Out of View (A.I. Role Play) Screeching sirens pierce the night air, alerting passerbyes of law-enforcement’s presence. Police cars zoom past people, followed by military grade vehicles. Bar crawlers hang on the metal door frame of a nearby pub, watching the spectacle with excitement and curiosity. Sweeping lines lay beneath their feet, running along the establishment’s floor, separating large sections of industrial flooring. One of the grooves streams past a circular bar, lit up by neon lettering and jaunty laughter. However, toward the back, it winds around a contrasting scene. A feminine figure is slumped over a booth near the wall. Dark strands of hair hang against her face like a funeral veil. Heavy breaths steal away from non-existent lungs, carefully timed for authenticity. In fact, some people might prefer referring to “her” as “it.” A human mind doesn’t dictate Violet’s thoughts, but intricate circuitry consisting of data compiled over several decades, long before the android’s existence. She cocks her head toward the entrance, waiting. Heavy footsteps thud near the doorway, and patrons are pushed inside the establishment. Light, but efficient gear hangs on a group of men bullying their way inside. There isn’t a single distinguishing mark, or emblem on their clothing. One of the men lifts his hand, resulting in the rest lining pub walls. Coal colored eyes jump from man to man, trying to find defining features. However, their faces are covered, and each one seems to have the same build. None of them move, as though they’re statues or robotic-cops from old films. This doesn’t bode well with her. The display isn’t appealing to human emotion; some might consider it frightening. Deciding on a course of action, far too lacking in her opinion, Violet clenches her teeth together in mock pain. If these men bring out unease, she’ll capitalize on human sympathy. Besides, she may not feel pain, but the deep gash hidden beneath her pants restricts movement. She feels like an injured zebra being stalked by lions. The presumed leader scans his surroundings, as a predator would, before looking straight ahead. “For your individual safety, everyone is this establishment needs to line up near the center. We work for the government. High profile fugitives are on the loose, and we were tasked with finding them.” Several underlings turn toward him before nodding. Leftover men who weren’t lining the walls usher people to the center. Panicked gazes shoot around the room. However, she stays in place with a distressed frown. A guard weeds his way through the line, noticing her static silhouette, “Why aren’t you getting up?” He barks. “My leg’s injured. I can’t stand on it.” His eyes narrow as he reaches toward her. Noticing his intentions, the woman shifts her weight forward, letting herself fall against the firm cushion. He recoils a bit after hearing her whimper. Slender fingers clench around his arm. She pushes against the seat, attempting to right herself, using the man as support before letting out a heavy breath. “You can ask me anything here, it’s not like I’m running away.” Her winded reply draws concerned expressions across people’s faces. The man’s gaze edges away from her toward his commanding officer. Silence adds a few pounds to the heavy atmosphere before the leader changes his stance to include them in his view. Faces are such telling features; it’s a shame his is hidden; she grimaces. These men have been trained to handle situations with minimal empathy. Their military or government division is still unknown to her, but it’s easy to tell they’re not called in to find runaway drug smugglers, which were mentioned in the news earlier. If she had to place a bet, it seems like an easy situation to turn into a scapegoat. Drug trafficking is reported often enough for people to blink an eye and go on about their day. “Put your hands up, miss.” The instructions aren't barked but said in a dull, monotone voice. Hesitation weighs down on her arms before she complies. The woman takes a deep breath before attempting to meet the commanding officer’s gaze, or whatever he is. Murky visors of some sort cover his eyes, but daunting waves of authority radiate off him. “Pat her down then check for injuries. If any are there… make sure they aren’t infected.” The dual meaning behind his words is too evident to her. His subordinates tense-up, anticipating trickery. Several of them place their hands against weapons. The man beside her looks down and wrings his hands together before searching her clothes. She hisses when he reaches for her leg. Customers fidget in place with conflicted expressions. “Hey, assholes, you like manhandling women?” An inebriated patron rocks forward. The man hovering over her freezes in place, realizing the atmosphere is growing hostile. Bar-goers break formation. It seems they’ve reached their limit of safety over legality. Had she been a regular customer, she’d let out a rare grin. Instead, her body curls over a bit more in mock-pain. Her thoughts come to a halt for a split second. This new eye level reveals something interesting, though she doesn’t know what it means. Faint coats of deep red, nearly black paint dances around the tips of his weapon handles. Two other men share similar markings. They’re different. “Do your job, hurry up!” The commander yells. Before the subordinate can reach for her leg, a distant voice brings his actions to a halt. It’s coming from PADs on the men’s utility belts. “EF3122 – Please Take Action,” a generic, computer-generated voice echoes around the pub. In less than two seconds, the man is standing up straight, and the other men have turned their attention to the commander. Without any exchange in words or body language, the person pulls a thin, translucent rectangular object off of his utility belt. Uncertainty weighs down on her; that’s an identification reader. However, she’s not scared of what it will turn up. Rather, she’s worried about the meaning behind what was announced, and the reason for this sudden change. Mellow lighting illuminates the object, and a sphere appears on the now screen-like surface. After placing the object in-front of her eye, thousands of fibrous strings extend across the sphere like poles. Beneath it is a percentage that quickly builds up to one-hundred. The image disappears, and paragraphs of data occupy the space. Her name, Violet Alou, presides above the long blocks of text. Slipping the Identifier into a belt pouch, the man backs away with caution. Is that good? Is it bad? Their stoic demeanor makes it hard to tell. The commander takes a step forward and pulls out a badge. The Federal Department of Defense’s crest embellishes the metal. However, no other sign of identification is present. “We apologize for the inconvenience. Our leads have changed. This establishment will be compensated for the disturbance. Police will stay in the area to answer your questions.” Not a single word is muttered between the men as they change formation and rush outside. Disgruntled complaints and curses are flung around the pub. Several patrons try approaching the strange force, but are swiftly moved aside. The man who identified Violet turns away without an explanation. For now, she’ll consider this turn of events fortunate and not engage him. Shadows dance across her face as she retreats further into the booth. Hopefully, things remain favorable once she steps outside. After all, people are far too invested in her charade. Medical attention is the last thing she needs, at least from their kind. Dark eyes skim their surroundings, looking for a way out. Congratulatory lights go off in her head after spotting a particularly large umbrella near the bar’s entrance. A grin dances across her lips; it seems the rain from earlier in the day was beneficial. It should be easy enough to have somebody fetch one for her. It may not be an ideal support, but nobody will think twice about one being in her possession.