by Ethan Cooper
It’s dead. Right?
I sit down. Don’t know why. Guess I don’t know what else to do. It’s comforting in some strange way, and I don’t feel as vulnerable. Maybe it’s being closer to the ground. Body’s not as open to the world in this position. Back curved, head tilted, face to the horizon, eyes closed. Somewhere up there is the new morning sun, but I don’t want to look at the world right now. Because there are dead wirewitches all around me.
I don’t want to think about that, but it’s all I can think about.
A hand on my shoulder.
It’s JACK. “Are you all right?”
No, I’m not all right. How can I be all right? “Yes. Yes, I’m alive.”
She sits next to me. Her body is almost back to normal; she’s almost recognizable.
3-43 kneels in front of me. “Why were the eoas after you?” He’s covered in brown blood. More so than JACK or myself. But his eyes…they’re clear, unblemished and swirling.
“I…I don’t know.”
He bows his head and exhales, hairstalks waving. His head comes up, and he smiles. It’s a wirewitch smile so it’s full of jagged teeth, but it’s a smile.
Smiling back might feel good, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. Nothing does.
JACK rises to her feet and walks off somewhere behind me, examining the bodies of her fallen sisters.
Then the static is back. Not strong compared to last time, but enough to bring my hands to my temples, eyes closing out the world. Vision black, concentration inward, static fading, I can hear…
…JACK stepping lightly behind me…
…3-43 breathing softly in front of me…
…metal scraping on metal…
…soft squishy thumping…
…wet flesh sliding…
…bone grinding on bone…
Too late, I realize the danger isn’t over because 3-43’s hands lock down on my shoulders and squeeze hard. My eyes open to the sight of a ragged tusk protruding from the warlock’s chest. His mouth is open, his face a palette of surprise, shock, and pain. The eoa’s good eye taunts me. 3-43 still has me by the shoulders, and I can see his eyes stilling, but his mouth is moving, and I realize that he’s speaking his final words to me. From his mouth, blue liquid leaks, drowning most of his words except for one gurgled sentence: “Protect the chil…” Protect the child. Then his hands go limp, sliding down my arms in a gentle caress. I shiver, attempting to say something back, but there are no words available; I’d be talking to a corpse. The eoa tosses his head, and 3-43’s body shoots skyward, sliding slickly from the tusk.
Mind refusing to believe that the eoa can still be alive, I watch as 3-43’s body slams back down to the ground. The eoa, raging blindly, pummels the warlock with its tail, bonespikes ventilating 3-43’s flesh again and again, mutilating him, ripping out chunks of meat, mashing the corpse until it’s an unrecognizable mess.
Now I’m running toward JACK. Her figure has returned to normal. She’s kneeling over there, seemingly oblivious that she is the last remaining member of her coven. She’s hunched over, hairstalks bent to the ground. Her body is convulsing, and as I get close I can see that she’s crying. Over my shoulder I can see the eoa still ravaging what’s left of 3-43. Nobody deserves to die like that. How the fuck can that thing still be alive!
I don’t know what to do next, so I get down next to JACK and put my arms around her, pulling her close. She cries into me, her tears running down the front of my shirt, leaving glistening trails through the brown eoa goo and blue wirewitch blood there. My tears are next, joining the mixture, just more stains in a world of blemish. Who’s gonna notice?
JACK and I are still entwined when the eoa finishes with 3-43’s corpse and begins a slow lurch toward us.
12/Last Lives
2195.12.11/Morning
Eternity is a second in the mind and a second is infinity in this moment and this moment will be over in a minute but right now this moment is infinite.
Waiting is the worst part.
Right?
Why aren’t we dead yet?
The eoa towers over us, but doesn’t attack. It’s venting a thick stream of blood onto the ground, forming a puddle that flows around my shoes. I keep my focus on JACK, arms around her, not going to let go, because she’s not trying to escape. Two vulnerable wisps are we. Pulling her tighter to me, noticing the texture of her skin for the first time, almost slick but not quite—not like 3-43’s. The difference is subtle, but it’s there. Maybe because she’s female?
Something moves against my hand. Hairstalks, like cold wires on my fingers. Does she know she’s doing that? Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now because we’ve lost, and the eoa is about to take our lives, but I don’t know what to do about it. How can it feel so right to just crouch here in the shadow of a monster, holding JACK? It’s not going to save her. Or me. If I’m going to die, I want to be touching someone. Don’t want to face it alone. Maybe JACK feels the same.
My head is bent downward, but I can sense the eoa above us, dripping various bodily fluids on my back. Why isn’t this thing dead yet?
The eoas’s breaths are deep, struggling gurgles.
“Don’t let it get us,” JACK whispers in my ear. “Please.”
“Okay,” I say, bracing for the strike.
The ragged edge of the eoa’s tusk touches my shoulder. Pressed against JACK, I can’t recoil, but the tusk just rests there, as if it was attached to a friend trying to get my attention. Hey, Syl, is that you? How long has it been? Turn around and give me a hug!
What is going on? Why hasn’t it tried to gore us? Questions, but no answers. If this is a story, I think it’s gonna be one that ends badly—with a great big question mark at the end. And that question mark is me.
Iamthequestionmark.
Iamthequestionmark?
“I want to live,” JACK pleads again.
There’s nothing I can say to her.
But now there are other sounds, new sounds, something approaching. No—somebody. Footsteps off to the side, behind the eoa. Quick footsteps, purposeful and deliberate. The footsteps stop, replaced with the unmistakable grating of metal on metal, then footsteps again, faster, incoming.
The eoa rises up and away. Not going to look, not this time. Whoever it is, they’re about to die, and I don’t want to watch.
Should probably be using the distraction to try to escape, but when I shift my weight, JACK’s grip around my neck tightens. We’re not going anywhere quick.
I hear the sound of tearing flesh. It’s not a ragged ripping, but a clean slicing. Bones breaking, not bludgeoned, but cut through. The eoa screams in pain, a strange, high-pitched wail this time. Loud thumps of the eoa’s feet mingled with the quick, light steps of the unknown newcomer.
Thick wetness rains down on us. I can’t help tensing up, but really, we’re already covered in blood, de-sanitized. What’s a little more? In fact, pour it on! Ew, gross. A meaty impact occurs beside us. My body gets ahead of my brain, and I turn my head. It’s the eoa’s tail, thick and spiked and separated from its owner.
The eoa is convulsing. Still on its feet though. How can that be? It has to be losing gallons of blood every minute.
The newcomer is behind the eoa. I don’t get a good look because the eoa suddenly lurches toward us. Its eye is a ruined mass of indeterminate flesh, but it knows precisely where we are. Its mouth curls and I know. Suddenly I know.
Oh fuck.
I know that it’s not going to stop this time. It is not going to stop!!
Incoming.
Nothing to do except brace for the collision and hope that the remaining tusk is off target.
But it’s not going to miss this time. It is not going to miss. I can see it heading for my face. Not going to miss.
JACK jerks in my arms, anticipating the final blow. Me, I can’t close my eyes, mesmerized. The eoa stumbles and goes down in the street right beside us, vomiting red and black streaks, life flo
wing from its body in one final, violent heave. Gore pours and puddles, drenching my boots and my legs.
JACK and I inhale simultaneously. It feels good not being dead.
“Your skin feels different,” JACK says quietly. “It’s smooth.”
I laugh at that. A quick burst, but it feels good.
“It’s you again,” a voice says from up above and behind us.
I look up and back, and I smile. There’s a man of chrome towering over us.
My smile came of its own accord; it’s too late to take it back. Shouldn’t have done that, but I wanted to. I wanted to. Maybe it’s too soon. Probably, so I let it fade away.
The man is silhouetted against a red sky. The light reflects off his face, metal where skin should be. His body is draped with a trench coat, burnt and black at the edges, torn and streaked with holes, wanting to fall apart but prevented from doing so by some higher power. Scanning down I can see his hands, one untouched, the other wounded. Pseudo-skin peeled back and charred, machinery and circuitry within the limb. A finger twitches. I can see the micronized pistons pump, gears spinning, lubricant pumping through tiny silver hoses. He’s holding a sword, drenched in eoa blood. Vision back up to his face. Those silver eyes are tunneling back at me. On his forehead dance thick strands of gray hair. In his eyes there’s something like recognition…but I’m coming up empty. Do I know—
“Here, let me help you,” the man says, hand extending. It’s the wounded one.
My hand is drenched with blood, but he doesn’t seem to notice as I’m pulled to my feet. I can feel the workings of the machinery in his hand. JACK still clutches my other hand.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“You don’t remember?”
Remember? My memory is a bit limited at the moment. “No.”
His hand is still in mine. He gives my arm a yank, pulling me toward him. “Maybe you’ll recognize me now.”
He’s holding my hand to his face, my body touching his, blood smearing from body to trench coat. He’s taller than me, his head down, mine tilted up to meet his gaze. Fingers touching the line where his torn skin stops and the metal beneath begins. The skin feels sickeningly real, and the metal is humanly warm, radiating heat. Wait—
My mind flashes to the alley where I awakened, only hours ago it seems though it must have been days. Must have been days. The memory brings the smells of alcohol and refuse to me, of lying in piles of trash, but also something else. It’s back there in the dark place where I can’t see, the hidden corners of my mind. It has an ancient feel to it. Ancient? No, not quite ancient. Maybe just familiar. That’s better. Familiar. But I can’t define it better than that. Still, there must be—
“I’m Aran.”
Mouth not working, thoughts jumbled and bumbled. Need a second to sort it all out. Just a sec—
JACK pulls at my hand. “Let’s get out of here, Syl, it’s not safe.”
“Syl,” Aran mouths.
“My name is (2)Syl.” Should I have told him that?
“(2)Syl,” Aran says, correcting himself. “Sorry.”
“I don’t like it out here,” JACK says.
I felt his jaw move, synchronized cogs whirring under his skin. I pull my hand away, then take a step back. Whoever he is, he’s not afraid of wirewitches, or at least not of JACK. Should I be scared? He did save us. “Hold on, JACK, it will be all right. I just need a minute.”
“No,” Aran says. “Your friend is right. It’s not safe out here.”
Dead eoas and wirewitches litter the ground, but this place is a tomb. Nobody else in sight. People tend to run at the sight of an eoa. That won’t last for long. Now that the battle is over, the scavengers will want to feed.
“Where can we go?” I ask, tired suddenly.
Aran looks over his shoulder at me. “I have a place.” Fiery sunlight gleaming on his cheek, momentarily blinding me.
“Good.” I say.
Aran looks at JACK, then at the bodies of the other wirewitches. “Is there—?”
JACK cuts him off. “I will perform the rites. We must collect what is left of the bodies.”
Aran nods.
IN THE HIDEOUT
13/Warrior
2195.12.11/Morning
Clear
water
stream
pours
from a
hanging
pipe,
down,
an
undulating
worm.
Dirt and blood run in rivers down my body, creating a sick, diseased rainbow formed in hues of red, blue, and brown. Could stand here for hours and still not feel clean.
I’m no longer cold. The water is warm, and I’m as close to heaven as I can remember. But this isn’t heaven. If it was, I’d have to be an angel, right?
There’s no way I’m an angel.
Angels know who they are. Angels remember their past. They know their purpose. Their minds don’t randomly explode with static. I doubt they have blue hair, and I just can’t picture an angel standing naked underneath a gushing pipe in some forgotten underground hole, washing off the blood and gore from her latest battle. Angels probably aren’t allowed to swear either. It’s gotta be against some code.
There’s a crack out in the hall—the sound of something being crushed—and I’m turning, covering myself with my hands as best I can. No door on this room, and this shower is simply a pipe in the wall, so it’s open viewing for all passersby. Took it for granted that Aran would leave me alone. Maybe I was wrong. Nothing moves through the hall, and there aren’t any sounds, so I turn back to scrubbing my body clean.
Only wirewitches are allowed to observe the death rites, so I’m here instead. I didn’t want to watch anyway, couldn’t take that right now. Four deaths. Where’s the purpose in that? I need the reason. I need a cause. I need answers.
Barely know what questions to ask though, and that might be the most frustrating part of this. That, and I’m tired. Answers may provide some stability, but the search for them can be a draining pursuit.
Or maybe I’m just afraid.
Eventually, I’m clean and clothed. Not in the same clothes that the wirewitches had given me, but the outfit I found lying in the doorway after I was finished showering. On top of the undergarments was a skinsuit. Felt so foreign sliding onto me, like my body had never experienced one before. Even though it has some gray detailing at the edges and across the chest, the rest of it is black, like what I was wearing before. I may not remember everything right now, but I don’t think black is my favorite color. Also, for a skinsuit, it doesn’t fit well—baggy in some places and too tight in others, as if it were worn by somebody who only exercised half their body. It’s a single piece, fully covering me from mid-ankle all the way up to my neck. The sleeves are angled and only a few centimeters long, leaving my arms bare. Still, it’s better than nothing, and there wasn’t much I could do with what I was wearing before anyway. Apparently, eoa blood never comes out? It had soaked all the way through my undergarments. I’m able to rewrap my foot in a bandage that Aran left. Some thick-soled boots complete the outfit.
It’s amazing how much better I feel with clothes and a shower.
Don’t know where this place is, but at least it’s warm. Aran brought us here without explanation.
Aran. Doesn’t take much effort to conclude that he’s extremely dangerous. As much machine as he is man, I can’t even imagine what he’s capable of. He certainly dispatched that eoa efficiently enough, so there are benefits of being half robot.
Everybody has their reasons for selling their soul to the machine I’m sure. In Aran’s case, superhuman strength and speed. But it isn’t all good. Probably has emotion suppressors and sees the world in altered hues. Don’t know how much of his body is original, but it’s not the majority. And that’s just the physical. What about his persona? How much of him is just the interaction of his molecules with his fleshware? Did the real him survive whatever operations
made him what he is? What a mess.
Still, he saved us. That’s something.
Actually, for me that’s a lot.
I wander the hallways until I find a large room that Aran appears to be using as a warehouse. Can’t begin to describe the variety of tech lining the rows of shelves, but it’s clear Aran is prepared for many different types of dangerous situations. The ceiling is high above us, but there appears to be some sort of circular opening up there. It’s dark, so I can’t see through the opening.
Aran is leaning against one wall. JACK enters without saying a word. The rites are complete, and the sole survivor bows her head, hairstalks drooping.
“Water and skinsuit in there,” Aran says, pointing.
JACK leaves exactly as she entered, wordless.
Aran and I are alone together. His trench coat is off, and I can see that his body has repaired itself further. I look down at my foot, which is itching. Hopefully it’s starting to heal. Not feeling any fire down there right now even. Good. The natural way may not measure up in speed, but at least it feels right.
“You.” Aran says, “Who are you, why do you hang around with wirewitches, and what the hell did you do to piss off a pack of eoas?”
“That’s three questions. Is that all you want to know?”
“For now.”
“You saved my life. I can’t thank you enough, but why should I trust you?”
“You don’t have to answer,” he says, but there’s something about the way he’s keeping his face hidden in shadows that tells me something different.
I pause for only a few moments. He saved me. I owe him something, don’t I? “Okay, I woke several days ago—”
“In that…” he begins, but trails off, as if the memory is discomforting.
“That alley,” I finish for him.
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well I don’t. Not sure how I got there. Can’t really remember that part.”
