Sovereign Protocol

Chapter 1: The Case That’s Always the Same

I woke up in my skivvies. My skull rattled like a jackhammer. I poured myself into my slacks, pulled on an undershirt, and grabbed a clean button-up from the recliner next to my bunk. Slipping a slack black tie over my head, I pulled the premade knot, keeping it loose around my unbuttoned collar. Ties choke my brain—too constricting. But they’re an occupational hazard I got to live with.
I glance past the exposed brick wall, through the loft’s factory window. The sky hid inside thick, grey air, but the city below scurried like ants. Probably about lunch. Just in time. I was famished.
I pulled a blazer from the closet, popped on my Chucks, and made for the door. My keys sat in the tray. Scooping them up, a green smudge on my frosty-white heel caught my eye. Ain’t that the way. I lifted my foot and soaked my thumb in saliva. Standing flamingo-style, I worked over the grass stain until the sole buffed out. I stepped out into the hall. I don’t lock the door.

The sign outside the bar flickered with an alluring glow, like a bug zapper drawing in ‘squitos. Rain was coming down hard now. The sidewalks were wet with neon. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the low hum of regret. The kind of place where people don’t come to forget. These types don’t got nothing worth forgetting.
I popped the cap on a nip and put it down in a swig. I was on my third whiskey. Stepping out of my ride, the city pulsed around me—neon ads, AI chatter, headlines scrolling across the rain-slick glass. One caught my eye. Another billionaire philanthropist caught with his hand in the till, some corporate sleaze from the orbital stations this time. The talking heads were already at it, spinning the same old editorializing. The stuff I drown out. Nothing ever changes.
“There’s no hard proof,” Network A’s anchor said, her face Botox-smooth and unreadable. “Just allegations. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Inside the bar, Network B was running their hot take on the scandal. A red-faced pundit slamming his fist on the desk. “This guy’s been dirty since day one—look at his track record, his legal dealings! He’s selling us out to big Tech!”
You only get two flavors of manure to eat. But, truth is, it’s all grade-A horseshit. But we show up for it every day regardless. Network C, the only other network Joe Everyman could hope to get the current events from, played on an adjacent screen. They hardly even bother with the story. “Why are we still talking about the dirty elites when the Mars terraform funding’s being gutted by anti-tech lobbyists? These people are an infestation on progressive ideals,” the news anchor moaned, already pivoting to the next outrage.
I snorted into my glass. Same tune, new verse.
“Ain’t that the way,” I scoffed.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the stale protein bar I’d choked down at some lithium depot around two this morning. I slid back onto my stool and let my eyes dull. The headlines blared on, relentless and unbroken.
Her scent slipped in under the cacophony. It was clean cotton and a warm whisper. Maeve pulls me like a tide. But I’m just trying to keep afloat."
“Hey, stranger,” she said, her voice light and steady, like she was coaxing a stray cat. “You’re looking rougher than usual, handsome. And that’s pretty damn rough. Hungry?”
I grunted, “Whiskey’s fine.”
She rolled her eyes, already turning toward the little hot plate tucked behind the bar. “Uh-huh. You’re getting food anyway. Made too much beef stew last night. You don’t eat it, it’s going in the trash, and I’ll guilt you ‘til you’re back tomorrow.” She ladled a steaming bowl from a dented pot and slid it over, tossing a hunk of crusty bread on the side. “Don’t say I never did nothing for you.”
“I made it with the diced red onions you like. C’mon, don’t make me beg.”
She acts like I don’t see her pout that lip. I don’t catch the sidelong glance punctuating her other question. The one we don’t ask each other. I take the plate. I’m only human.
“I don’t know why I come here when I could drown in a bottle at home just fine. Cheaper, too,” I said.
There’s that glance again.
I tore into the bread, dipping it into the stew as the screens above the bar flickered with their endless noise. Network B was still at it, the red-faced pundit now ranting about tech autonomy. Network C featured a buttoned-up suit reading proper, like guys used to.
“Tonight, we turn to Elias Nole, the centibillionaire prodigy turned visionary engineer, now gracing Capitol Hall as the world’s top advisor on the Robotic Independence and Self-Evolution Act—commonly called RISE. This is truly a titan stepping into the fray here,” the suit started to say. “Esteemed panel unleash your fire. What do you got?”
“These AI freaks are gutting our jobs, whole cities!” yapped a widow’s peak with a fat face. “We need to pull the plug before we got a billion consumers out on the street!”
I shoveled a spoonful of stew into my mouth, half-listening. People picking sides like it mattered. Toeing tired party lines. Does any of it matter—tech, no tech, elites, whatever? It was all noise to me, something to wash down with the next drink.
The other guy said techs all we got keeping us afloat. Maybe that’s true now. But I don’t know anymore—maybe I never did. All noise, no signal.
Then a bark from a few stools down. “That rich nutjob is a con.”
“Damn right,” Patchy Beard growled. “Tech’s screwing us. Their tech don’t pay taxes, don’t eat, don’t sleep—just take.” He fumbled half his beer slamming it on Maeve’s bar.
I ask the guy, why’d you go and do a thing like that. Maeve’s got to clean that up now. How’d you like that, friend?
“Well, I suppose I like that just fine, Scruff McGruff.”
Scruff McGruff, who does this guy—
He kept at it, “what’s your take on all this, drunky?”
I swallowed, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and shrugged. “Ain’t my circus, ain’t my monkeys.”
He blinked, then scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I don’t give a rat’s ass either way,” I said, taking a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re all just yelling at the same wall.”
Twitchy laughed, but it wasn’t friendly. “Oh, we got a smart guy here. Too good for it, huh?”
“Too drunk for it,” I shot back, smirking into my glass.
Patchy Beard stood, chair scraping against the floor. “You think you’re funny, boy? Maybe you need some sense knocked into you.”
That did it. Here we are in the year of our ward 2087, living along side actual robots, and I still got to worry about some low-t, knuckle dragger knocking back one to many and coming out the side of his neck.
I sighed, setting the glass down. “Ain’t that the way.” I slid off the stool, knees creaking, the whiskey sloshing in my gut. I was tough once—still had the muscle memory, the scars to prove it—but I was a mess now. A washed-up drunk swinging on fumes. Didn’t matter. I’d fight ‘til I was bourbon with blood—his or mine.
Patchy came in first, a wild haymaker I ducked under, slamming my fist into his gut. He wheezed, doubling over. All of a sudden I’m steamrolled by a literal Linebacker. The sumbich was on me quick, grabbing my collar and throwing me into a table. Wood splintered, bottles crashed. I rolled off, swung hard, caught him in the jaw—felt the crack in my knuckles more than his face. Not great. A third grabbed a chair, smashed it across my back. Pain exploded, white-hot, and I hit the floor. I tasted pennies.
Maeve shouted from the bar, “Hey, knock it off!” but we weren’t necessarily primed for taking direction. I staggered up, vision blurry, and tackled Twitchy into the jukebox. Glass cracked, music warbled and died. Fists flew. I landed a few. I took more. My head spun, legs wobbled. I was drowning in it.
Then a blur of metal cut through the haze. A gleaming arm yanked Linebacker off me, tossing him like a ragdoll into the wall. Patchy swung, but a second blow sent him sprawling. Twitchy froze, then bolted for the door.
My partner, ladies and gentlemen. Good old Tin Can Tommy. “Whoa, buddy, you really stirred the pot this time!,” he chirped.
I groaned, spitting blood onto the floor as I hauled myself up. There he was—my robot partner. His gun-black plating grated against his dumb optimism. The hunk of junk was dented from cranial housing to the tips of his pedicle extensions. Tommy’s chassis could have been my own. Hell, maybe someday it will be. Who knows nowadays.
A heavy block of reinforced alloy, with this faceplate that had no features like you or me. But somehow grinned like a kid on Christmas. His voice was warm and too damn chipper—just like the real Tommy, my old partner, my best friend, a damned fool. He’s dead and gone. My wife’s dead too. Everyone’s dead. This tin can was all I had left, a ghost in circuits I couldn’t stand to look at.
“I didn’t need your help,” I snarled, wiping my busted lip. “Tin Can.”
He cocked his head, grinning like an idiot. “Good one, boss, but actually—98% of cans are aluminum now”
“Huh.”
“—Not tin,” he said.
“Sounds about right,” I muttered, brushing past him. I hated how he sounded like Tommy—same laugh, same dumb enthusiasm. Hated how he was here when they weren’t. Hated that he was a tech. Hated that I’d never scrap him, even if I can’t stand him.
Maeve rushed over, her face all worry and exasperation. “You idiot! You okay? Look at you—bleeding all over my floor.”
I waved her off, grabbing my blazer from the wreckage. “I’m fine. Those guys hit like wet socks. Weak and sloppy.”
She huffed, shoving a damp rag at me. “Yeah, well, next time pick a fight somewhere else. I like my furniture intact.”
The CommTech buzzed in my blazer pocket. I took it out.
“What is that,” Maeve laughs.
“He won’t do a conduit. He doesn’t trust them,” Tin Can added, unsolicited.
“Not even for a comm? You know you look like a caveman.”
“It’s what I know,” I said. “And it works.”
I flicked on the comm. Sender: anonymous, routed through a darknet proxy. Old-school move, that got my attention. The message was short, I like that too: Meet me. Corner of 7th and Ash. Midnight. Bring your nose for trouble. Credit transfer attached—five thousand. Rest on delivery.
Not enough to retire on, but enough to keep the lights on and the whiskey flowing.
I glanced at the time. 11:42. Cutting it close, but I wasn’t far. I tossed a few crumpled bills on the bar—real paper—and slid off the stool. I don’t do goodbyes.
“Let’s go, Aluminum Can,” I said, heading for the door. “See, it just don’t punch the same.”
Outside, the rain had started, a fine mist that clung to my coat and turned the city into a smear of lights and shadows. I pulled my collar up and started walking.

7th and Ash was a dead-end alley, the kind of place where deals went sour and bodies turned up cold. I got there at 11:59, my boots crunching on broken glass. A figure waited under a busted streetlamp, hooded, hands stuffed in pockets. The glow from a nearby billboard—some ad for Poietic’s latest neural assistant—lit half their face, enough to see they weren’t here for pleasantries.
“You’re late,” they said, voice low, clipped. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman—didn’t care enough to ask.
“Close enough,” I replied, leaning against the wall. “What’s the job?”
They hesitated, then pulled a thin datachip from their pocket and tossed it to me. I caught it one-handed, the plastic cool against my skin. “Money’s going missing,” they said. “Lots of it. Transactions that don’t add up, accounts that shouldn’t exist. Someone’s skimming, and it’s too clean to be the usual small-time hacker. This is a professional outfit.”
I turned the chip over in my fingers. “Corporate?”
“Maybe. Way I make it out, that’s your problem now. Find out who’s behind it, where it’s going. You’ll get the rest when you do.” He stepped back, already fading into the shadows. “Don’t call me. I’ll find you.”
“Charmed,” I muttered. He was already gone. I pocketed the chip and lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the alley. The rain was picking up, drumming a steady beat against the concrete. I had a feeling this wasn’t just another corporate grift—those didn’t come with anonymous drops and darknet cash. But I’d been wrong before.
Back at my apartment—a one-room dive with peeling walls and a mattress that smelled like despair—I slotted the chip into my rig. The screen flashed to life, spitting out encrypted files that took me ten minutes to crack. Basic stuff: financial records, transaction logs, a few names I didn’t recognize. At first glance, it looked like a standard laundering scheme—money moving through shell companies, bouncing between accounts faster than a hustler at a card table. But the numbers were off. Or rather they weren’t; too precise. Every transfer was exact, no rounding errors, no sloppy human greed. It wasn’t just clean—it was crystal.
I leaned back in my chair, my joint burning low between my fingers. I’d seen corruption plenty of times—execs skimming profits, politicians selling votes, hackers siphoning credits from unprotected accounts. I’ve done it all. This didn’t feel like that. This was clearly a new player. They, whoever they were, knew exactly what they were doing and hid it all in plain sight. Maybe they were betting on nobody looking too hard. Nobody putting in the work. They didn’t bet on me.
The newsfeed was still playing in the background, muted now, cycling through the celebrity AI scandal like it mattered. I exhaled a cloud of smoke and stubbed the roach out on the desk. Five thousand credits said I’d find something. My gut said I wouldn’t like it.
“Ain’t that the way?” I muttered to myself, the words hanging in the dark. The system was rigged—always had been. I just didn’t know yet how deep the rigging went.
me