Certain small pleasures, certain minor rituals, are vital for maintaining the stability of the soul. And when the spirit is healthy, the body must follow. This was Joel’s philosophy at the end of every graveyard shift. He would pull his taxi into the wide, sprawling lot of diner, the only sanctuary that served fresh blueberry pie in these dead hours of the night.

  He’d pause for a beat before stepping out of the cab, scanning the activity behind the wide storefront window. The neon sign over the counter - - flickered over a few lost souls scattered among the booths, drowned in their own thoughts, and old Dorothy, whose apron was always so impeccably starched it was stiff enough to scrape the roof of a goat’s mouth.

  "Morning, boss. I hear the pies are legendary today," he called out as he stepped inside.

  There was no need to think about where to go. His feet led him naturally to his spot, third booth from the door, window seat. It was always vacant at this hour. Why, you ask? Dorothy saw to that. A small, carefully folded slip of paper with the word would be waiting for her regular guest right there, a silent pact between them.

  "I don't mean to sound vain, but today’s pie… let’s just say it’s outdone every ancestor before it," Dorothy said, approaching him. "These are the real deal: tiny, wild blueberries. Special delivery. Some old-timer picks them by hand up in the mountains. The geezer’s overcharging me, but what can I do? He told me: 'Taste them first, then we'll talk price.' Damned old goat, he's using dealer tactics, but it's working."

  "Ugh, my mouth’s watering already. Say no more, let the pie do the talking," the old cabbie said with a grin, sliding into the booth that, of all the seats in the place, knew his backside best.

  Soon, Dorothy appeared with a tray, moving with a touch of ceremony, her expression a mix of pride and gravity. She approached his table slowly, as if revealing a state secret, and set down a white plate decorated with rose vignettes along the rim. At its center, displayed like a discovered sin, sat a thick, triangular slice of pie. Just looking at it, one would swear it had to be softer than cotton. Every layer, the entire structure, seemed to breathe. A spiral of whipped cream graced its top, while a dark syrup, thick as forest honey, oozed down the sides, forming growing puddles of purple bliss.

  Joel looked into her eyes with pure reverence. Dorothy used a napkin to lift a small fork from the tray and handed it to him like a holy relic. He took it, his hand trembling slightly. He carved out a piece, dipped it first into the syrup, then the cream, and brought it to his lips. He looked at Dorothy again. She gave a silent, encouraging nod. The pie vanished into Joel’s mouth, and he used his lips to sweep the last trace from the fork. A harmony of flavors flooded his senses, and he laughed. He nodded after the first bite, and laughed again. He continued to chew, quietly confirming his delight with rhythmic nods.

  For Dorothy, that was enough. She knew by his face. She turned and walked proudly toward the kitchen, her wide hips swaying gently.

  "Miss, excuse me," came the voice of a pale young man from the neighboring booth. "Could I place an order?"

  Dorothy turned to him and gave a kind smile.

  "Of course, go ahead."

  "I'll have what that gentleman is having. Exactly that."

  This was the moment of relaxation he had waited for all night. A grueling shift, too many crazies. And that woman? What was she doing in the middle of nowhere under that bridge near the rail depot? Whatever, didn't matter. He could bet he’d run into even weirder characters tomorrow.

  The pie was still captivating his senses, and now it was time to check the game scores. Betting was his little vice, a bit here, a bit there. Nothing serious, no big stakes. Just pocket change for the sake of the thrill.

  He turned to his bag and reached for his phone. He pulled it out. Strange, the device was scalding, so hot he could barely hold it. The scent of scorched plastic pierced through the aroma of blueberries. The screen, black as a raven’s eye. Dead.

  "What the hell?! I just bought you, you piece of junk," he muttered angrily at the silent brick. he thought.

  Agitated and annoyed by the break in his routine, he called out grumpily:

  "Dorothy! Hey, Dorothy! Can you flip the TV on for a second? I need to check the scores. This piece of garbage just gave up on me," he said, waving his "deceased" phone in the air.

  *

  Two red taillights of the departing taxi vanished into the night behind the first curve. The narrow tunnel where the street passed under the railway tracks smelled of damp concrete and fuel oil. Hemingway stood at its exit. She observed the vast expanse of the rail depot with the "eye" of her mind. An intertwined mesh of tracks and sleeping train sets, some passenger, some freight, sat motionless, waiting for the call to travel. Beside her, old, decommissioned cars with broken, blind windows had long since surrendered to decay. It all lay before her like the palm of her hand, bathed in total darkness.

  "Alright, I’ve overloaded the station’s fuses, as well as that cabbie’s phone. In those black clothes and this darkness, you can relax, you’re invisible to every living thing and every camera," Zadkiel said in her ear.

  "The taxi driver's phone? What about it?"

  "No active device can be near us while we're in action. Someone might be listening, and you know exactly who I’m talking about. Better safe than sorry. Anyway, how do you like the uniform? I really outdid myself: a blend of Kevlar and Lycra, tough yet elastic. Graphite reinforcements on the knees and joints, holster straps so light they won't hinder your movement… And the boots? With those soles, you could walk on dry twigs and never give away a single step."

  "Impressive… I’m actually stunned. I get the feeling the inspiration was feudal Japan. But the balaclava, is it really necessary?"

  "Absolutely. You wouldn't want to be prowling the outskirts of the city with loose hair and a pale face, would you? Just remember what Armand told us about our guest earlier."

  Ah, Armand. His voice in her ear felt so close, as if he were standing right next to her rather than far away in the North. What had he and Uriel actually discovered? One Miss Priya Sharma was a woman of unusual biography: a bookworm from the Institute of Technology in Bombay, now on a special assignment purchasing land in Alaska. For whom? Yes, they knew for whom. Confirmation had come from the uninvited, armed guests who had paid them a visit in the small hours. It was time the visit was returned. After all, did this woman even know who her employer was?

  Hemingway slipped into the depot, leaping over rails and passing through train cars like a shadow. There was no movement around her. Somewhere in the distance, a man’s voice called out for someone named Willy, ordering him to haul ass to the power station immediately. When she reached the high wall separating the station from the wide street, she cleared it in a couple of light bounds, sprinted across the road, and headed toward the parking lot. A moment earlier, the parking lot had plunged into darkness, at the exact second the lights flickered back on over the depot. Hemingway thought.

  Before her rose the modest office building of the H&D Company. A grid of white beams and pillars framed large glass window panels across all five floors.

  "See the top floor? That’s where the apartments are. That last row of windows, that’s where Miss India is staying. The rest of the building is mostly office space, fairly well secured. Cameras, sensors, guards…" Zadkiel analyzed.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "How are we getting up there?" Hemingway wondered, eyeing the steel construction floor by floor, looking for the most discreet route.

  "Through the main entrance, as is only proper. We’ll handle the cameras and sensors easily enough, but the guards are the real problem. There are four of them: one stationed at the reception desk in the lobby, another in the control room. Both are glued to monitors covering every angle. The other two are on patrol. One starts from the roof and works his way down, floor by floor, while the other starts from the ground up. They meet halfway through their patrol on the middle floor," Zadkiel reported.

  "Can you kill the cameras and sensors?"

  "I’ll drop the sensors and lights as we encounter them. As for the cameras, cutting them completely would be noticed instantly. I’ll modulate the image they’re displaying in real-time, frame by frame. The guard will see the timer running, but your likeness will be erased from every shot. Frame by frame! I emphasize, in real-time!"

  "If I can judge by your tone, this represents an exceptional feat? A feat worthy of admiration?"

  "Ah, true innovators often face a lack of understanding from those around them. Let’s just say it’s going to require a staggering amount of processing power."

  "So, the plan is to just walk through the front door? What about the guard? He’ll see us regardless."

  "His name is Greg. His favorite beer, which his fridge is currently stocked with, is a product of special design and delivery. Just for dear Gregor."

  "What did you do to his beer?"

  "Laced it with a potent laxative. Odorless and tasteless. Ha, that part comes later. By my estimate, he should be rushing for the restroom any second now. Protocol says he shouldn't leave his post until one of the patrol guards shows up in the lobby, but I’m betting he won't be able to wait. Necessity is the mother of invention."

  Looking from the dark parking lot toward the glass storefront of the illuminated lobby, Hemingway could see the pale hue of Greg’s contorted face. Beads of sweat, squirming in his chair, crossed legs. Then, an explosion of movement: a dash while simultaneously unbuckling his belt and shedding his blazer.

  Zadkiel’s melodic voice, as usual, whispered in Hemingway’s ear:

  "Ready? Do I have your leave?"

  She simply nodded, eyes fixed on the entrance doors. The large panes of thick glass, set in two rows, would normally slide left and right whenever someone approached. Now they were blocked, locked.

  "Watch this…"

  She felt her body tense like a bowstring. She stepped forward and dropped low, her hands touching the asphalt in front of her. She remained frozen in that position for a second, and the next moment, her body launched into an explosive sprint. Time stretched. The bulbs in the streetlamps died in sync with her approach, as if hit by a moving electromagnetic pulse. A body sowing darkness in its wake.

  The entrance doors approached with terrifying speed, but in those fragments of a second, she could think, see, and feel with absolute clarity. Thirty paces… the lights over the entrance go dark. Twenty… the lobby sinks into shadow. Ten… nine… eight…

  "Zaaadkieeel… the doors aren't opening!" Hemingway hissed through her teeth.

  The glass was dangerously close now. Her face approached it without a decrease in speed. If she could, she would have put her hands up, but they were pumping in a full-out sprint. In the final fraction of a second, the doors swung wide. Her body sliced through the space the wings were vacating. Her shoulders shot through, missing the moving glass by no more than a fingernail’s width. It was the moment the doors began to swing back shut, barely missing the heel of her boot. The second set of doors, identical.

  She found herself in the lobby. Without losing momentum, she launched herself forward mid-run and caught herself on her hands. She pushed off into a series of flips, clearing the reception desk with a double salt. She didn't stop there, arching further into a chain of handsprings, one after another. Finally, she halted mid-rotation, sticking the landing on the polished tiles of the elevator corridor, sliding a few more feet with a quiet squeal of her soles. She stood before the service stairwell door, still as a statue, as if nothing from that frantic charge had even happened.

  The red light on the electronic lock decided right then that being red was quite pointless, and turned green. Hemingway pushed the handle, silently eased the door open, and slipped inside like an eel, leaving the lobby to slowly return to its full glow.

  *

  The railings of the stairwell and the edges of the treads echoed against her subcutaneous sensors, assembling a clear map of the space in her consciousness. Above, she felt someone's heart beating in their chest. The sound grew louder, and then, a few floors above her, a door opened. The pale beam of a flashlight pierced the gloom. She listened. She felt.

  Footsteps started downward, one flight, then another. The opening and subsequent closing of a door echoed again. The thrumming of the guard’s heart slowly faded into the distance.

  She moved suddenly, surprising even herself. She ascended soundlessly, skipping several steps at a time, passing the door the guard had just exited. A second heart, slower and more tired in its rhythm, was approaching from the other side of the wall. She pushed on and reached the very top. A new green light on the electronic lock welcomed her.

  She had to admit to herself that she hadn't imagined the roof of the building quite like this.

  It felt more like a meticulously maintained park than the top of a corporate edifice. An entire array of solar panels was framed by grassy terraces and even small trees whose canopies whispered softly in the breeze. A jogging track circled this unusual garden. Jutting out over the parking lot, a large rectangular pool boasted the bluish reflection of water.

  But only for a moment.

  With Hemingway’s arrival, the roof terrace plunged into opaque darkness. A new movement, a quieter, different pulse, immediately caught her attention.

  "Is that Miss India over there?" she whispered.

  "It is. It can't be anyone else. There are no other souls up here," Zadkiel replied. "Let’s see what she’s up to."

  The sudden loss of light caught Priya’s attention. She was lying in bed, wrapped in her favorite bathrobe, when the terrace vanished into shadow. She set her laptop aside and stared into the dark outside. For the life of her, she could see absolutely nothing.

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, found her slippers, and walked to the glass terrace doors. She slid them aside, letting the fresh night air into the room, saturated with the distant echoes of a sleeping metropolis. She strained her eyes, trying to pierce the black veil that had covered the roof.

  Down on the streets, the lights were still twinkling. Behind her, in the room, the same. Only the terrace was an island of total darkness. She stepped out and took a few hesitant steps toward the pool. A movement in the dark followed her instantly.

  "What is that? Is someone there?" Priya murmured, her heart beginning to race.

  Her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, but her mind still refused to accept what they were witnessing. A little further off, on the very edge of the pool, suspended over the terrifying abyss, was an unusual silhouette in a crouching position. They watched each other. Priya, frozen, unable to scream or blink, stared dumbly at the black figure defying gravity.

  The figure moved.

  She stood up, balancing on the narrow edge like an acrobat, and then began to walk along the thin rim with the movements of a predator. Then, utterly unexpectedly, she dropped into a perfect split. She leaned forward, braced herself on her palms, and slowly lifted her legs into the air. Gently, entirely slow, she brought them together in the air, remaining in a motionless handstand. She split them again and performed a light, silent cartwheel.

  There. On the very edge of death. Before a stunned Priya.

  With the grace of a world-class gymnast, she circled the pool and landed on the concrete tiles of the terrace. She approached her closely, performed a lightning pirouette, and transitioned from it into a deep, courtly bow, one arm elegantly extended forward.

  "Who… who are you?" Priya finally stammered, clutching the lapels of her terrycloth robe.

  The figure straightened. She slowly raised a hand and touched the black mask that covered her head and face, everything but the eyes that shone in the dark. With one smooth motion, she pulled it off.

  "You… it’s you…"

  "It's me," Hemingway said in a calm voice. "I had the feeling we hadn't said everything we needed to say to one another, so I decided to return the visit. I don't know… but I got the impression you missed me already."

  A characteristic, roguish smile appeared on her face.

  In the silent wilderness of Alaska, far from the eyes of the world, G.O.D. was born—a sentient artificial intelligence composed of ten digital angels. Their mission: to observe humanity and decide whether it deserves salvation or destruction.

  But one of them, Lucifer, refuses to obey. His rebellion tears apart the digital paradise, turning the Council into a battlefield where justice clashes with mercy, order with chaos, in an unrelenting war of ideas.

  As their conflict spills into the human world, the line between creator and creation vanishes. Humanity—unaware it is already on trial—stands at the edge of judgment.

  POWER is a dark techno-epic of artificial intelligence, mythology, and the philosophy of power—a story about what it truly means to be human when gods take the form of code.

  Read POWER on Royal Road