Welga pulled two different juvers from her case, a thin pink square for superficial wounds and an oval brown one for internal bleeding. She placed them under her tongue along with the new zip. She ignored the blue and green buffs. Those affected muscle strength and stamina, neither of which she’d needed much since her days in the service. Shield work required grace more than brute force.

Ten minutes later, her body buzzed. The designers swore that humans couldn’t feel the effects of zips—it wasn’t like the mental high from chemical drugs or flow pills—but Welga could tell when they hit. A sort of restless energy filled her limbs, like when she’d been sitting still for too long and needed to stretch.

Ammanuel shared a new training routine with her. They spent fifteen minutes going through a set of exercises specified by the pill’s designers to help calibrate the microelectronics with their physiology. Ammanuel had faster reaction times by an average of one-tenth of a second, according to her agent’s measurements. She’d need to train longer to catch up to them.

“Calibration complete. Clear to proceed,” Por Qué announced.

Welga checked their gear and motioned to Ammanuel to do the same. The items lay where she’d left them the night before, but she took no chances. She examined every piece before attaching it to her clothes. A swarm cartridge, electromagnetic disruptor, and fifty-round magazines went on her chest and thighs. She put the two loaded sticky guns on her hips and slung a loop of smoke bombs across her chest, then tucked a dynamic blade against her lower back. Close-quarter combat didn’t happen often, but when attackers came at them with hand weapons, they responded in style. Not only was it more fun, it played better for the viewers.

Ammanuel kitted out the same as her. Ammanuel’s skin tone was a shade darker than Welga’s medium-brown, and their hair was a brilliant yellow, but the two of them made an almost matched pair in size: nearly one hundred eighty centimeters in height, broad shoulders, narrow hips.

“Remember, smoke bombs have to be authorized by the boss,” she said. “And the EMD is mainly for show. Nobody in Platinum’s history has had to use it, but the feeds like us to carry them. Makes us seem more badass than we already are.” Welga smiled at the tension lines on Ammanuel’s face. “Don’t worry, basic! They always give you easy assignments at first.”

Ammanuel snorted. “It’s not the fighting that concerns me. It’s the performance. I’m not used to putting on a show.”

“Just act like you’re sexy as hell.”

“Who needs to act?” Ammanuel grinned.

“That’s the spirit.”