Two cameras capture the world. Disguised as rivets that hold together the chrome scales of Scrypher`s helmet, the masses continue on unaware they`re being watched. Observed. Every single one of them: each hesitant step and every unsure word.

　　Just in case.

　　Red outlines pop onto the helmet`s internal display. Points of interest. Scrypher darts her eyes over them, dismissing each in turn as a false positive.

　　Typical.

　　Internal speakers click and buzz, then a man`s voice comes through. "— when I decided to just walk out! No way I was dealing with more of his nonsense. Anyway, enough about me. It`s been so long since—"

　　Another click and it`s a woman`s voice now. "— so gross. Put that down! You`ve got no idea where that`s—"

　　Banal, normal people. Mundane to a fault. Behind a decorated, porcelain facsimile of her own face, Scrypher clenches her teeth. Why am I even here?

　　The street around her is buzzing, but it`s meaningless. A sea of inconsequential bullshit only meant to overwhelm and distract. None of these people are important enough to hone in on for more than a second. She wraps the flaps of her trench coat tighter around herself and shifts her back against the sidewalk`s light pole.

　　It`s a leap away from her office`s stainless steel, clinical lights, and two-way mirrors. Yet I`m here; stuck where I can`t make a difference.

　　On the other side of the restaurant`s glass display, Barclay booms a laugh and slaps the supposed owner on the shoulder. She could listen in if she wanted. All it`d take is the simple twist of false rivet. It`d be useless, though. He`s the exact person that he shows the world: outgoing, kind — both insufferably so. No hint of malice or corruption she can get a hook in. Nothing to drag into the open, bare for all to see.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

　　The thought of it digs furrows into her brow. She fiddles with a pair of handcuffs in an outer coat pocket, ratcheting both cuffs closed and running her fingers down the chain link between them. Why? Why did they put me here?

　　A bell rings. The door to the restaurant is open and Barclay`s there, holding it for a nondescript woman. He strides out after her, the legs of his ridiculous, purple leotard riding up his thighs. "Didn`t have you waiting too long, did I?" He calls.

　　Scrypher pushes away from the pole. "No."

　　He offers her a kebab, point up and chokes down a word-muffling chunk of another. "Ready to go then?"

　　She yanks her share out of his hand. "I was fine not stopping here in the first place."

　　He swallows; he struggles, his face flushes red; he beats a fist on his exposed, hairy chest and his strained expression clears. "How about you take a couple bites and let me know how you feel? I haven`t been wrong yet, have I?"

　　He hasn`t.

　　The two walk off down main street, among crowds of drunk bar goers, late night jaywalkers, and a single street performer.

　　Scrypher pulls down on her helmet`s porcelain mask and it clicks. It slides down a hidden guide track and comes free with her hand. Underneath is a plain, unremarkable face. Her face. The lower half of it, anyway. Porcelain lips that were full and painted in ruby are — in fleshy reality — just tight, thin lines; the button nose gets swapped for a downturned glob of clay; and soft cheeks turn to gaunt, iron-like slabs.

　　Her insides twist. Even exposing this much of her face in public... With her teeth, she plucks a cube of something off the kebab. What`s in these things? Soy?

　　She bites down.

　　Despite its toughness, flavor explode out of the cube. A flavor that supplants prickling discomfort with explosions of multicolored fireworks. Forgetting to slide the porcelain insert back in place, she raises a hand to cover her exaggerated chewing. "Not meat, but it`s okay."

　　He pumps a fist. "Nice! You know, it`s not suppose to be like meat. Seitan is its own thing."

　　"Satan? Is this what they eat at those Mass things?"

　　He shoots her a look of pure confusion, his oiled mustache hiding most of a frown. "What? Long `A` sound: seitan. Not Satan. That`s probably the most out of touch thing you`ve said: borderline sacrilege, even. Probably best you don`t ask something like that in earshot of a Catholic."

　　She bites a vegetable off the kebab. "If you say so. I tend to give them a wide berth anyway."