Sometimes we can't help but love the things that hate us.
Imre Void heard the protesters from the twelfth floor of Void Inc.'s headquarters. Today's selection appeared to be of the religious nutcase variety decrying his company's "realistic sexual androids."
Crimes against God. Crimes against nature. Positively "demonic" and infinitely more fascinating than the report on his desk.
He walked along the window, watching them shout, his gaze passing over their dumpy clothing and homemade signs. Then he glimpsed a girl in the back.
She was young with dusky skin and starburst hair, her face torn between fury and amusement as she showed her friend how to make an oil cocktail. A small explosive.
"That's new," muttered Void.
Millions of microscopic cameras covered the surface of his building, so when she hurled the bottle, security guards were already rushing outside as it smashed against the skyscraper.
He watched as the protesters fled, security shoving them to the ground as police sirens wailed, and he watched as the girl slipped between their hands, vanishing into a tourist group. She ran with her skirts in her hand, her back ramrod straight, and her eyes blazing with an old woman's ferocity. Something familiar.
She was the only one they didn't catch, but Imre didn't mind. He had pictures of her face from a million angles.
It was child's play to find out her name: