it's half past cyberpunk dystopia o'clock, and a young military man is having strange dreams.

the therapist for his private military company ship says they're because he's watching too many fantasy holovids. he thinks that's probably right, but he still can't shake this feeling that he's been here before, done this before, again and again, in ways that don't make sense. and that this ship should have sails, somehow.

the dreams start sticking with him more and more when he wakes up. but he gives up on telling them to other people.

it's a regular order, simple breech and clear of a rival company, when he picks it up. he just thought it was pretty. i mean, the secretary whose desk he picked it up off of was dead or worse by then, right? it wasn't 3d printed, it wasn't even plastic - kinda rare. and a letter opener in the shape of a sword - well, it's just kinda neat, right?

all the other troops take souviniers sometimes. it's not like a letter opener is as bad as racy photos or stolen underwear.

he plays with it sometimes, twirling it in-between his fingers. it feels good and weighty and right in a way he can't quite articulate. the first time he finds the hidden switch, he panics, because he thinks he's broken it. but no - it's meant to slide away to reveal something hidden in it.

it takes him three days to work up the nerve to plug the revealed datastick into an infopad. (that was after he sourced a mostly-broken infopad with all its network connectivity taken out - he might have had to take this contract with this corp, but he ain't THAT stupid.)

the screen flashes and he feels his blood turn to electric fire.

he knows what this data stick is. he KNOWS. this has been making every corp in this hemisphere sweat for years.

he always thought this master control script was just a myth. it had to be just an excuse trotted out to shareholders - right?

but no. it's here. he has it, and more than that - it seems to know him. and to want to *obey* him.

the dreams are getting more solid and vivid. he's getting scared. sometimes he tries to just stay up all night training instead of having them.

they are so complicated. he just wanted this contract to be *simple*.

he logs on to check his messages late one night. the mascot for the company that hired him - and the whole rest of this 'peacekeeping ship' - is a dancing golden pig with a benign smile. he's never particularly liked the thing, but never hated it, either.

until tonight.

the golden pig on the terminal wallpaper turns its head around uncannily to stare at him head-on. "i know what you've been doing," it says, voice dark and dripping with hate.

he decides he doesn't need to check his messages actually.

he is waiting outside the therapist-chaplain's door in the morning. and the company therapist lets him get out about three sentences before interrupting him to yell in disgust. fine. Fine! it's a fucking dodge for more shore leave that the therapist has seen a million times before! so he gets ONE, and if this nonsense continues? he'll get his contract cancelled! for good! now fuck off!

he shuts up. sometimes words just don't come to him. he takes the shore leave pass and feels guilty as he slinks back to his bunk. not able to speak when he really needs to, and now these dreams. no wonder he's a wash-out who could only get a contract with a bottom-tier company as a simple grunt. and if he fucks up again, they'll cancel that contract, and demand triple damages.

he expects nightmares about *that*, but he doesn't get them. it's even worse.

so he pulls himself out of bed and tries to sort out his hair. his CO frowns at the pass and then reaches over to tug at the forelocks of hair he grows near his ears. "maybe get to a fucking barber. this isn't the company image. sort it while you're out or i'll sort it for you with a buzzcut."

he mumbles that he understands, puts on his lucky green cap, and goes to see if the city will help distract him into being the good employee he's expected to be.

he tries going to a strip club, because that's the sort of thing people are supposed to do right now, right?, but all he can focus on is the bottom of his glass. when one of the dancers, a girl in shimmering blue body paint, comes up to him, he inwardly groans. he's not in the mood for a sales pitch. but instead, with that flirty, "hey, listen, handsome..." is something he doesn't expect. she leans in close, her breath hot in his ear, as she whispers.

"we know what you've got," she murmurs. "there's a friend of mine that'd be real interested to meet you, if you've ever thought about using it. don't say yes or no now. think about it. if you're interested, ask me about our cocktail specials when you need your glass filled."

he sits there and thinks. the letter opener sits so heavy in his hoodie pocket. he clutches it. he remembers how good it feels to hold.

he asks about the cocktail specials.

she doesn't even put on a jacket, a flurry of glittery body paint as she leads him back and through secret entrance after secret entrance, down into winding tunnels. she's part of a group, she explains, that remembers what this place was like before. when there was grass and things weren't all made of plastic and the people in charge cared about something other than profit. it had a different name back then.