Aren did not comment on the things clearly meant for the machine, nor did she acknowledge the armor, the contingencies, or the quiet tightening of plans he had set in motion. She never set foot on territory that was not hers.

"Copy," she said. "Private channel only. I'll keep my end quiet."

There was a brief pause, the kind that meant she was choosing which details mattered.

"I'm glad you ordered ahead," she continued. "Crowds slow lines, and I don't intend to stand around making myself memorable. Eastern fountains give us cover and movement. If the delivery stalls, don't linger. We can adjust."

Another pause, slightly longer this time.

"I clocked the Valah ping," she added, not asking, not accusing, just acknowledging the vector. "That's fine. Keep her off-site unless you see a reason to change that. Too many known quantities in one place draws patterns."

Her tone shifted just a fraction, quieter but no less firm.

"And Andrew, for what it's worth, don't play the martyr. Cinnamon rolls read as disarming, not reckless. Let whoever's watching underestimate the logistics behind it."

The faintest hint of dry humor slipped through at the end.

"I'll be there before you. Same rules as always. If anything deviates, you don't improvise alone."

The channel stayed open when she finished. No flourish, no sign-off.

She was already on her way.

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew stepped off the limo onto sun-warmed paving and let the city settle into its usual Sunday hum. Hedway Park smelled of kettle steam, fried dough, and grass — the kind of mixed perfume that hid conversations and motives in equal measure.

He found the eastern fountains almost immediately: low stone bowls, water flicking in lazy arcs, benches arranged like sentries. He chose one that gave a clean view of the main walkways and the vendor rows without putting his back to any of the exits. Practical. Unshowy. The kind of seat that said he expected nothing and prepared for everything.

He set the Bum Bum bag on his knee, the paper crinkling like a small, guilty secret. Two cinnamon-glazed breakfast pockets, one smoky egg sandwich, and a steaming cup from the Ithorian couple — steam that smelled like forgiveness. He left the bag unzipped but tilted so a whiff of sugar and spice escaped; an invitation to be ordinary.

C.E.R.A.'s private channel pulsed at his wrist, a soft confirmation the feed was live. He didn't need the readout to know she was already painting the scene in lines and probabilities, but he appreciated the formality. He took the first pocket, bit into it with exaggerated calm, and let the crowd do what crowds do best — be a crowd.

He watched the way a man watches waves: patient, practiced.

Kite strings spooled above the playground, bright ragged shapes that made quick shadows on faces. Street performers juggled, their hands all show and no secret. The Ithorian stall did a brisk trade nearby; the couple shouted over utensils and bartered in a language Andrew only half remembered. Families took pictures; two teenagers argued over a holo game; a courier in a reflective jacket darted through, balanced like a hummingbird.

His notes filled themselves, quiet as a ledger.

Good: high pedestrian density along the north-south path. Vendors create natural chokepoints. Eastern fountains act as visual clutter — perfect for a staged sighting. Sun was high enough to blind optics if they tried to angle a scope. Multiple exits within ten meters. A service ladder behind the bandstand could be used for an uphill approach.

Questionable: a man near the artisan stalls with gloves too clean for the weather, hands folded so precisely he looked like he was trying not to touch the world. He checked his comm twice in short succession, more furtive than bored. A woman in a light-gray hood had a scanner tucked into the fold of her sleeve; she kept her gaze just long enough on the fountain to be a habit. A kid with a camera-lens that was far too long for tourist selfies kept adjusting focus toward the eastern bench, then toward the trees.

Subtle oddities: a small maintenance drone bobbed near a lamppost, its coating scuffed, flight pattern jittering in short bursts — malfunction or deliberate interference. A courier skirted the crowd with a package stamped with Lonek Tech return codes, but his route looped twice before he cut away. Not necessarily coordination, but the pattern made him lift an eyebrow.

He chewed, eyes sweeping, tasting strategy with cinnamon. He let the bites draw time out, show no hurry. If someone wanted to watch how he ate, they would see a man who had brought pastry to an argument and smiled while doing it.

He sipped the Ithorian coffee and made a note to tell C.E.R.A. to ping him if the maintenance drone left its post or if the courier rerouted near the fountain again. He also sent a compressed ping to Valah: hold position off-site. No reply came yet, which was fine — reconnaissance had its own rhythms.

A child dashed past, kite string trailing like a comet tail, and the breeze picked up, scattering confetti from a vendor's stall into the fountain. Andrew let the small chaos blot out his outline for a moment and folded his hands on his knees, posture easy. The bench felt ordinary. His eyes did not.