My punches are like missiles. Swift and solid. Each blow sends a slight rattle up my arm, but it never slows me down. By now, my knuckles are already raw. I could have worn boxing gloves, but I want to feel the leather burn and sting my skin. I need the pain to serve as a barrier between myself and anxiety, as a blindfold to discourage my eyes from peeking over the ledge and seeing how badly things might end if I were to lose my footing.

And right now, the only colour I see is red. Bright and bloody, as if someone had thrown a veil of fire over my eyes.

I'm not actually angry. I've only made myself mad to distract myself from what is yet to come. I find it far less off-putting to welcome those feelings of fury instead of fear.

But even though the flames roaring across my vision are forced and fabricated, they feel real. And behind the scorching blaze, there's a figure... a face. I cannot make out any distinct features, but I know they belong to a man. And for some reason, I know I should bare my teeth at him, that I'm supposed to direct all of my hits at this silhouette.

But how can you despise someone you seemingly never met?

"Sierra."

With a start, I spin on my heel, fist flying forward before I even register the other presence in the gym. I quickly catch myself, my curled fingers stopping within an inch of Simon's nose.

He lets out a shaky breath, the warmth of it brushing against my bruised knuckles.

I immediately drop my arm, sighing in relief.

Simon lowers his own hands, which he had raised up in defense—or in surrender. "Maybe I should start wearing a bell around my neck, like a cat. That way, you'll hear a little jingle whenever I approach and I might not end up losing all my teeth."

"Who says a warning will stop me from sending you to the dentist?" I flex my fingers for emphasis. "You can be my new sparring partner. The punching bag's getting boring."

Simon scoffs. "You wouldn't dare. I know you love my smile way too much to ruin it." He grins, underlining his smug statement with a sparkling slash of white.

It is a really nice smile—but I can't fuel his self-esteem any further without the risk of inflating that big head of his. "You've got something stuck between your teeth." I squint at his mouth. "It looks like a piece of delusion. You should have it cleaned out before you plan on auditioning for the leading role in any toothpaste commercials."

Simon only beams more brightly. "Quite a sharp tongue you have there." He doesn't miss a beat as he adds, "Maybe you can use it as a toothpick, since, according to your oddly attentive observations, I must have missed a spot."

My gaze sharpens into a glare and my hands roll back into tight fists, but before I can dislocate his jaw, he takes several steps back, already having predicted my next move.

"You better freshen up," he says. "The demo's in an hour."

"Great. That's just enough time for me to run and hide."

Simon rolls his eyes. "You'll be fine. It'll be over before you know it."

His words bring me no comfort whatsoever, but I force the limp corners of my lips to rise before exiting the gym.

↻↻↻↻↻↻

My restless gaze flicks towards the electronic clock mounted to the wall of EURIEKA's waiting room—10:43 A.M.

It's almost time. It's almost time.

I drag my focus away from the neon blue digits and onto the scenery beyond the large heptagonal window—confronting my vision with a blazing sun, its golden beams reflecting off more than thirty towers of polished glass that protrude from the concrete slabs and pierce the cerulean sky.

Below, a string of self-driving cars ease their way through the geometric streets of Cyber City. And on careful inspection, I notice a few MotorBots cutting through the automatic traffic, delivering packages to various customers. Those who are not enclosed in some sort of sophisticated vehicle are either traveling by foot or floating on gravity-resistant boards.

In the far distance, serving as the natural backdrop for this bustling setting, stretches a vast expanse of ocean. Yet, compared to the magnitude of my trepidation, it's nothing but a drop of denim.

As the countdown tapers off to zero, I can feel my stomach tightening around a fist of barbed wire; I can practically taste the sweat rolling down my spine and pooling into the small of my back. I've already chewed through six of my fingernails in less than five minutes. It's one of the few bad habits therapists haven't managed to carve out of my chromosomes. And as if trying to ease the tight springs of anxiety coiled around the bones in my leg, my right foot bounces against the white floor, the thick rubber sole of my sneaker rapidly tapping away at the tiles.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I wonder if Walter would allow me five extra minutes to lie down if I told him that I was feeling a little "under the weather".

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Perhaps he would postpone the whole freak show until next year.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

That's wishful thinking, I know. Besides, it's too late to chicken out at this point. I'm Project Neuro-Aid's first successful outcome. If I back out now, then I'll just disappoint the entire Sci-Tech community.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

But what if something goes horribly wrong?

Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptapta—

A hand on my knee jerks me out of my pessimistic thoughts. I look over to see Simon sitting beside me, his countenance drifting between amusement and concern.

"Your femur's like a basketball on steroids," he jokes. Leaning over, he pulls my hand away from my mouth. "Maybe you should try one of the VeggieBytes instead of feasting on your fingernails. Unless you're a bigger fan of pathogens than you are of proper food."

I ignore his stupid sarcasm. With wary eyes, I stare at the small platter of multi-coloured canapés resting on the low glass table in front of us. From what I have learned in numerous advertisements, a VeggieByte is a confusing combination of herbs, broccoli, spinach, carrots, lettuce, beetroot-you know, everything that a sane person would not classify as "proper food"—all compressed into this bite-sized cube. Basically, it's a miniature salad with four corners and six sides.

"It's actually really good," he comments, munching on an orange cube. The smile that appears on his face after he swallows is reassuring, but it isn't enough to stimulate my appetite. He offers me a glass of water instead.

I accept the beverage with quaking hands, attempting to silence the tremors that ripple through my muscles. Despite my best efforts, the rebellious liquid spills over the rim and onto my fingers and the front of my sweater.

In an instant, Simon shuffles closer to me on the couch, the length of his torso nearly pressed up against my upper arm. "Gosh, I never took you for someone who could get cold feet." He helps me to take a few generous sips by steadying the glass and gently tipping it forward.

His spontaneous gesture reminds me of a group of people from my past... the nurses back at the Ward—a bunch of benevolent ladies who worked in that awful place. I hate it there. No. I'm not supposed to remember any of that. As if detecting the error, the Neuro-Circuit expertly snuffs out the memory, like blowing out a disobedient candle.

I blink and back away from Simon once he starts dabbing at my hands and chin with a napkin. "That's enough, Simon. You don't have to treat me like a baby."

He stops, dropping his hand into his lap and turning away. "Sorry." Reluctantly, he retreats to his original spot on the couch.

I notice how he fiddles with his glasses, repeatedly adjusting their position against the bridge of his freckled nose, an obvious symptom of his embarrassment. Before I can place a hand on his shoulder and apologize for my thoughtless response, a tall man in his late thirties enters the room.

I immediately shoot out of my seat, even though I feel like curling up against the cushions and sinking into the soft fabric until the very next day.

After three long strides, Walter is standing right in front of me. He studies my expression, tilting his head to the side. "Nervous?"

My shoulders sag. "Is it that obvious?"

A smirk pinches the corner of his mouth. "Mostly. However—" he flashes his electronic wrist watch, a series of spikes and undulations scrolling across its small screen, displaying a visual summary of my hormonal discharge—"your Neuro-Circuit also alerted me of a high amount of CRH in your hypothalamus."

I scoff. "You're stalking my stress levels now?"

"Not only your stress levels. I also keep track of your heart rate, dopamine production, melatonin fluctuations—"

"Okay, okay. I get it. You're a creep."

A large milky smile nearly splits his face in half, his eyes crinkling at the corners like tissue paper. For a moment, it seems as though he's about to laugh, but then he unexpectedly clears his throat, rearranging his features so they fit the facial criteria of any esteemed member of the Sci-Tech affiliation; their expressions are always solemn, dignified and professional.

Walter places his heavy hands on my shoulders and fixes me with a pair of navy blue eyes. "Sierra," he begins, "remember to stay calm and focused. Your job is to personify my product, to bring it to life. Block out everything else around you—close your eyes if you must—just don't get distracted. You can do this."

I try to swallow past the desert that has materialized in my throat, past the arid fear that has crawled onto my tongue, hoping that peristalsis would force it back down into my stomach, where it would finally disintegrate in a pool of gastric acid. "You know I don't perform well under pressure," I remind him.

"Nonsense. This is the day and the moment we've been working towards. You've exercised your brain, you've mastered most of your mental abilities—there's nothing to worry about."

I want to protest. I want to tell him that he's absolutely wrong. I want him to cancel the entire demonstration because I have a feeling that something bad is going to happen. I have no basis for my premonition. After all, Walter is right. I have been practicing. I've expanded my skill set and familiarized myself with the chip and its numerous functions. There truly is no reason for me to believe that things would take a turn for the worse.

Just when I steal a glance at the clock, Walter's young female assistant, Lydia Herring, appears in the doorway, a clipboard buried beneath her left arm. "Dr. Steele, it's time."

Her brief announcement causes Walter to straighten his posture along with his white lab coat and purple tie. He gives me one last meaningful look before turning around and exiting the room, prompting me and Simon to follow suit.

But before I can step over the threshold, Simon pulls me back into EURIEKA's waiting room and spins me around. When he opens his mouth to speak, he drops his gaze.

"Sierra... I just wanted to tell you that... no matter what happens, just remember that misfortunes can sometimes lead to improvements."

He must've snuck a peek at my confused expression, because he starts to elucidate his strange aphorism. "I know it sounds stupid, but even algorithmic errors encourage developers to update their datasets or modify the instructions; software bugs remind us to rectify the inputs; security breaches trigger us to reinforce our defences. I guess what I'm trying to say is..." He looses a quiet breath. "Every black hat has its white brim; for every evil, there is a good."

A heavy silence unfurls beneath his wise statements like an elaborate red carpet. I don't quite know where all of this is coming from or how to interpret his words. At sea level, Simon sounded like a sweet and sincere sage. I'm too afraid to dip my eyes beneath the placid surface, however. I mean, why did he suddenly mention "misfortunes" and technological failures? Does he have the same concerns I had earlier, misgivings about Walter's mind-blowing invention? Is he trying to prepare me for the slightest possibility of an unanticipated malfunction so that I wouldn't get my hopes up too soon?

Stop it, Sierra. You're overthinking again.

Allaying the doubt that squeezed at my heart, I stretch my lips into a taut smile. "You have an interesting way of looking at things. A mature perspective. Hopefully, my views will grow to be as intelligent as yours."

"Don't sell yourself short, Sierra. You're clever. Sharp. Even without the Neuro-Circuit."

I almost snort. "You've got a sweet mouth, Simon."

His brow shoots up in surprise and so does mine.

"That came out the wrong way!" I begin to explain. "I was just referring to your abilit—"

"I know, I know," he reassures. And as if to liberate us both from the awkwardness that has permeated the air, he walks past me and into the corridor. "Come on. You've got a crowd to wow."

With a single nod of agreement, I follow him out the door and down the hallway.

[2277 words]