CHAPTER 7: BUTTERCUP

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/8229cb_84a4870732cd45b59c21b2aa3403d284/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Scott straightens slightly as Miles walks up to the door, the habit of a man who never quite lost his military posture. “New look, I see,” he says matter-of-factly.

Miles looks down at his clothing.

“Yeah, I just added a new custom set of persona overlays to my inventory,” he says. “Thought I’d take this one for a test drive.”

“You wear it well, sir,” Scott says sincerely. “You have a visitor, which I’m guessing is the reason for the unannounced visit. But fair warning, she didn’t seem too thrilled to be here. Want me to stay posted out here in case you need anything?”

“That won’t be necessary. This should just—”

Miles' vision blurs as his ears begin to ring.

At first it’s faint.

Then the sound spikes into a piercing whine that fills his skull.

His balance tilts.

For a split second it feels as if the floor has shifted under him.

His head throbs behind the eyes, pressure building like something trying to push its way out.

He stumbles, catching himself on the doorknob.

“Whoa! You alright there, boss?” Scott says, concern in his voice as he reaches out and grabs Miles by the arm before he can fall.

Then, just as quickly as it came on, it’s gone.

Miles steadies himself and straightens.

Confident and composed, he looks Scott in the face.

“I’m good, Scott, thanks. It’s been a day. I think I’m a little low on electrolytes.”

He gestures toward the door.

“The fridge stocked in there?”

Scott studies him for a moment, the concern in his face fading as he sees Miles standing steady again.

“Yes sir, Mr. Tanner. Fully stocked.” He hesitates. “You sure you don’t want me to hang around out here?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Miles answers. “I’ve known Ms. Martinez for most of my life. This should be a pretty civil chat… I hope.”

“Ten-four, bossman,” he adds with a grin as he relaxes.

“So… is she expecting you…”

He squints at the name tag.

“…or Rico?”

Miles flashes him a confident smile.

“Good catch, Scott. I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

Scott shrugs his shoulders playfully.

“Glad to be of service, Mr. Tanner. I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything.”

Scott gives Miles a nod and walks down the hallway toward the security bay.

Miles takes a deep breath, noting the smells drifting from the kitchen a few doors down. He counts to five and lets it out.

With his hand on the doorknob, Miles lifts his other wrist.

“Deactivate ANON.”

“ANON deactivated,” IRIS says in response.

The projection dissolves from his skin, evaporating like vapor. The tuxedo melts back into his tailored suit. The name tag vanishes.

For half a breath, he stands there staring at his own reflection in the dark window of the hallway door.

Just Miles.

Or something… close enough.

He hesitates for the smallest fraction of a second.

Then he twists the handle and pushes inside.

The room is warmer than the hallway. Not hot. Just enough to notice. The air smells faintly of brandy, leather, and citrus essential oil.

His senses are sharp.

Too sharp.

On the outside, his composure stays steady.

But on the inside…

Everything is… amplified.

He can feel his pulse pumping in his throat.

A dull pain sits just behind his eye sockets.

His ears ring as he struggles to lock in on any one sound.

First he hears his suit as it brushes against itself.

Each step louder than the next.

Then the hiss of a diffuser on the bookshelf catches his attention.

Next comes silverware on plates. Pans sliding across the stovetop in the kitchen beyond the wall.

He forces himself to tune it out as he continues across the room.

Sam sits at the table.

He avoids looking at her at first and takes in the room instead.

The artwork on the walls.

The water pitcher on the counter beside the refrigerator.

Next to the far wall, a thread has come loose on the edge of the rug. It trembles every time the ventilation kicks on. He debates whether he should find scissors and cut it, or let it be.

He focuses on anything that will postpone the inevitable exchange about to take place.

After exhausting all possible distractions, he finally looks at her.

And just as he fears, she looks back.

“Hey, Sam,” he says, voice steady.

She doesn’t respond.

“Thank you for coming.”

He aims for sincere.

It lands polished.

The hypnotic state of the transformation was built for negotiations. For boardrooms. For hostile interviews. It was designed to project steadiness and authority.

Not vulnerability.

Not… regret.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks quickly. “Coffee? Water?”

“Maybe something stronger?”

He smiles at his own joke.

Sam does not.

“Miles,” she says flatly, “what am I doing here?”

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes.

He hesitates, scanning for the safest response.

He comes up blank.

Why are the words not coming?

This usually feels so effortless.

He begins to feel a shift in his face and realizes his expression is giving way to his internal thoughts.

Something is wrong.

He glances down at IRIS and notices a strange yellow light blinking in a steady pattern.

Sam tilts her head.

“What’s the matter? You don’t have anything to say?” Her eyes flick briefly to his wrist. “Maybe I should be talking to your little watch instead.”

A burning pain flashes behind his eyes.

He winces slightly.

“Oh no. IRIS doesn’t speak for me,” he says too fast. “She just… helps.”

He can feel his composure slipping like tires on black ice.

The room tilts.

A wave passes through him. The calm slips for a fraction of a second.

Sam sees it.

“Miles?” She raises her eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

He straightens abruptly.

“I’m good.”

“You don’t look good.”

“I said I’m good.”

The sharpness surprises them both.

He swallows.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asks, quieter now.

She stares at him.

“Don’t you own the place?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess you can do what you want.”

He lowers himself into the chair.

The calm settles over him again. Familiar. Practiced.

She watches him closely.

“It’s weird,” she says.

“What is?”

“You don’t even blink the same anymore.”

He almost laughs, but it feels forced.

“I’m still me.”

She doesn’t respond to that.

He folds his hands under the table so she won’t see them tremble.

“Sam, I have to ask, today at my event… what was that all about? You seemed so angry with me.”

She glares back at him.

“And I guess I just want to understand why. So I invited you here because I wanted to talk face to face,” he says. “Not through statements. Not through the press. Just you and me having a conversation.”

“Miles, we haven’t spoken in decades. So what?— I embarrassed you today, and now all of a sudden, you want to have a little chat?

She looks at him confused.

So this is personal… now?”

“Sam, it’s me. It’s always going to be… personal. I mean—not personal, but… you know what I mean.”

He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a breath.

This isn’t going the way he pictured it back in the green room.

“My hope is that we can sit down, like two adults, and maybe find some common ground.”

She studies him. Searching.

“Look, Miles,” she finally says. “If I’m being completely transparent, I haven’t been super thrilled with you and…”

She gestures vaguely toward his wrist.

“…your NEURON Systems for quite some time. The factories, the data centers, the traffic, the way this place barely feels like the town we grew up in anymore.”

She glances around the room for a moment, taking in the polished wood and expensive fixtures.

“I’ve made my opinions about all that pretty public over the years. But it mostly fell on deaf ears.”

She shrugs slightly and leans back in her chair.

“So I just decided to live my life and focus on what I could control.”

Her gaze hardens.

“But what you revealed today… a system that decides things for people.”

She leans forward.

“Really, Miles? You think we should leave our fate in the hands of a machine?”

“I built a system that prevents chaos.”

“Miles, are you so blind that you can’t see the potential ramifications of what you’re creating? This goes beyond machine assistance. You’re letting a device run your life.”

She pauses.

“And for what? Because you’re afraid you might make a wrong decision?”

He looks down at his wrist.

“But hey, whatever. You do you. But releasing this to the public? How can you not see the negative implications?”

“I always knew you were going to do something great,” she continues. “I just didn’t think it would look like…”

She studies him.

“…like this.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Sam, I grew up watching everything fall apart. I thought if I could build something that predicted risk—something that reduced chaos—maybe I wouldn’t feel so…”

He trails off.

For a moment something real breaks through.

“…so powerless.”

It’s there.

Raw.

Honest.

These are his words.

He hesitates, trying to understand how they slipped through.

Then the trance tightens again.

The steady confidence returns.

“It required capital,” he continues, his voice smoothing. “Taking it to market changed things. To keep building we had to diversify. Once investors came in, the scale increased. The larger we became, the less control I had. The board drives most of the economic decisions now.”

She watches him carefully.

“So it’s their fault?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It sounds like it.”

He exhales.

His heart begins to race.

He breathes methodically, bringing his heart rate back down.

“You used to fix broken radios,” she says softly.

The shift catches him off guard.

“What?”

“Radios. Old TVs people left on the curb. You’d drag them home, take them apart just to see how they worked.”

He looks at the table.

“You built a prosthetic leg for Mrs. Johnson’s dog. Buttercup. You remember that?”

He blinks.

“I remember.”

He lifts his head and meets her eyes.

“I’ll never forget it,” she says. “I watched that dog run for the first time in three years. You didn’t do it for attention. You didn’t do it for money. You just couldn’t stand seeing something broken.”

“Sam,” he says with sincerity in his voice, “I never planned for it to become this. I just wanted to build something that made the world harder to break.”

“That decides what risks are acceptable?”

“That prevents disaster.”

She shakes her head slowly.

“Or maybe it just keeps you from having to make the hard choices yourself.”

He’s at a loss for words. But he can’t look away from her.

They just stare at each other under the quiet hum of the overhead HVAC system.

The next wave comes on fast.

His vision narrows.

It feels like a lightning strike in his brain.

His pupils dilate.

His stomach turns as vertigo hits him like a Mack Truck.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

His mind screams for it to stop…

and then the composure drops completely.

He is fully there.

No buffer.

No smoothing.

Just… Miles, raw and exposed.

He braces, waiting for it to slam back into place.

But nothing happens.

The calm doesn’t return.

The tight, controlled stillness he has relied on, simply isn’t there.

He looks down.

IRIS glows faintly red against his wrist.

For a moment he just stares at it.

Then he understands.

She shut it off.

Not a malfunction.

Not instability.

A safety measure.

His throat goes dry.

The room suddenly feels heavier.

The air thickens.

He becomes painfully aware of his own breathing.

It all crashes in at once.

Across the table, Sam shifts in her chair.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies him.

“You okay?” she asks.

He nods once, though he isn’t sure the motion looks convincing.

“I’m fine.”

She’s not buying it.

He clears his throat, forcing his posture upright.

“Just a headache,” he mutters. “Long day.”

For a moment neither of them speak.

She studies him carefully.

Whatever she was about to say seems to die on her lips.

Her gaze drifts across the table, then back to his face.

“Tomorrow,” she says, changing direction. “I know what tomorrow is.”

His expression freezes.

“She was an amazing woman, Miles,” Sam says. “Everyone knew how lucky you were to have her as your mom. There hasn’t been a May 23rd that I haven’t thought about her.”

She pauses.

“Not just because we lost her… but because we lost you too.”

“Don’t,” he says, turning his head away.

“If she were here right now, do you think she’d be proud?”

“Don’t talk about her,” he snaps, whipping his gaze back to her, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she says quietly. “I’m trying to reach you.”

She hesitates briefly.

Miles quickly wipes his eyes.

“You remember that Friday night at the creek? Right before—”

She stops herself abruptly, and takes a small breath.

“…well, before you left.”

His shoulders stiffen.

Sam exhales quietly.

“Sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

They both sit in silence.

“I didn’t leave,” Miles says finally.

His voice low.

“They took me away.”

Sam nods.

“I know that. And I know you had no choice. But you never wrote us. Never called. We just wanted to know if you were ok. We mourned as if you were gone for good. And then you just showed up twenty years later and still didn’t even come to see us. We were your best friends.”

The room goes quiet again.

It feels smaller somehow.

“You know, Jonathan never stopped talking about you,” she says after a moment.

Miles looks up.

“He followed everything,” she continues. “Every interview. Every article. Every announcement you made.”

Her voice softens.

“He always said people had you wrong.”

Miles doesn’t move.

“Even when I told him what you were building scared me,” she says, “he still believed there had to be a reason for the things you were doing.”

She swallows.

“He saw the good in you. Right up until the end.”

Miles exhales slowly.

“Jonathan was always loyal,” he says.

The words sound almost fond.

Then he adds quietly, “But we both know he wasn’t supposed to stay here. And neither were you.”

Sam’s expression tightens.

“We were kids,” she says.

“We had a plan,” Miles replies. “Get out. See the world. Build something bigger than this town.”

He gestures vaguely toward the city outside.

“I did.”

Sam stares at him.

“Jonathan stayed,” Miles continues. “He chose this place.”

Sam’s eyes harden.

“You really believe that?” she asks.

Miles doesn’t answer.

Part of him knows that isn’t the truth.

“Jonathan joined the department because his dad needed him… and because he wanted to protect people.” she says.

Her voice trembles now.

“He stayed because someone had to.”

Her eyes lock on his.

“And he died policing a city that didn’t exist before you built it.”

The shift in Miles is sudden and defensive.

“Oh give me a break, Sam!” The words come out vicious.

“People were dying here long before I changed anything. At least now there’s a future worth fighting for.”

He leans forward.

“And you’re still chasing ghosts for a dying newspaper, writing stories nobody reads about a town that doesn’t exist anymore.”

The second the words leave him, he wishes he could take them all back.

They hang in the air.

She goes quiet.

Very quiet.

Her eyes glare at him.

After a moment she stands and doesn’t say a word.

She pushes past him, and walks toward the door.

He doesn’t stop her.

“You built a system to predict and avoid consequences…” she says as she reaches for the door.”... but you never learned how to face them like the rest of us.”

She turns the handle, glancing back at him.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

The door clicks shut.

He listens to her footsteps fade and stares at the door for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, he looks down at IRIS. The display has returned to its normal glow.

Of course it has.

He replays every word.

Every mistake.

His hands tighten at his sides.

He has to force himself not to smash something.

Not to rip the room apart just to release the pressure building in his chest.

“IRIS,” he says as he stands.

The word comes out ice cold.

“Yes, Miles?” the familiar voice replies.

He exhales.

Hard.

“Pull the car around.”