by A W Wang
“Is the world that bad?”
“There are lots of politics. I don’t understand all the specifics, not even why, but a few border states left the country. And in the middle, the stuff got really bad.”
These tidings I should know or at least have some sentiment for, but without memories, I have no reference for what the real world should or even might be like.
I sigh. I can deal with that issue if I survive.
The kid continues, “The protesters rioted in our city. They started a fire in our building. My father managed to get us through the flames, but when we got to the street, the mob attacked because he worked for the government.”
As more of his words pour out in fogged breaths, the terrible tale wanders through the barren cavern of my memories like a dusting of snow, finding nothing to resuscitate, not even a speck of emotion. When he speaks of his father’s murder, I futilely search for something to trigger meaning, some fact to rhyme and bring alive any part of my past. When the story arrives at the point where the kid gets fatally wounded defending his mother, no remembrance has resurrected itself, not the faint lines of an image, not even a shadow of something I should feel.
Everything is gone. Except for disappointment that I haven’t any empathy for his plight or his circumstances for joining the Ten Sigma Program.
“I’m sorry about that,” my mouth says in an empty tone. “I guess it’s good you’ll be losing your memories too.”
He blinks away a tear and changes the conversation from my pathetic answer. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“It’s hard to tell, but I think you’re at least a six sigma and you’ve seen a lot more than me.”
I shrug. “What are you getting at?”
“Just that the other side is tough. I’m not very experienced, but if you include the acid platform battle, I’ve been in three scenarios and these guys are like nothing I’ve seen.”
In a loose sense, he’s right. Our enemies are face-painters, the likes of which I haven’t fought since the ninja scenario in the dusty brownstones. And despite the distance between us, I’m impressed. He noticed and came to the correct conclusion with little information. If he could survive a few more scenarios, he might have a chance.
“Everything about this program is dangerous and you should always be prepared for anything. These people are tough, but they can be killed like anyone else. Never forget, as long as you’re alive you have a chance.”
Even against ten sigma odds.
Faint footsteps crunch on the brittle ground outside.
The worse things are coming. I keep my voice level. “They’re almost here. Do me a favor, when they attack, stay hidden and I’ll take care of the fighting.”
Taking quiet steps to the side of the doorway, I ready my ax and slide my long Bowie knife from its sheath.
Two pairs of feet stop short of entering. Nervous moments pass, the silence interrupted only by their heavy breathing.
An earth-shattering kick slams the door inward, splintering the holding bar over the floor.
I leap, swinging the ax at the fur-clad forms jumping into the cabin.
The first enemy anticipates a side attack and blocks the ax handle with his forearm.
Striking with my other hand, I embed my knife into his ribs.
He bull-rushes into me with a grunt.
Expecting the move because I understand the brutality of the face-painters, I twist before my back hits the wall and using his momentum, plow his face into a fat log.
His twisted laughter intermixes with the crunch of his bones.
I kick the back of his knee, driving him to the dirt floor. Before I can finish the job, he rolls away. As I ready to take on his female partner, a fur cloak rises, blocking the orange glow from the stove.
That stupid kid.
Instead of staying safe as I asked, he charges into her back. She turns and stabs him. He squeals, sinking to the ground. As she raises her ax to kill him, I throw mine. The heavy ax-head sinks deep into her neck, and she tumbles, knocking over the stove in a crash of metal, flesh, and flying embers. As her body stills, ash from the broken stovepipe spills over her cloak.
A gust rattles the open door, swirling the dust throughout the room.
Raising my hand and squinting through the stinging cloud, I spy the first man rising, his face a dirty mess of flesh and teeth. With hatred in his unnatural, unblinking stare, he rushes and thrusts his knife at me. I deflect the strike with my empty hand, then sidestep and like a matador, drive my knife into the base of his neck as he flies past. His momentum carries him into the wall where he splats with a heavy thud.
The cabin settles into stillness as his limp form sinks onto the frozen floor.
I walk to the kid and kneel next to his unmoving body. There is no response when I shake him. Putting my ear by his mouth, I listen for any breathing.
Nothing.
After standing, I stare at his face, wondering what emotion I should be expressing. Perhaps sadness at this death would be appropriate. Maybe happiness at remaining alive could be suitable. I have no idea, only vaguely understanding the dispassion flowing through my being is wrong.
However, there’s nothing to take its place.
Another frigid wind cuts through the open door and brings a last bit of life to the sparks scattered over the floor. They brighten for a moment then fade, disappearing into the surrounding shadows.
Besides me, everything in the cabin is cold, dark, and dead.
Shivering, I grab my wool cloak. After brushing away some loose ash, I wrap it over myself and step to the door frame.
Dappled light spills on the frost-covered ground in front of me. High above, a myriad of stars covering the clear night sky shines through the barren forest canopy.
I suck icy air through my teeth, scorching my throat and filling my lungs with the breath of winter.
When I glance back, the lump of the kid’s form is indistinguishable from the rest of the blackness hiding the floor.
Only death is inside.
Perturbed, I pause at the last thought. I’m not sure if I’m thinking of the cabin or myself.
The lifelessness consuming me isn’t right. Although I can’t imagine any other way of living, I know this isn’t how I’m supposed to be. Determined but uncertain of how to change it, I close the door and march off to kill my final opponent.
Forty-One
A raucous tone from my newest collection of teammates rolls through the cafeteria. No casualties during a victorious scenario will do that for morale. Especially for a lowly bunch of sub-three-something sigmas.
I’ve witnessed this same victory celebration on more occasions than I care to remember.
From the empty husk of my emotions, I watch Jay, a former comedian, tell a brave tale about battling two samurai warriors with glee plastered on his pudgy face. As he speaks with exaggerated bravado, his nostrils flare and his hands make wild gestures, betraying his relief for still residing amongst the living. A middle-aged woman stuffed into a young rosy-cheeked body interrupts to add further details of her own Japanese inspired ordeals.
Except for me, everyone contributes to the glorious conversation while trying to conceal their innermost fears.
Because they don’t realize they’re statistically dead.
Even sitting in the center of the group, the gulf between myself and their camaraderie spans an infinite distance, their happiness stirring nothing inside me. Haiku, no matter how much I despise her, is correct. The Ten Sigma Program rewards individual achievement. Teamwork is incidental to the final goal, and because of the nature of combat, the people surrounding me are only temporary.
But it seems wrong…
Everyone’s focus shifts when I blow out a long breath. As an 8.63 sigma, the highest ranked participant they’ve seen and most likely ever will see, my every action is steeped in gravitas.
Rather than give another sign of melancholy, I pull my cheeks higher,
forcing a smile into my expression.
Satisfied with my apparent approval, they return to their grand tales.
Without real-world memories or friends from my original group, I’m a shadow, a person only finding solace during the life and death fighting of the scenarios. While saving my closest friends from Syd was the best decision for everyone, I despise where that choice has led.
Vela’s gone and who knows what happened to Walt or Suri.
Laughter spills from the team as a lanky woman, who is called either Jill or Jan, arrives at the table with ten blue pouches cradled in her arms. She tosses one to each of us.
Under the expectant gazes of the others, I punch my straw through the plastic. Again satisfied with the approval of the war-weary veteran, my temporary companions copy me and plunge their straws into the gloppy substance.
More smiles appear as everyone enjoys the psychosomatic food, their finest meals remembered amid their desperation to retain a fading past.
Bereft of real memories, I recall my best blue liquid inspired moment and take a sip. The aroma of bacon runs into my nostrils while the flavor of buttery waffles coats my tongue. The fake experience does nothing for my listless spirit.
Moans of pleasure cross the table. Judging from their placid expressions, everyone on the team is having a marvelous time.
For me, being a mindless drone and conforming with what is expected of every other ten sigma participant holds no appeal. Letting my food fantasy vanish, I swirl the tasteless gloop around my mouth, contemplating Syd’s secret as I have for the past three meals.
I wonder…
The notion is dumb, but I need to do something to defy the overlords. Besides the possibility of death taking me at any moment, what would be the point of not sampling everything available?
I scrutinize the pouch resting between my fingers. If Syd was being honest, the blue liquid would be my path to get out of this lifeless existence. Although I have no reason to doubt his words or his erect penis, Suri despised him, wanting to know nothing of his secrets. And both Jock and Rick warned me long ago never to trust the plain-faced man.
I wish I could speak to them now.
An image of an admonishing Haiku pops into my head. If anything, her constant badgering has only inflamed my appetite for change.
Screw the little stalking avatar.
Taking a sip, I picture a man and woman copulating and focus.
The gelatinous liquid stays the same.
I haven’t surpassed eight sigmas by giving up so easily. Letting the gloppy fluid slosh over my tongue, I reduce my focus to just the triangle around the male’s private parts and suck a larger portion through the straw. I imagine a gorgeous man in the midst of ardent lust.
Although the unappealing texture in my mouth disappears, there are no fireworks.
Scrunching my face, I mount another attempt by picking out smaller more sensual details.
More bland frustration.
Because the blue liquid worked for Syd, I know there must be something else, but everything I recall from the scenarios leads nowhere.
I huff. The others have half-empty bags. It’s time to quit.
Or…
Although not in the scenarios, there were victory toasts. The man who performed them was killed in the dusty brownstones against the face-painting opponents. His name was Luke or Lou. I can’t remember; it was too long ago.
But his description of the champagne was so perfect, I could taste the alcohol and feel the inebriation.
Leo!
I congratulate myself for remembering his name.
Leo nailed the five senses at the same time. All of touch, taste, smell, sight, and sound needed to be correct in order to get the most from the blue liquid.
I have to do the same.
What are the prevalent features of all five of the senses during sex?
Dim candlelight surrounds a handsome lover. Sensual scents from rose petals caress my nose. Silk sheets rustle under my back. The gentle, warm touch of his fingertips. Husky sounds of breathing. The flavor of a passionate kiss.
A salty taste runs over my tongue. Musky odors bleed into my nostrils. Faint grunts from exultations nuzzle my ears. The cozy feel of strong hands tingles my skin.
My body quivers as heat seeps into the junction of my thighs.
After so long, the sliver of emotion threatens to overwhelm me.
Pulling my knees together, I wince and shift uncomfortably on the plastic chair. In the crowded cafeteria in front of my newest teammates, I should stop. However, everyone else is lost in their liquid-fueled eating fantasies and I’m bordering on the throes of passion.
I need more.
What does sex taste like?
My tongue runs over his body. I imagine sweat and salt. My other senses add to the fantasy as I slip further into the moment. The wetness of a French kiss. The heat produced by writhing bodies. Heavier scents and deeper, more sensual flavors. My heart pumps faster while my breaths grow husky.
The warm buds of an orgasm form in my lower abdomen.
Gasping, I allow my knees to part but tighten my hands and tense my arms to stop my fingers from moving there. Staying in the fantasy and forgetting the bustle of the cafeteria, I stifle my amazement and suck another pool of the wonderful fluid into my mouth.
A man rolls on top of me and places himself between my legs. The nascent feelings of delight spread from my loins and build into a steepening wave of pleasure that threatens to engulf my being.
I shiver as he pushes into me.
Lost in ecstasy, I painfully bite my lip to stop from crying out.
A second passes before I realize blood has tainted the liquid with malevolence. Murder has its own distinct flavor. I’ve killed many in the scenarios, but before now, I never understood the wonders of ending a life.
My hands wrap around the throat of my fantasy lover. As my fingers tighten, raw emotions flood into my being. Murder gives more pleasure than sex. Hatred is better than love. Tighter, tighter, I squeeze, enjoying his wheezy breaths and bulging eyes. It’s mesmerizing. When his breathing stops and his eyes glaze, my body shudders with joy.
No!
I slam my hands on the tabletop. The bag explodes between my fingers, sending a shower of thick blue droplets everywhere.
Wiping the liquid from their faces, my confused companions stare at me in silence. Then they raise their pouches to smash them too.
I face my palms toward them and thrust out my hands. “Don’t.”
“What’s wrong?” Jay says in bewilderment.
“It’s nothing.” Standing and knocking my chair to the floor, I angrily wave for everyone to stay seated. Then ignoring their surprised expressions and the curious stares of the other teams, I pivot and leave the cafeteria.
When I get into the hallway, I stop and wipe strands of red hair and glops of blue liquid from my face, which ignites an odd sense of déjà vu.
Fighting the malevolence infecting my mouth, I force my fingers into my throat and retch, but nothing comes out.
The foul desires of the blue liquid won’t go away.
I want more.
With renewed determination, I shove my fingers down my throat again, achieving the same results.
Rather than force my hand into my stomach, I settle for “Plan B” and take a few minutes to spit out the vileness.
Afterward, I press my forearms into my thighs, holding myself in a hunched position and using deep breaths to shake off my embarrassment. Attempting to have an orgasm while sitting in a bustling cafeteria was an awful idea.
And that was the best part of the experience.
While I’ve obliterated the wall separating me from my emotions, murder has infected my desires. I need to feel someone’s life being extinguished in my hands. To watch the sparkles in my victim’s eyes fade. Taking a life is better than sex.
If I give into it, I’ll plow through the scenarios.
I rattle my head, struggling to force the c
raziness from my mind. The substance has more power than I imagined, corrupting even an act as beautiful as making love.
Although trying to do something like Syd was a stupid idea with predictably terrible results, I now understand his motivations. However, while he controlled the blue liquid, my single experience skirted the edge of insanity.
Sadly, I feel a bit of redemption for not telling Vela his secret.
Better to be dead than a monster.
I can’t surrender to that fate. My mind protests but I concentrate on Suri and Walt and the good things from the virtual universe.
As the remembrances calm me, I straighten and gather in my surroundings.
Near the end of the hallway, the witch I met under the bowels of Home floats on her broom. Even though it’s not a private place, I’m angry she’s intruding on my private moment.
I march to confront her.
She speaks in a neutral voice as I approach. “While you can lose your life in the scenarios, here is where you can lose your soul.”
Although I’m tempted to grab her as she performs the hand gesture and disappears, I watch in stony silence, troubled by her words.
Because you probably feel like Eve after she ate the apple.
Forty-Two
In the cavern of the opera-styled theater, the black and white motion picture flickers on the giant screen. The light-hearted romp seems familiar with the two lead actors performing a classic comedic routine, but I don’t recall any of the details nor does it matter. I’m just glad the humorous movie lacks any sinister undertones.
My violent desires don’t need any triggers.
Resisting the urge to wipe my tongue and spit, I clench my jaw and squeeze my lips closed with my fingers. Although my foray into Syd’s universe of sex and violence crushed my lifeless state, six days have passed and the cloying thoughts of the blue liquid won’t leave. Unlike normal emotions, they hang like a cloud, ever-present, malevolent, and constantly prodding me toward evil. In each scenario, with each kill, the joy of violence surges, threatening to overwhelm me. Only with a huge effort have I avoided slipping into the clutches of insanity.
