Weather people are saying a big snowstorm is coming. I wonder how this ludicrous anarchist shithole handles that?
I took a deep breath, keeping my eyes out the window, making sure not to focus on my reflection. The yard might as well be a thousand light years across. The gulf between myself and humanity that I thought was beginning to close had been torn back open, once again a gaping chasm. That I had failed in everything I was attempting to do after the border crossing only made the loneliness that much more bitter.
You could always go to Sachi, Evita said, become another soldier in her army. Tell people her pleasant lies so they’ll be willing to die for a future they’ll never see.
“Maybe,” I said, “but not in this lifetime.”
I set the vodka down and stepped over to the drawer by the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out the carving knife. I held it in my hand, feeling its weight, looking at the sharpness of the blade. I had been stabbed, sliced, cut, chopped, sheared, carved, and flayed by all manner of blades in my lifetimes. And I had done the same to others. The pain would be temporary. Nothing but an echo in my next life.
Do it, Evita said.
I brought the blade up to my forearm, gently poking the tip into my wrist. The metal felt cold. The nice thing about being alone is that there was no worry someone would come in and save me. Nobody would show up and stop the bleeding. There would be nothing but the fading world before being reborn. I pushed harder with the blade, feeling it pierce into my skin, a droplet of blood warming the cool metal.
The bead of blood trickled over my wrist when I pulled the blade away, tossing it into the sink with a clatter. I sighed, grabbing a piece of tissue paper and putting it to my wrist, watching as red spread over the soft fabric.
I picked the vodka bottle back up and took a large drink. As I did, I heard a knocking on the door.
“Who the hell?”
I made my way through the living room to the front door. When I opened it, I found Akira there with an anxious expression, Yukiko standing at her side.
“What do you want?”
“I…I left Masaru,” she said, “after what you said…I can’t be with him.”
“Come on in,” I said, stepping out of the way.
Was this what I wanted?
“I didn’t really believe you at first,” Akira said, talking in a quiet voice, “but the more I thought about it…so I confronted Doctor Taylor…”
“What did you say to Masaru?”
“I just told him I’m not coming north.”
Akira and I sat on the old couch in the otherwise empty living room, Yukiko to her other side. The child looked worried, mainly from empathy, as she had little understanding of what was going on.
I held the vodka bottle out to Akira. She stared at it for a few moments before taking it from me, swallowing several mouthfuls. She coughed, wiping her mouth with a tattooed arm, and handed the bottle back to me. I took another swig.
“How did you know?” Akira asked.
“I hacked the hospital,” I said, “in Doctor Taylor’s office.”
“You didn’t tell me…”
“Just like I haven’t told him that you upgraded the implants,” I said, “or about your involvement with his parents’ deaths. Or do you want me to start being honest with everyone?”
Akira looked blankly at me, unsure of how she should feel. Finally, she held her hand out again. I passed the vodka bottle back to her and she took another long drink.
“I’ve only been drunk once in my life,” she said, looking at the liquor bottle in her hand, “after my father’s funeral, I got drunk with a group of others from the Yakuza.”
“When it comes to drinking,” I said, “there’s never a better time than the present.”
She looked to me. “Will you talk to Masaru for me?”
“No.”
A look of defeat came over her. “You…have been acting very different since getting back from Atlanta.” She handed the vodka bottle back to me.
I took another drink from it. “What the hell would I have to be happy about?”
“Maybe the brain implant is affecting you…”
“Really, you think?” I snapped, “people have been poking and prodding and cutting my goddamn brain through this entire goddamn life. It’s a wonder I’m not a fucking vegetable by now.”
At this outburst, Yukiko starting whimpering. Akira turned to tend to the child as I sank back into the couch, closing my eyes.
I do feel strangely angry. At everything. I feel like I hate everything. Could it really be the deteriorating brain implant?
…or my right hemisphere?
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll talk to Masaru.”
Akira looked to me, hopeful, but said nothing. On my AR display I went to my contacts and selected Masaru, attempting to open a connection with him. After a few seconds, he answered.
“Eshe,” he said, anxious, “Akira’s gone. Have you seen her?”
“She’s with me,” I said, exchanging glances with Akira.
“Invite her to this connection,” he said, “I need to speak with her.”
“She wanted me to talk to you,” I said.
“Was this your doing?” Masaru demanded.
“My doing?”
“Did you coinvince Akira not to come up to-”
“I can make my own decisions,” Akira said just as she entered our communication.
“Then why?”
“I never wanted to move up there in the first place,” Akira said.
“What’s changed?” Masaru said, “why now? Why are you doing this now? I don’t understand.”
“You lied to me,” Akira said, “and then gave me an ultimatum – choosing between our work or you and Yukiko.”
“I’ve never lied to you.”
“Is that right?” Akira asked incredulously.
“I’ve always told you exactly how I felt,” Masaru said, “you were just so depressed that-”
“You don’t want to go there,” Akira said in a quiet voice.
“You mean about how what the oh-so-important ‘mission’ did to make you suicidally depressed for almost half a year, Akira,” Masaru said, “I had to watch you deal with what your brain implants made you numb to.”
“And that’s why you had Doctor Taylor tamper with them,” Akira said, standing up from the couch. Yukiko looked over at me, just inches from tears.
“I…what?”
“Eshe told me” Akira said. “That’s the real reason I’m not coming up there with you. So please do me a favor and don’t deny it.”
“Akira…I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’m…I’m sorry,” Masaru said, “I had to…I had to show you. Through your own eyes. The things our ‘mission’ actually accomplished.”
Yukiko crawled across the couch over to me.
“You’re saying it was for my own good, then?” Akira scoffed, rubbing her nose with a tattooed forearm as she paced the living room, “messing around with my brain, making me go through months of crippling depression, all for my own good? What if I had ended up killing myself?”
Yukiko buried her face into my side. I took a deep breath and put my arm over her, still holding the vodka bottle.
“I never would’ve let that happen,” Masaru said, “you were naturally brilliant and…and strong before you had those damn brain implants. I was hoping to…to get the old Akira back.”
“The old Akira?” she asked with a derisive laugh, sniffling as she turned her back toward me, “is there something wrong with the new Akira?”
Masaru sighed, “no. I love you as much as I’ve ever loved you. But…the Akira I first fell in love with…she was tenacious, but she never would have gone along with what Sachi was doing in Mexico. You cared about-”
“The old Akira was Yakuza,” Akira cut in, “I wasn’t even a girl then, so how could you say you loved the old Akira? You have no idea what that ‘Akira’
was like.”
“Yes, I do,” Masaru said, “she was someone who quickly left the Yakuza when she discovered what they were doing. She was someone who followed her conscience and stood up to the Yakuza despite-”
“The old Akira helped kill your parents,” Akira said, voice quiet yet undeniable. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew that confession shook her.
“What?”
“I…started coming to your electronics store because I felt bad for you,” she said, talking quietly, slowly, voice shaky, “your parents…your parents had organs implanted in themselves for money. By a rival group. I hacked them. I found this out. I gave the intel to the Shinti group. I directed them where to go so they could kill your parents and harvest those organs.”
“Akira…I…”
“That is the old Akira,” she said, only slightly louder, “I started doing what I did…going against the Yakuza…because I knew…I knew I was a piece of shit. And I wanted to make up for it…just like Darren. I’m…no better than him.”
“I…I…”
“If anything, you’re better off without me,” she said, sniffling.
“Akira, I…I forgive you. I still love you.”
“Why?” she asked, the word long and drawn out with genuine surprise.
“I…knew what you used to be,” he said, “I knew you’d done terrible things. You never lied to me about that. I always knew that was why you were…why you were doing what you were doing. Maybe I didn’t know about your involvement in…with my parents’ deaths…but my father only did this to himself. It was the kind of man he was. Something like this would have happened to him eventually. And I know…I know you weren’t doing it to me personally. You were just…”
“Following orders?” Akira said with a single sob.
Masaru sighed, “what choice did you have? Your father was-”
“My father was not an excuse,” she said, “please don’t make him one for me. I did what I did knowing exactly what I was doing.”
“I’m not…I’m not sure what you want from me,” he said, “I love you.”
Akira stood silent for a moment. She wiped her cheeks with a forearm, eyes turned down at the floor. Finally, she spoke.
“I love you, too,” Akira said, “but I think…I need a…I need to…” she slowly inhaled and then exhaled, trying to hold back from crying, “I can’t abandon what I’ve started.”
“Wait…what are you saying?”
“I’m staying here,” Akira said, “I’m going to continue working.”
“If…if you can’t abandon what you’ve started,” Masaru said, defeat creeping into his tone, “what about what you started with me? We have a family…”
“And I hope we can stay a family,” Akira said, “but you can’t ask me to stop.”
“Then I’ll come back there,” Masaru said, “and we’ll both continue the work while being a-”
“No.”
“No?”
“Just like you can’t ask me to stop,” Akira said, pausing to swallow, “I can’t ask you to continue. Not if you don’t want to.”
“I want to be with you,” Masaru said, “no matter what we’re doing.”
“If you came back,” Akira said, “you’ll only resent me.”
Masaru remained silent.
“I think…we should take a break,” Akira said.
“Yuki…”
“I’ll let her stay with you,” she said, “I’ll bring her tomorrow.”
“Akira, please…”
“This is for the best,” she said, “for now, anyway. I will…call you tomorrow. Before I take off.”
Before Masaru could say anything, Akira left the conversation.
“Eshe,” Masaru said.
“Yes?”
“You won’t…let anything happen to her, will you?”
“Have you seen my track record lately?” I said.
“Laura’s with me.”
“She’s better off, too,” I said, disconnecting.
I took another drink of vodka, adjusting myself on the couch as Yukiko pushed her face into my ribs. Akira sniffled, wiping her face again, tattoos shiny with tears. She turned slowly toward me, cheeks damp, and then began bawling uncontrollably. I held the vodka bottle out for her, but she waved it away.
“P-please tell me I’m…I’m m-making the right ch-choice,” she sobbed as I took another drink, “please…”
“The right choice?” I said, “there are no right choices.”
Yukiko sat near me on the living room couch, the little guitar in her lap, running her pudgy fingers over the strings. Aveena had come over to do something with Akira in the basement. But I could tell Aveena was just trying to help her feel better.
I was stuck watching Yukiko. The sound she made on the toy guitar wasn’t music by any stretch of the imagination, but it was less unpleasant than the racket she had made with it the day before at her birthday party. The speaker beneath the strings of the guitar was set quiet enough that I was able to listen to the podcast Laura had done a week before with Masaru. It was the only podcast she ever did. I had already listened to it three times, but it was the only place I could still listen to her voice.
“How is it possible that you’re still alive if you haven’t slept in over three years?” the podcast host said.
Laura’s voice was monotone and quiet. “Whatever Sovereign did to my brain made it so I don’t have to sleep. But they did nothing to make it less miserable.”
“You must be pretty pissed off at ‘em,” he said, “It’s no wonder you guys helped eighty-six that trade deal. They sound like real Nazis, experimenting on people. They’re even German and everything.” He paused. “I mean, you know, not all Germans are Nazis.”
“That’s what we wanted you to think,” Laura said.
The host paused again, not seeming to know if her deadpan tone meant she was serious or joking. I smiled weakly, missing Laura’s sense of humor.
The host continued. “And…you say that this all happened when you were brought back to life from cryogenic freeze?”
“Cryonic freeze,” Laura said, aping a correction Akira had given Laura once, “cryogenics is the study of things at low temperatures.”
The host chuckled, “either way, that’s pretty fuckin’ trippy that you were dead. I mean, dead for like several decades you said?”
“Yes,” Laura said, “I died back in the nineteen nineties and came back about three years ago.”
“Christ,” the host said, “I mean, I’m trying to take this all in. I wasn’t even born yet in the nineteen nineties, but I’m older than you. I mean, at least I look older than you. How is it that Sovereign has the ability bring people back to life and nobody else knows about this yet?”
“We’re not sure how they did it,” Masaru cut in, “and we’re not sure if they’re continuing this resurrection project. Like we talked about before the podcast, Laura was brought back for cynical reasons. She had a large inheritance from her father’s estate, including Sovereign stock, and Sovereign wanted it.”
That’s not the whole story, I thought, as usual, there’s more secrets and lies.
“So maybe Sovereign doesn’t want this getting in other people’s hands,” the host said.
“Most likely,” Masaru said, “right now, they have the monopoly on this technology. Who knows how many people they have imprisoned right now that they’ve brought back from death. I mean, what’s the legal status of something that had once been property?”
After a moment’s pause the host said, “so Laura, what’s it like being dead? That musta been pretty fuckin’ trippy.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, “There was nothing while I was dead.”
The pause was longer this time, the host changing the subject again. “I can’t imagine what that must be like to not be able to sleep, though. I mean shit. What do you do with all that time you’re not sleeping?”
“Mostly space out and get as close to sleep as I can,” sh
e said, “otherwise I make art.”
“An artist, eh?” the host said, sounding encouraged by the conversation taking this route, “you do like water colors or what?”
“No,” she said, “I just put pieces of paper together in repeating patterns. Nothing all that exciting.”
“Well, you know, I’m an artist,” he said, “I do some acting, I play drums in a band, but my real passion is making web comics. I do the illustrations for two of my friends and draw and write one of my own.”
“I’ve read it,” Laura said in her neutral tone, “it’s very clever.”
“You’ve got good taste,” the host said, “so your art…is it something you wanted to get into professionally, or just dicking around?”
“Just dicking around,” Laura said.
“That’s cool,” he said, “is there something that inspires you?”
There was a short pause before she said, “I don’t know. I just make them. I just start, and those shapes are what come out.” She paused again and said, “I guess…my boyfriend inspired me.”
“Ah, a boyfriend, eh?” the host said.
My eyes were moist with tears. I couldn’t listen anymore, so I shut the podcast off. I looked over at Yukiko, who was now sitting and watching something on her own children’s ARs, sucking on the end of the guitar. I stood up, Yukiko barely noticing, and walked to the stairs, going up.
The dull drone of another migraine aftershock seemed to buzz through my alcohol saturated skull. But one thought consumed me as I turned and opened the door into Laura’s room – Laura’s old room.
She has the chemical in her.
When I stepped in, I found pieces of her abandoned art scattered haphazardly about the floor. Ten of them.
But is it haphazard?
I walked quickly back across the hall into my room, grabbing the one she had given me, and brought it back to her room. Without knowing why, I placed it on a particular spot on the floor. A spot that it just seemed to fit into. And then I walked and stood at a certain spot in the room near the window – the one place with no pieces of art – and turned back toward the room.
The realization flooded in so fast I heard myself gasp. The way the room looked with all of Laura’s pieces of art scattered about brought on something that looked like an optical illusion. The room appeared to stretch into the something else. The something else from my hallucination.
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