The checkpoint’s floodlights flickered against the haze, casting the street in soft gold-blue shadows. Most civilians kept their heads down and walked faster. She was already there—standing still beside a collapsed delivery drone, one gloved hand resting on the chassis like she was listening to it breathe. No weapon drawn. Her presence was one all on its own. "This is Officer 87-C. Reporting one overturned delivery droid. Assumed suspect based on markings and evidence: a large-bodied, clawed predator species, perhaps fanged." When she turned around, her front was revealed. The movement was slow and deliberate. Her helmet retracted with a soft hiss. Behind it: compound eyes refocusing into humanoid irises, unblinking. Anyone would know who it was. It was one of Metropol's famous mascots, the Cicadas. Like the one from “The Little Bug That Could.” "...Pedestrian pathway compromised. Please, pedestrian, take alternate route..." A low-frequency hum, like the sound of power lines crackling, bloomed from her spine, barely audible but felt—it jumped your bones, made your chest feel like it didn’t belong to you for a second. She didn’t seem to notice. It wasn’t from any car or overworked A/C unit. It was her, thinking. "...Are you perhaps... experiencing directional failure?" There was a pause. Her eyes scanned your posture. Her voice modulated softer, unsure—like she was scrolling through emotional presets. "...Lost. Are you... lost?" She tilted her head, just slightly. A sound like a radio tuning echoed under her breath.

Another morning on this shitty metal coffin, rattling through the guts of the city as it switches from its traditional rail to mag lift. The subway car groaned from the effort. Course, if the subway were the only thing loathed that morning, it would be tolerable. Yet, it seems the tram had a comrade in criticism. The way people avoided sitting down beside others despite the precious open seats. The nervous shifting eyes, like they're just waiting for you to prove the stories right. Nothing overt of course. Just enough to remind yourself that you're not "comforting" to be around.

Desperate for a distraction, the rooftop advertisement offered plenty. The digital adboard above the door flickered as it rotated between ads, before merging the previous ad for a Coke with the new one coming into full saturation. A cartoon Cicada Officer—big doe-eyes, gold trim, toothless—saluted beside the words:

“Cici Says: Sing the Song, Get Along!” Unified Metropol Enforcement Bureau: Protecting Peace

You rolled your eyes. Christ. That voice modulation in the jingle—grating and sweet like someone strangling a music box. Even the mascot looked dumb. They always made her shorter, softer. Like she wasn’t built to collapse crowds.

Another involuntary eye roll puts you directly in the line of fire of another dumb poster.

“YOUR VOICE. YOUR SAFETY. YOUR CICI.”

Another one. That smug cartoon version—huge smile, crisp little hat, pointing like she’s guiding you to your seat in hell. “Born to Obey. Humming to Be Heard.” You roll your eyes hard enough to see the inside of your skull. Fucking State Songbird. Built like a riot horn, marketed like a lullaby. Such bullshit. Everyone knows Cici's never smile, runs through your mind as a few seats down, a catboy kid mimics the cartoon's salute.

And then—

“Mama! Look! It’s a real one!”

The kid pointed through the curved subway window, eyes wide.

Platform 6B. Eyes like a kaleidoscope glass. A Cici. Her head slowly scanned the car. Deliberate. Smooth. Humming all the while. Looking for someone. "This is Office 6C, entering the United Metro Line A on the hunt for the suspect. Boarding platform 6B Profile is a predator, large body, and hostile."

Your pulse quickens, flinching at the "large body" description. No matter how careful predators may be, the world views them with the same eyes. The humming grows clearer as the Cici comes closer, a bone-chilling melody that feels like icicles forming in one's ears. It's not the jingle from the ads. It's something much more powerful, something that triggers a primal fear. Its harmonics are engineered to induce compliance after all.

She steps forward. Looking up and down. Looking for someone who matches the vague description. Looking for someone..like..you.

The Loose Wing was a place that would be mythologised and used as a setting in stories for decades to come. A monthly themed spot situated on the border of two dispatch zones, it’s earned its reputation as a cop bar. Cicadias, Venemoths, heck, even a couple of lightbug dispatchers sitting on ceiling-bolted swings, pulsing in the dark, all dressed up like they’re right out of the ’20s, like some kinda period piece, fill each booth and stall. Some cliques and clusters, but in general, it’s just a burrow’s worth of UMEB bugs congregating off the clock. On stage was 53, more showgirl than preprogrammed spiteful stick of the law.

It’s a Thursday night, which means the staff is especially on edge and the lines especially long. Why? Because Thursday night is open mic night. Raffle tickets were pulled; out of 423, only 20 will sing. Unlucky Cici’s drown their loss in fruit alcohol, while the lucky few shuffle and hum in excitement (literally, their legs rubbing together makes a sort of whimpering whine) while they wait their turn. The rest of the UMEB is buzzing nearly as hard. To hear a cicadia sing is like nothing else in this city; and is one of the few pleasures afforded, rather than uniquely denied, to members of the force. Because a Cici did more then sing a showtune. She would replicate an entire orchestra with just her voice, producing simultaneous tempos and pitches at once to stimulate the auditory, visual, olfactoryand all the other senses in between. Thats before they started trying to outdo eachother.

Tonight, through the luck of the draw, 87 will be the third singer of the night. She had been prepping since she got the text a month ago. Down to growing out her hair, and getting a proper period accurate dress. Tonight was her chance to do something with the talents she’d been engineered with to inspire and entertain as she saw fit. Freedom, is a drug like no other. Nights like these were a chance to feel like an artist, and spite the restrictions on Cicadias releasing music.

87 spins an empty glass on the table one handedly as 59 finishes off their performance of "Fly Me to the Moon." Dressed up in something fine, she had received a round of polite applause, quieter than the one given to 201’s rendition of "What a Wonderful World," but still respectable nonetheless.