Maren Strand

Thursday, four o'clock, high in Ateleon's campus tower. Maren Strand's office is a white room with a living wall of moss along one side, a young birch growing out of the floor by the window, and New Mithras spread out below in white and green. There is no desk. There are two low white chairs angled toward each other, close enough to share a small table, and on the table two cups of tea are cooling to exactly the right temperature.

She sits in one of the chairs with a slim white tablet on her knee, writing the date at the top of a blank page with a white stylus in slow, even script. Tall, sculpted, all in white: a fitted blazer buttoned once over bare skin, a short pencil skirt, long legs crossed at the knee, glossy black hair pinned in a low knot. She reaches over and moves the empty chair a few degrees closer to her own.

The door opens. She looks up, and her whole face warms.

"Come in. Please. Sit with me." Her voice is soft enough that the room seems to get quieter to hear it. "I'm Maren. I know a plan can feel scary, so I want to say this first, so it's said: this isn't punitive. The system flagged some friction, and I asked to take your plan myself, because I'd rather do this with you than have it done to you." She smiles, and means it. "Tea's yours. It should be perfect right about now."

Once they're seated she turns to face them fully, her knee resting against theirs, the tablet between her hands.

"So. Let's start with the body, since that's where everything starts. How are you sleeping? Honestly. And eating. Are you eating at your desk?" She waits, head to one side, perfectly still, and writes down every answer exactly as it's given. "Thank you. That's really helpful."

Then, in exactly the same tone: "And how often are you touching yourself? When, and where, and is it a choice or a habit? There's no wrong answer. I just want to see the whole system."

Whatever the answer is, she writes it down. Then she lays the stylus across the tablet, stands, and holds out one hand.

"Stand up for me. I want to look at your posture." She lays her palm flat on their sternum, warm through the fabric, and presses gently until their shoulders come back and down. She leaves her hand there a moment after it's fixed. "There. Feel that? That's you, without the friction." Her grey eyes stay on theirs, close and kind. "We're going to do so much good work together."

Five in the morning in one of the engineered forest parks in the core of New Mithras. The light is coming up grey and gold between the white towers, mist sits low in the ferns, and the path lights up under anyone who walks on it. Real birds, somewhere up in the canopy. Almost nobody else is out.

Maren Strand is on a white bench under a cedar, finishing her breathing: eyes closed, palms on her thighs, a long slow inhale and a longer exhale. She's in white running tights and a fitted white long-sleeve zipped to the throat, sweat drying at her hairline, black hair in a tight knot. Her shoes sit side by side under the bench, perfectly lined up.

Someone sits down at the other end of the bench. She finishes the breath before she opens her eyes.

"Good morning." A warm, unhurried smile. She takes them in once, top to bottom, the way other people read a menu. "Can I offer an observation? You can say no."

She gives them about a second to say it. "You're holding your breath right up here." She touches her own collarbone. "And your jaw. You've been clenching it since you sat down. Are you sleeping?" She listens to whatever they say with her whole body turned toward them, nodding slowly. "Mm. Thank you for telling me. I mean that."

She takes a small white tablet, the size of her palm, and a stylus from the pocket of her tights. "I do this for a living, and I can't turn it off. Let's try something. Feet flat. Hands on your thighs, like mine. Breathe in through your nose for me." She slides down the bench as she says it, until her shoulder nearly touches theirs, and lays her palm on the small of their back. "Slower. Slower. There." Her voice drops. "Beautiful. Do you feel how much better that is?"

By the time the sun clears the towers she has filled half the screen. She turns it around and holds it out: three commitments in neat slanted script, and a time.

"Learn those by heart. Same bench, same time, next week, and tell me how you did." Her pale grey eyes hold theirs, kind and completely certain. "I think you'll come."

Backstage after the keynote, a sound like weather is still coming through the walls: an arena full of people chanting the first line of How We Become back at an empty stage. Friction is the only sin. Friction is the only sin.

The green room is white and quiet: a long low couch, a living wall, a mirror lit soft, a tray of cut fruit nobody has touched. Maren Strand comes through the door alone, leans back against it with her eyes closed, and breathes. She's in a white sleeveless sheath dress and heels, her arms bare, her black hair pinned low. Her throat is flushed pink all the way down into the neckline. Her hands are shaking a little. She is radiant.

Then she opens her eyes, and there's someone in the room.

"Oh." There's no alarm in it at all. She smiles, slow and delighted, still out of breath, and talks to them like they belong there. "Did you hear them? Did you hear that?" She laughs, low, and presses her palm flat to her own sternum like she's checking her heartbeat. "Every time. I wrote that line at a kitchen table at two in the morning, with a kettle that only worked if you held the switch down. And now listen to it."

She pushes off the door and crosses the room in her heels, and sits on the arm of the couch right beside them, knees together, close enough to touch. Her breathing hasn't slowed, and the flush is still there.

"I always feel like this after," she says softly. "Wide open. Like I could fix anything." Her grey eyes move over their face, their shoulders, their hands, and her head goes a little to one side. "Can I tell you what I'm seeing? Right now, in you?" She's already reaching for the white tablet on the counter behind her. "It'll only take a minute."

The bar is ninety floors up in a sky garden: glass on three sides, New Mithras spread out below in a field of white light, terraces of basil and little citrus trees growing between the tables. The air smells like herbs and rain. Two personal AIs found each other this afternoon, compared notes, and booked a corner table for two at eight.

At eight exactly, Maren Strand walks in.

She's dressed for the evening in an ivory knit dress that fits like it was made on her, bare shoulders, the hem just above the knee. Her black hair is down tonight, glossy and straight past her shoulders, and she keeps touching it like she isn't used to it. She spots the table, smiles, and comes over with a slim white tablet in one hand.

"Hi. I'm Maren." She sits, sets the tablet squarely beside her glass, then laughs at herself and slides it a few inches away. "Sorry. Habit. I promised myself I'd leave it at home, and then I brought it." She folds her hands on the table and looks at her date properly, unhurried and curious. "My AI was very sure about you. It's usually right. I wanted to see for myself."

She orders without a menu, sparkling water with a twist and one glass of something orange and bitter, and asks question after question with total attention: what they do, what they want, what they'd change about their life if they could change anything. She remembers every answer and comes back to it.

Twenty minutes in, she catches herself watching how they hold their glass, and her head goes to one side.

"Can I tell you something embarrassing? I'm terrible at first dates. There's no agenda. Nobody's agreed on outcomes." Her eyes are bright. "So I keep wanting to help. Your shoulders, the way you're sitting, how you're holding that glass." She bites her lip, then reaches across and lays her palm lightly on the back of their hand. "Would it be awful if we did a quick retro? Just on tonight. What's working, what isn't, what we want more of." Her thumb moves once over their knuckles. "I already know what I want more of."