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.

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."