NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire

by Jason Crutchfield

  “I think I'm starting to get an idea…” I panted a few more times and stood. A sigh escaped my lips as I struggled to suppress the protests in the right side of my body.

  “Iz zat so? Zhen show me, little doggy.” Raze swirled his small sword in the air as though completing a choreographed show aimed to impress a court.

  I regained my composure as the various wounds in my body squished shut from Panacea's toils. After recalling the pain and nature of the piercings, I realized they blinded me with frustration far more than they actually caused damage. I flipped my left dagger into a reverse grip before dashing headlong at Raze. We engaged in the routine song and dance like a performing duet. My attacks skimmed by his vitals, at which I clearly aimed, or merely grazed portions of his flesh deemed unimportant enough to protect in lieu of those vitals.

  With each eluded blow, I felt the odd sensation overcome my hand at a precise point. Likewise, my parries failed to deflect his counter strikes. With every clang of my daggers against his small sword, the sharpened point of his blade slid into my flesh like a homing missile.

  Finally, at the height of the exchange when the tempo peaked, I awakened my Cognitive Accelerator. Raze lunged forward and thrust his small sword toward the center of my chest. The blade moved through the air as a needle until the flattened edge of my left dagger, held fast in a reverse grip, sent it on a detour; its trajectory was altered toward the outside of my left shoulder. My right hand thrust its blade to the left of Raze's cheek, though I arched my arm at the start of my thrust to offer the illusion that the attack was aimed to pierce his face.

  A smile touched my lips; using my peripherals, I caught his small sword's length wobble around my dagger like a whip. The point threatened to puncture my chest just above my left breast. The odd feeling overcame my right hand, and my dagger tugged involuntarily further to the left of his cheek. Rather than fight it, I contoured my thrust to the flow of the feeling and plunged the tip of my dagger into the palm of his floating left hand. His eyes widened, and the peripherals I used to track his small sword's movements did not disappoint. The wobble of the blade straightened with a jarring vibration. Its length skimmed passed my left shoulder as I originally intended. Raze's cool demeanor melted into a concoction of heated rage, disgusted hatred, and frustrated pain.

  “Raaagh! You bitch! Oh, zat zmarts! Ugggh! My hand, my beautiful hand! Sacrebleu, zon of a bitch!” His rage exploded into a series of attacks utterly different from the pretense of a poised gentlemanly duel he displayed until that point. He ripped his bloodied hand away from my dagger, kicked me hard in my chest, and launched several barbaric punches into my torso and face. The pop of my bones from the immense power of his blows surprised me, as until then he displayed no aptitude for physical prowess. Alongside his curses and profane spitting, Raze sprinkled wide slashes and stabs with his beloved small sword into his assault. I protected my head and heart, but the crimson vital force spewing from the multitude of holes littering my frame elicited gasps and cries of pain from my lips.

  His finale was an uncouth thrust kick; he hammered his right foot into the center of my sternum and sent me whistling through the air right back to the wall from which I mounted my counterattack only a moment prior. His left hand moved with his trademark fluid grace, though far quicker, and as the smell invaded my nostrils and Raze snapped his fingers, a fiery column exploded to life behind me in the path of my involuntary travel. I hit the ground in the burning pit and rolled through it after it scorched my body and singed my hair. When my back finally slammed into the wall to halt my journey, I coughed up a thick glob of blood.

  “Zhere… you zee?” Raze huffed before standing erect. The swiftness with which he regained his composure was astounding. “Zat iz what happenz when a dog bitez itz mazter'z hand. Zee zat you do not forget zis pain. Zis humiliation. Zis torment.” As Panacea worked to close the wound in the palm of his hand, the recovery nanites barely began the treatment necessary to seal my numerous wounds.

  Raze lifted the hand clutching his small sword and used his fingers to slick back his blond locks of hair which had been disheveled during his outburst. He slowly stepped forward until his body loomed just outside the wall of fire he created. “You underztand now, oui? Zhere iz no weaknezz. Zhere iz no idea zat you can have zat will give you any hope.”

  I coughed blood again. The pain coursing through my body threatened to rob me of consciousness. Still, I glowered up at the pompous prick through a curtain of singed and bloody raven bangs. “There is,” I sputtered with subtle amusement.

  “Eh? You are ztill talking zee canine language, I zee. Bark, bark, bark. Your zenses muzt be lozt wiz all zhat blood.” Raze shook his head.

  “Hah… none of that… matters. I know… how to beat you…” I coughed the words as I press my back to the wall and wriggled up it until I stood upright. I flipped both daggers into a reverse grip and leaned into the best combat stance my current condition allowed me to take.

  “That last one was… a nice attack, by the way… it's the only real thing about you… we've seen so far.” Despite my harrowing fatigue, the unbearable pain gripping my body, and the impending sense of death lingering over me like a thick shroud, a large smile decorated my bloodied lips.

  File 17: Stripping Humanity

  “Real, you zay? What do you know of real, puppy? I am as real as it getz. It iz becauze I am zo real zat I am unable to forgive zis world for expecting me to be fake. Like a caged tiger or helplezz pet bird. I am real wizhin zee confinez eztablished by zis world. But zat iz only a zmall part of me. Zee wildnezz, zee freedom, zee true me zat exizts wizhin zee cage cannot be underztood zo long as zhose barz confine me. Zo…” Raze furrowed his brows into an expression far more passionate than the cool facade he typically displayed. As he monologued, he seemed entranced by the sight of his wounded palm sealing shut with a quivering suction noise.

  Panacea had finished its work on him, but the recovery process was still heavily underway on my own body. Worse, my world gyrated in front of my eyes as the liberal loss of blood I suffered took its toll on my senses. Raze glanced in my direction through the smoldering wall of flames separating us and clenched his fist, “I zought power. Power enough to break zee chainz zat bind me to zee ignorance of zis world. Bradich iz a man who can provide zat power. If working for him will free me from zis cage, zhen it iz a zmall price to pay.”

  “And if you're wrong? If he doesn't set you free?” I inquired. I needed to buy just a little more time to heal, and Raze simply oozed with the desire to spill his guts to someone.

  “Zhen I have no need for zuch a world. I rezolved myself long ago, zat if I could never be free of my bondz, zhen I would burn zis world to zee ground.” His eyes flashed; disdain dripped from his words like a toxin.

  “Hence the name Raze…” I conjectured. The more severe wounds decorating my body finished closing; I inhaled deeply in an attempt to stabilize my vision. Unfortunately, while the heavy blood loss desisted, the vitality I already lost kept my vision blurred and my head foggy.

  “Zat iz correct. Zuch a clever pooch. It iz a zhame zat you are a woman. Ozherwize, we might have underztood one anozher.” Raze stepped through the wisps of fire smoldering on the tile floor and stood mere inches in front of me.

  “A woman? What does that have to do with it?” I arched a brow at his accusation. I asked the question to bide time, but somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I understood exactly what that had to do with it.

  “Everyzhing!” Raze growled and intruded the point of his small sword against the tip of my right breast. I drew a hiss into my throat from the burning ache; my left hand shot across my chest, dagger and all, and gripped the sharpened length of the flimsy sword. A stream of blood trickled down the length of my wrist from my palm as I struggled to keep Raze's torturous maneuver at bay.

  “I hate your kind. Ezpecially women like you. Beautiful women w
ho chooze inztead to fight. You could be experienzing romanze. You take for granted zat it iz aczeptable for you to be in love wiz a man. Zat at any time you could put down zese ridiculouz daggerz and find a partner, a man who lovez you and aczepts you for who you are.” The bitterness in Raze's tone seeped through every pore in his body like biohazardous waste.

  Synchronously with his words, Raze twisted the small sword's point against my sensitive breast. A sharp cry escaped my lips as my bloodied hand shook; I struggled to force away the intrusive steel. “But moi? Becauze I am a man myzelf, I am ridiculed for preferring zee company of ozher men. ‘Inefficient” zey zay, ‘unproductive’ zey zay, ‘illogical’ zey zay!” With every spat word, Raze shoved the point of the small sword harder against my modest swell. Though he failed to puncture the skin largely thanks to my wounded hand, he succeeded in drawing three sharp grunts of agony from me.

  Raze's fury was not unfounded. In historical times, opinions regarding same sex affections split countries in half. As time progressed and open minded generations seized the political helms of the world, it ushered in an age when people regarded the freedom to choose with the same precious protection as the very freedom to live. Unfortunately, the reconciliation of the philosophical and moral ramifications of the issue was short lived. When the Global Conflict erupted, the rate at which human beings died trumped such issues.

  Our ability to deal death as a race truly knew no equal; because of that, the desperate encouragement to bring new life into the world superseded all ethical questions regarding controversial topics such as homosexuality and abortion. As a species, in order to survive, we needed babies. Lots of babies.

  Thus, a stigma swept the globe against any people unwilling to utilize their genes for breeding purposes. Homosexuals were the obvious first scapegoat. It amused me to think that questions of morality evaporated in the face of necessity. The conservative shouts of “Immoral!”, “Sanctity of marriage!”, and “How will the children turn out?!” morphed into misappropriated accusations like “Unproductive!”, “Extinction of humanity!”, and “How will we bear enough children?!” While the enraged fists shook in the direction of the alleged offenders, the community preferring same-sex partnerships were taken aback.

  Until the Global Conflict's hefty death toll, those with differing sexual orientations enjoyed a life of protected freedom and tolerance. All of a sudden, without much warning, society thrust them into defensive positions as it dumped its human extinction problem directly atop their shoulders. Their ancient pleas that rang out, “Intolerant!”, “Equality of rights!”, and “We deserve to love who we want!” resurfaced as aghast cries of “Unfair!”, “Protection of freedoms!”, and “Don't shove the world's problems on us!”

  It was an ageless beast. In ancient times when the world struggled to find its balance between morality and tolerance, it bore stripes and answered to a name. In the times of abundance and transcendent thought, it slept dormant within the hearts of men. Finally, during the Global Conflict it awoke wearing spots and answering to another name, but it was the same seemingly immortal creature nonetheless. Far worse was the fact that the majority of homosexuals happily offered their sperm and eggs as tools for procreation.

  With technology at its apex before the Titan Crisis, utilizing the raw genetics of a person's sperm or egg to “forge” a baby was a small task. Before humanity's fall, tales circulated in the medical community regarding “genetic specialization.” The concept referred to parents picking and choosing which genes, including long dormant or recessive genes, emerged in their offspring. With “build-a-baby” technology, a complete artificial gestation was only a small bridge to cross. But most homosexuals' willingness to happily provide their genetic code for reproduction failed to stop the fanatics from levying accusations against them. No matter our level of enlightenment, crises spurred one of humanity's darkest traits straight to the surface: the need to blame.

  Intelligently, I understood the concept of necessity and the world's overwhelming struggle to procreate after its cataclysmic population sink. Intellectually, I felt disgusted by the manner in which those purporting ideas of necessity treated homosexuals like subhumans. Their community became regarded with a tenacious stigma unfounded in facts and driven only by purposeless hatred. Emotionally, I stopped caring after the Titan Crisis. Even in the grand scheme of our species, we possessed a myriad of more pressing problems. I felt the sexuality of others bore no significant impact on me or my goal to bleed Bradich dry. Many would refer to my apathy as riding the fence. I referred to it as minding my own damn business.

  “I… would have probably sympathized with you… a lot better… over a pint of sludge, asshole…” I growled the words between clenched teeth. With Panacea finishing its work on the remainder of my wounds, I pressed my back firmly against the wall, and with the full force I could muster in my position, I shoved my right foot straight up between the duke's legs. His features contorted, and he released a sharp wail several octaves higher than his normal annoying voice.

  The shock served its purpose as the force behind his small sword all but vanished, and I knocked it away with my dagger encumbered hand. I reached forward and placed my palms atop his shoulders; with a powerful heave I launched myself up and over the top of his head, and by kicking off the wall at the pinnacle of my leap, I turned a quick flip before landing behind him. During my descent, I buried my hands into the flowing mane of blond that framed Raze's pretty face. I landed back-to-back against the duke with my arms slung over my right shoulder and my fingers entwined in his silken tresses. I used the momentum of my front flip to bend forward, heaving Raze over my back as I activated my Supersoldier nanite.

  I purposely aimed for the ornate steel table positioned in front of the security monitors, the same table in front of which Raze stood during our initial infiltration into his mansion. He turned an involuntary flip before smashing atop the lengthy tabletop on his stomach. The large container erected in the center of the table which housed Raze's fine sludge beverage shattered on his chest. His echoing “oomph” coincided with the creak of the table as it bent into a slight arch beneath the force of his impact.

  “I do not need your zympathy, dog… agh, I only need you to die.” Raze rolled from the table; he planted his feet on the ground and stood erect gasping for breath and clutching his stomach.

  “You have it regardless. You pretend to adhere to society's norms for the sake of the world. Pretend to be French to justify losing to them during that operation. And now you pretend to have pyrokinesis to intimidate others. You've led a fake life,” I flipped my daggers in my hand to make them more useful in combat and less useful for grabbing shirts and clutching small swords.

  “Fake pyrokineziz you zay?” Raze grinned, but his face betrayed his apprehension.

  “That's right. You have psychokinesis, not pyrokinesis. I would wager when your talent developed you discovered it wasn't capable of heavy lifting as some of the more renowned psychokinetic implants. It was indeed unique, however.” I sighed.

  “Ah, yes of course. Finite psychokinesis! Why, what an astute observation my dear!” Oswald's voice yet again emerged from the shadows of his hiding hovel beneath the stairs.

  Like clockwork he stepped forward and folded his arms across his chest before continuing, “Instead of gauging its applicability using an amount of weight, Raze's psychokinetic abilities are extraordinarily precise. Remarkable. When human minds transcended their limitations after the creation of thought enhancing nanites, several new forms of energy naturally existing in the world were discovered, one of which involved the interaction and purpose of a sub-atomic particle called the neutrino. Hmm, how to put this in grade school terminology for the intellectually impaired…”

  “A neutrino is a particle that possesses mass but is not affected by any force save gravity and weak sub-atomic forces. The mathematics and numbers are long and boring, but suffice
to say that without being affected by magnetism or nuclear forces, neutrinos pass through matter virtually unimpeded. It was discovered that our brain is capable of harnessing the dormant force these particles can carry with our thought waves. Once given force when caught by our brain's receptors, neutrinos are imprinted with information generated by our thought waves; they are then projected as a wave. Of course, a transfer of energy with enough force or neutrinos to move objects would fry your brain. Actually…” Oswald tapped his chin and stared up at the ceiling.

  “If I'm not mistaken, a few brains were fried for the sake of experimentation with psychokinetic waves. But I digress. After long years of intellectual pursuit, scientists engineered specific nanites to serve as the bridge between our brains and the necessary power storage to convert neutrinos to usable psychic phenomena. The nanites serve as the receptors for the neutrinos, store the information generated by our thoughts, and handle the conversion; the thought is then projected as a wave to influence the desired object,” Oswald carefully explained.

  “Typically, the waves are very low in frequency and move objects as a thuggish brute would push a rock or slam a door. It would seem that yours, however, are incredibly high frequency and capable of far weaker, but far more precise, manipulations! So intriguing. I say, my boy, if you survive this encounter perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of dissecting your brain?” Oswald stared up at Raze with glittering expectation shining from his eyes.

  “Zat zoundz like zee most hackneyed jargon I have ever heard, Doctor. And of course you cannot operate on my brain! Are you ztark raving mad?! Sacrebleu, zee thingz I have to put up wiz. I don't even know why I am ztanding here juzt liztening to zis nonzenze.” Raze's voice seemed normal again. I disappointedly clicked my tongue.

  “Well, I never! I'm sure they called the fusion between biological cells, mechanical parts, and computerized intelligence ‘hackneyed’ too! But then what happened? The nanite was created. Which is why you're alive today, albeit probably quite briefly, mind you!” Oswald snubbed his nose at the duke of flame.