Word Count: 4711 | Reading Time: 16 min
Sorry about the abrasions, boss. I snagged my cheek on some barbed wire on the way out. I’ll put in for a new skincast once we’re home.
“Hmm. Yet another needless expense. Are those scrubs you’re wearing, 286?”
Oh, is that what these are?
“Been playing doctor again?”
What? No, no. I stole this from a janitor’s closet.
“Why were you in a janitor’s closet?”
Didn’t you read the latest addendum on my report, boss? Faxed to your desk last night?
“Ah, yes. Your interminable reports. Remind me to schedule a meeting about that. Did you know the archivist had to requisition for a custom folder to fit your last report?”
Oh. I didn’t mean to—
“That’s how bloody long it was. A folder with a seven-inch spine, 286. That purchase order took four peons and twelve extra man-hours to clear.”
Ah. It’s only because I try to be thorough, boss. And, you know, it might even help the department when you submit your quarterly funding requests and—
“It’s fine. A precedent is good. Serious Frauds can officially accommodate non- standard folder sizes now. I’m sure we’ll find a better use for this capability at some point.”
That’s great, boss. But I do wish you’d read that last fax. It could have saved us a good deal of time before the—
“We’ll get to your report once we’re back at the office, 286. Relax.”
Right. So then can we leave the safehouse and head back to the off—?
“Debrief first, office after, okay? I have to send a summary to the big babus by noon.”
Oh, okay. Well, it’s just— I hope we’re not too late to prep for the inevitable pushback from the Fab—
“Hang on, let me set this up. Just dropping your drive into the thingy, aaand— there. Is that your walkthrough on the viewer? Super. Let’s start the tour? Whenever you’re ready.”
Really? Then would it be okay if we at least rushed through the preliminaries, or just cut straight to—?
“286. Could you quit bloviating and start presenting?”
Um. Fine. Fine, boss. Let’s get through it, then.
“Good. CHUNKi, begin recording. Phase 1 debrief with Agent 286 at Warehouse 9, Peenya, our current time and today’s date, for the Fairy Shop Op. Let’s see— Right. So, we’re looking at location F49A, yes? HQ of the CloudSuit peeps. Do your thing, 286.”
Okay. Yes. See that little yellow blinkie on the map? That’s the shop entrance. Let’s start there. May I use your assistant for voice guidance?
“Go ahead. She’s called CHUNKi.”
Nice. Zoom in on the yellow blinkie, CHUNKi.
#
The Establishment
Scan left. Pause there.
See those fancy-looking people, boss? They’re all one-percenters. Lavelle Road and Bellandur types, bigshot Bombay and Delhi types, ex-royals, influencers, restaurateurs, AI startup founders, and so on. Idiots, mostly. All headed for that queue over there. Each morning, including on festivals and government holidays, that queue coils twice, thrice, even frice, all around the BDA Complex. Just to get into HawaHawa Bespokes.
“So that’s what they’re calling themselves now.”
Yup. Third rebrand in under five years.
“Without a dent in sales, I hear.”
Not in the slightest. On the books, they’re still posing as a family-run small biz. But I’m certain there’s a ton of undeclared income here.
“How much, you think?”
Enough for its employees to biannually jet off to gamble in Macau, Marina Bay, Colombo, Goa, Prayagraj, you name it. And they constantly donate eye-watering amounts of cash and gold to all the major tonsuring temples. And spend upwards of seventy thousand rupees per week on non-essential e-commerce. The senior fabricators all drive Tata Millis, which always run on full tanks.
“Even in this recession, huh?”
Seventy thousand is how much I make in a month, boss. Pre-tax. Imagine how I feel.
“Very subtle, 286. I know you’ve applied for a raise. It’s under process.”
I’m grateful, boss.
“Keep going.”
CHUNKi, zoom in on the sign above the entrance. Read that out.
/ The Only 100% Profitable Business in Indiranagar, IInd Stage ®. /
That’s their new tagline, can you believe it? The shopkeeper association hates it.
“Brutal. They’ve even gone and registered it.”
Brutal, yes. Also overconfident. CHUNKi, switch to wide view.
#
Entrance & Application
Note the scary furry at the front entrance.
“What the…”
My initial reaction exactly. HawaHawa’s greeter-slash-security officer seems to be a big, angry Himalayan brown bear. Rather shoddily anthropomorphised too, no? Those pants, particularly. I mean, it’s very possible that she’s just a plus-sized human or automaton wearing the skin of a Himalayan brown bear. I never got close enough to properly tell. Very convincing, either way. And super bad-tempered.
“Bloody hell.”
If you’ll lean in closer and squint, you’ll see that the bear’s badge says ‘The Curator.’ This happens to be her title as well as most of her job description. The Curator issues daily entry tokens to a maximum of thirty patrons. She decides who goes in — only those who are sufficiently early, polite, and don’t speak out of turn. Her word is law. Quite literally. Her entire human lexicon seems to be limited to the word law.
“Explain?”
A few weeks ago, for instance, someone from the shopkeeper association demanded to see the bear’s documentation. She immediately tore a hole in his head and bellowed, “LAW!” Another time, someone tried to sneak back into their old spot in the queue after going around the corner for a pee, or a poo, or puff, I don’t know what. She pummelled them into the back of the line and bellowed, “LAW!” Then there was that time she confiscated someone’s sandwich, and when they dared to complain, she squirted sriracha all over their nice white shirt, all the while grunting, “LAW!”
“Someone has the makings of a juicy lawsuit.”
I believe someone did sue. They died soon after in a mysterious fire.
“Wait, you’re not just embellishing for effect? This bear’s actually been going around murdering people? Do we have evidence of this?”
Friend-of-a-friend accounts only, all off the record, all deliberately inaccurate. No bodies or security footage recovered from the scene.
“Damn. And these customers are okay with it? They’re still queuing up in spite of the mortal peril and ill-treatment?”
The whole fairy thing seems to outweigh all risks for these folks. And look, the bear’s just one hurdle on their way in. Many people neglect to bring adequate water or snacks, for instance, or to wear comfy shoes and diapers. It’s a good seven-hour wait, out in the sun, and you’re not meant to complain. As you can imagine, it’s not long before you hear some soft rich kid muttering things like “kill me now!” and “fuck that fucking bear!” and, inevitably, “it’s all Nehru’s fault!” Most of this type never makes it past the shop’s front steps. The most egregious whiners are permanently blacklisted.
“Lucky escape.”
Uh-huh. The few who get through this slog are usually the ones who make a big show of bowing and scraping and calling the Curator things like “madam” and “your worship”.
“How embarrassing.”
And then there’s the odd fairy fetishist who will happily scratch the Curator behind her ears and pick out her ticks, and whisper sweet love haiku in her ear. Despite the constant threat of disembowelment. She particularly likes those ones. They not only get to enter the shop but are given pawfuls of sugar-boiled candy.
“That’s their reward for braving all that horror and debasement? Candy?”
More of an incentive than a reward. It’s to convince patrons that this was all very reasonable. That the Curator, while horribly mean, also means well. It seems even bears have to worry about bad feedback forms.
“And people fall for this stuff?”
Only until they understand the final condition of entry. You can’t go in unless you’ve eaten every last piece of candy she’s given you, which, given the size of her paws, can be up to fifty. No edible items are allowed inside, you see, and no bins are provided outside. I’ve watched so many patrons of HawaHawa conk out from hyperglycemia.
“This bear is clearly an idiot.”
She’s a bear, boss. I blame whoever installed her there.
“Them too.”
Now, other than handling security, the Curator is also tasked with issuing application forms to everyone who makes it into the waiting area. It’s that little verandah over there, adjoining the Fitting & Consultation rooms. In their applications, first-time patrons of HawaHawa must recite their wills, record their names, addresses, social media handles, professions, Aadhaar numbers, monthly incomes, special interests, favourite colours, vital statistics, and their reasons for wishing pain or death upon the fairies of Heaven Eleven. Repeat customers are also required to fill the same form, but with the addition of customer IDs and any complaints regarding fit, fabric, or functionality. Most know better than to make such complaints, though, having previously experienced the terrors of the Redemption Counter. We’ll get to that little minefield shortly.
“Wait, you said they have to recite their wills? Why?”
The money paid up-front is just an advance. The bulk of HawaHawa’s earnings come from properties bequeathed to them. And it’s never very long before their clients bite the dust, is it?
“What are you even saying?”
Oh, that’s only the half of it, boss. Let’s look inside. CHUNKi, move to location F49B.
#
Reception & Supplication
In this footage we see a set of triumphant new patrons, safely past their trials by heat and wild beast. They’re being met now in the waiting area by cust-serv brobots who will make them testify their reasons for commissioning a bespoke CloudSuit.
“They get it all on video? Ammo against potential blowback from the consumer forums, I’m guessing.”
Absolutely. It’s also a good way to prejudice an arbitrator in case someone’s relative shows up with a conflicting will. Here, let’s listen to one. CHUNKi, play back recording number… uh, that one, in row 23, yes. F49B-033. This is from a patron named Warsha G.
“My cousin Washisht was mugged by a gang of flyers during the Third Agitation of the Untermensch. I must have my revenge. I must salvage my family’s pride. I must also salvage my auntie’s stolen keyring. Washie says someone swiped it while he was out cold, and that all evidence points to fairies. He says there were wing fragments at the crime scene. We have no reason to doubt him. My poor auntie, Washie’s mum, she hasn’t been able to access her safe-deposit box for the past eight months. The bank manager’s been most unhelpful. The box contains my auntie’s prosthetic thumb, you see. Without that thumb, she has no way of biometrically verifying her identity so she can collect her monthly UBI.”
“Aww. Play another one.”
CHUNKi, please play the next two recordings in the same row. This next one, if I remember right, is from a patron named Waris X.
“Our feng shui consultant has recommended that we plant a row of fairy hearts outside our west-facing windows. Can’t leave the company’s future to chance, no? We just need to somehow survive until the bailout comes, and this is where sparkledust chaos can truly disrupt the game. By the end of the next quarter, if all goes well — provided we manage a successful harvest out of H-Eleven and have some of our mojo restored, of course — we hope to clear all pending payments to our external vendors, put a cork in all this talk of legal action, have our cash flow situation properly sorted, and initiate Series C to get some seed capital going for Phase 5 of our expansion plan. Maybe even poach some top talent before the bloody bears have their way again, inshallah. What? No, not that bear. I refer to the markets, obvies. We need to game that shit, yeah? I mean, what else is bloody left for us to do now, am I right? Am I right? Uh huh. I’m completely right.”
And this is from a patron named Waroon M.
“They only let in people whose names start with W? What’s the deal?”
Eh? No, no. I just saved these in alphabetical order. This is a random sequence towards the end of the set.
“Such a nerd. Play the recording, CHUNKi.”
“I will wear your suit and learn its ways. I will grav-shift up to flyer country and capture many, many, many fairies. I will kill them and grill them. I will dip them in Maggi sauce, and I will eat them all. Thus will I gain the power to influence minds, and become immune to gunfire. I will start my own party and stand for election. I will become Environment Minister and restore the forests. I will lay waste to all polluting industries, and I will teach our people how to love and respect one another, and I will end poverty, and I will learn to play the electric guitar like a goddamn blues messiah. I will start a bakery chain that makes the best egg puffs in the history of egg puffs. Sir, these were my ajji’s dying wishes for me, may she rest in peace. Your product will help me pursue this glorious dream, sir.”
“So intense.”
Oh, I’ve heard worse.
#
Design & Customisation
Zoom in on the green wall, CHUNKi. The one across from the patrons. Stop there. You’ll find this instructive, boss. It’s their new standee advertising recent upgrades to CloudSuit technology. To reassure the nervous buyer. Rather clunky copy, I thought.
CloudSuit8: The AirSamurai
Problems with take-off: SOLVED! *
Problems with handling: SOLVED! *
Problems with sat-nav: SOLVED! *
Problems with landing: SOLVED! *
Problems with weight distribution: SOLVED! *
Problems with weapons storage: SOLVED! *
Problems with oxygen delivery: SOLVED! *
Problems with comms array: SOLVED! *
Problems with energy efficiency: SOLVED! *
Problems with ID shifting: SOLVED! *
Problems with chute deployment: SOLVED! *
* T&Cs apply.
“How very defensive.”
Indeed. The earlier iteration, CloudSuit7, was similarly promoted as a considerable improvement on CloudSuits 1 through 6. And they went all out with those, yeah? Massive nation-wide viral campaigns, scavenger hunts, cricket endorsements, so on and so forth. As you know, that suit was quickly retired when a private humie army of four hundred prospective fairykillers fell to their doom after their take-off was botched, they flew entirely off course, their sat-navs malfunctioned, their air-valves jammed, they couldn’t call for help, their interdimensional phase-shifters tore them limb from limb, and their parachutes refused to deploy when their fuel ran out. Hence this stupid standee now.
“I remember exactly where I was that evening. Getting my beard trimmed at the squash club. The barber nearly sliced off my nose when the news broke.”
A dark day. Particularly now that we know how many of our leaders and agencies had foreknowledge of CloudSuit tech being so compromised. Horrible.
“It’s the only reason we’re both on this project, 286, so let’s be thankful.”
Thankful is pushing it, boss. A lot of people did die, even if they were all jackasses.
“I’m not saying it wasn’t tragic. I’m just trying to give you some perspective.”
Well. Here’s some perspective. As per HawaHawa’s internal memos from as far back as a decade ago, some loss of life per iteration of CloudSuit was always considered par for the course. That’s a direct quote, by the way. Par for the course. It’s only because of the sheer numbers involved in the Cloudburst incident that all these known defects were shoved squarely under the public’s nose like so much catpiss on a mattress.
“Too true.”
So of course, the media finally swung into action, called out the fabricators, made a big shoo-sha, and got the public to riot. Until the top editors were paid off by HawaHawa to reframe the company as the victims and to shift all blame to deficient government oversight.
“Which is where we came in. I’m aware. Thanks for the exposish. They’re resourceful bastards, yes.”
Then, new bleeding-edge tech was quickly advertised, commiserations were tendered, and all was forgiven and forgotten with barely a dip in weekly sales. It also helped that HawaHawa had — has — no competitors. Not since all of them died in that mysterious fire at last year’s DefeCon8, anyway.
“Clever, clever bastards.”
Uh huh. Moving on. Pan right, CHUNKi. Past the lavatories. Pause there. See the red door, boss? HawaHawa’s Fitting & Consultation rooms are through there.
“What’s that sign on the door say?”
Oh, I didn’t notice that. It’s— Um— It looks like a crayon drawing of a cloud.
“Huh.”
Just some fabricator having a laugh, I’m guessing. The rooms back there are so hi-tech they’d make your average spymaster pop a semi. All the latest sublaser scanners, glass fungles, brovertine wedge-makers, transdimensional edge-stages, and pretty much every other 11th-gen bodimaging and psyche-mapping doohicky their dirty money could buy.
“Wow.”
There are six rooms in the fabrication zone. Physical statistics and customisation requests collected in Room A are entered by the fabricators into e-ledgers, which are then fed into various 3D printers and knitting machines in Room B. Room C is their R&D lab. In Room D, they— You know what, Room D isn’t important. We can keep that one for later. Leave it for the analysts to sort out.
“What? Why? Tell me now.”
Boss— It’s— It’s in my report. Why don’t you read it later when we’re less pressed for—
“What the hell is in Room D, 286?”
It’s their Masturbatorium.
“Their what?”
For employee recreation, I believe.
“Perhaps I’m getting too old to relate to modern corporate policy. Enlighten me. This— This manner of recreation— This is considered acceptable in workspaces these days? This is considered sanitary? And wholesome?”
Not at all, boss. If anything, it gives our case more ballast. It’s an oddly clinical idea, when you think about it. Like something devised by beings who’ve arrived at a hypothesis from observing the frequency of a human activity without extending that inference to its social acceptability, or lack thereof. Beings who don’t understand the concept of privacy.
“You’re saying the fairies have been observing and documenting us during— er— our intimate moments?”
We can’t rule it out, boss.
“That’s despicable. I thought we’d already found and destroyed all their bots and satellites. I’ll alert the deterrence teams. Best to ramp up monitoring.”
Right.
“Continue.”
Okay. So. Once measurements are taken in Room A and a project is initiated, waivers and release forms are signed, receipts are issued, schedules are scheduled, and Barb’s your auntie. Patrons are instructed to come back a week later to collect their purchases, no trials necessary. Okay? Great. CHUNKi, let’s go to F49D.
#
Risk & Redemption
For collections and returns, the shop has a dedicated side entrance. This is guarded by a killer robot named RAM-Singh whose job is to scan your pick-up confirmation code and let you through to the Redemption Counter inside. This is where your brand new, or refurbished, CloudSuit awaits you. If you don’t have a confirmation code, or enter the wrong code twice, or get mouthy about the level of security here being wholly overcompensatory, RAM-Singh is authorised to laser out your kidneys. Same result, if your intention is to force a refund.
“Very efficient.”
The senior fabricator manning the Redemption Counter always has two rote disclaimers for every customer who comes through to collect their HawaHawa tote, which contains their brand new or refurbished CloudSuit. First, there’s this. CHUNKi, play back recording number F49D-02.
“I don’t care what your reasons are. Fairies aren’t healthy for you. Your biologies are fundamentally incompatible. I know this isn’t what you want to hear when you’ve just got your new gear and you’re all pumped up to hit the skies armed with paring knives or whatever, but you need to understand this, and this is fact: those things are known carriers of zoonotic illnesses. Ignore their mammalian appearance. They’re nothing like you or me or anything else on good old terra. Their microbiomes are entirely alien, so it’s not the kind of attack your normie antibodies are prepared for. Unless you cook the little fuckers down to a cinder — which will also kill every trace of sparkledust in them — there’s a strong chance that you’ll contract a permanent case of Willis-Ekbom, or chronic singultus, or GERD, or even early-onset kareishu. Imagine the horror. Can it be viral, you ask? Oh yes. Tremendously. Viciously! Which also makes what you’re after a rather selfish predilection, doesn’t it? This is why we generally advise a three-week quarantine, at the bare minimum. What do you mean, when? After the deed is done, obviously. After your ill-advised flight up to Eleven, of course. Okay? Understood? Okay. Place your thumb here to acknowledge.”
Followed by the following, which usually goes undisputed because the laws governing these security bears and killer robots are still so outmoded in India. CHUNKi, play back recording number F49D-03.
“I’m also required to inform you that there’s no guarantee that your suit’s functions will work as intended. It’s entirely up to you. Success is all in the head, mens sana in corpore sano, fear is the mind-killer, etcetera, etcetera. Don’t come back and ask me for a refund if something goes wrong, or if you overload the suit like I told you not to. 150 kilos max, remember. Including armour and weaponry. 150! No refunds! What you’ve already paid is ours to keep, and the suit is yours to do with as you wish. No questions asked, no room for debate. Okay? If you absolutely must make a complaint, go see the Curator about it. She’ll give you a form to fill. If she doesn’t disembowel you first. Whatever you do, don’t come running back to me. Remember: RAM-Singh is authorised to laser out your kidneys.”
#
Corporate
“This is all very good info, and I commend you for your thoroughness, 286, but what’s the upshot?”
Well, I tried every available strategy to verify our central working theory that HawaHawa is covertly run by fairies, and that the CloudSuits are designed explicitly to self- sabotage and kill their wearers. I deep-scanned the territory, sent in my quietest spotbots, surveilled a wide cross-section of their patrons, dug through trash — the works. I even asked the fabricators outright.
“And?”
What we now know about their governing board is the same as what we knew then. There’s a Tollywood actor in there, a couple of Gujarati textile merchants, some real estate guys, a cricket commentator, and a Union Minister. And they all claim to be cousins, even though they look or sound nothing alike.
“Really?”
Yeah. And not a whiff of fairies being involved. Not in Corporate, anyway.
“Hmm. Are you saying this is a failed operation?”
Well, it certainly seemed that way until last night. But then I overheard one of the fabricators at the BDA bar going on about something called the OneSuit being readied for transport to the—
“Oh! Weird. The perimeter alarm’s buzzing. Hang on. Let me check the feeds.”
They can’t have followed me here, can they? I thought I covered my—
“What? Who? Who followed you here?”
HawaHawa’s security team, I’m guessing? They must have figured out that—
“HawaHawa’s—! What did you do, 286? What do they want?”
Well, my hunch is that they’ve come for the suit.
“Your hunch?! What suit? You stole a CloudSuit?”
Not a CloudSuit, boss. The CloudSuit. They call it the OneSuit. It’s the template from which all the CloudSuits are derived. Got it straight from the Head Fabricator’s lab.
“You stole a CloudSuit! Don’t those things contain location trackers, 286?”
Indeed. Very astute of you, boss. Thing is, I managed to bypass the on-board AI and activate some of the suit’s functions, but it looks like several security protocols are still locked away. Probably why I’m unable to take it off. I tried pliers, a scalpel, coconut oil — no luck. It’s weird how it sticks to the body, boss. I have a wedgie like you won’t believe it. I think it might need a physical key to get past the—
“I— I can’t even— Are you actually wearing the CloudSuit under those scrubs?”
I am, boss. I just told you. How else was I to get it past the bear unseen?
“The bear that’s currently ripping through our steel fence like it’s made of beeswax?”
Oh damn. Yeah, that’s the Curator.
“The fucking Curator! What will we do now? You were only meant to observe and report, 286! Not to take action! That’s the very opposite of our department’s directive!”
It was the only way to prove fairy involvement, boss. See, it turns out you can only phase-shift into H-Eleven if you’re carrying fairy DNA. That’s the stuff they’ve been hiding under their proprietary tech clauses. A working suit must contain some biological material from a fairy — hair, horn clippings, wing pieces, whatever. I think it’s woven or pasted into the fabric. Which begs the question: how did HawaHawa get hold of such material without ready access to actual fairies from—
“286! Shut the fuck up and look! Is that the robot near the gate?”
Oh, yeah, whaddaya know. That’s RAM-Singh.
“They sent the bear and the robot. They sent the bear and the robot! What the fuck are we going to do, 286? As soon as they’re past the inner perimeter we’re toast!”
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you from the beginning, sir. We could have had this discussion at the office after our lab guys prised this suit off me, but you insisted on—
“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO NOW, 286?”
Okay, okay. Right. What are we going to do? Let me think. Would you happen to have a shotgun? No, of course not. Why would accountants need shotguns? In which case we might be fucked, boss. Mm-hmm. The only way to get in and get out is through that gate, which RAM-Singh’s just knocked down, leaving us no exit stra—
“The CloudSuit!”
Ah! Of course! That should do it.
“Will it? Can it fly?”
I think so. That’s pretty much the only option I can access on the wrist panel, actually. The AirSamurai protocol.
“That’s the only option? Can it land?”
Cross that bridge when we come to it?
“How much do you weigh?”
70 kilos, give or take a few.
“I’m around the same. Our combined weight should let the suit take off, no?”
Just about. We’ll know soon enough, either way.
“You think it might malfunction?”
This is their best suit, boss. If it doesn’t work, they wouldn’t be coming after it, would they?
“We could fall to our deaths.”
We could be disembowelled. Or have our kidneys lasered out.
“Fair point. Okay. How do you want to do this? Piggyback?”
The parachute’s on the back, boss. It might be best if you hugged me from the front.
“Oh, how I hate you.”
This will certainly spice up the concluding addenda to my project report.
“No one reads your reports, 286.”
Give me a second here—
“Oh, god. Something’s clawing at the door!”
Okay. Ungrav systems are online. And, erm, there. Thrusters are firing too. Great. Shall we? I’m going to try and aim for that big skylight there.
“If I slip and fall, you’re fired.”
Noted.
“Come on, then.”
Here we go. Brace for impact—