by A W Wang
“You four, come on. Let’s finish this.”
While my mouth tightens, Cat brushes close. “I understand why you’re upset, but Gil’s got nothing to do with it.”
“How do you know that?”
“You told me. And you said never to repeat it unless you needed a kick-start. So, keep a lid on the anger, and we’ll figure something out.”
I uncurl my fist and dial my dark emotions back to simmering.
As Gil launches into another diatribe about his views on finishing the remaining enemies, Jet and Block march past without even sparing the older man a glance.
Because Cat’s right, I turn to Gil, saying, “It’s nothing personal. We know how to kill, and we know how to win.”
“So do I.”
“Fair enough,” I say, remembering my rule for getting close to teammates. “If you survive two scenarios with us, then we can talk.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but I walk away, heading through the coconut grove and toward the beach.
A moment later, Cat and the others catch up, leaving Gil standing alone in the sunshine behind us.
By the time my feet hit the sand and the last enemies come into sight, my soul feels uglier and more sordid than ever.
But, I’m happy to be in this scenario.
Thirty-Three
Under a dome of bright stars, the night face of the sanctuary unfolds before me. Past the gentle slope below the exercise cube, yellow glows from iron lampposts dot the rubbery paths. Further away, beams of light crawl up the sides of the futuristic skylines, which curve and fade into the dark and distant backdrop. At any other time and in any other situation, this scene would be beautiful.
I push out a long sigh and step from the glass wall, letting my reflection come into focus. Even though I don’t understand what the angry face wants, I return the judgmental stare with one of my own, struggling to find some echo of what I was.
Because I’m afraid of what I’ve become.
I imagine Jet painting her face and the blood on my hand calling to me.
There has to be something else.
Although my mind whirls, my faulty memories produce only an image of a dark smudge across a bright pane of sunshine.
Wondering who or what it could be, I glance at the smooth skin of my forearm. Bloody letters formed from jagged cuts should be there, but what those words might be drift beyond the edge of my consciousness. I’m sure it’s something that would calm this anger. Unfortunately, I have no idea what.
The mirrored likeness offers no clues.
A wooden practice spear slaps my arm.
Yelping, I twist my head.
“Where’s your mind wandering off to this time?” Cat says.
I rub my bicep, happy not to be at the shooting range, where she’d probably just plug me once or twice to get my attention.
“Nowhere,” I reply. After she sighs with exasperation, I add, “No place special.”
“You’re fighting everything I’m doing to help you. Stop grabbing at the past. Accept that it’s gone. There’s only the now and becoming the best fighter you can be. To leave this program.”
My anger surges, and I slam my spear onto the practice mat.
Cat rolls her eyes.
I take a deep breath and say as calmly as I can, “I thought that losing the last of my memories might be a good thing. But without them, everything is worse than ever.”
“You’re getting better at fighting.”
“That’s not the point. This isn’t about training. This is about what I’m becoming.”
She stays silent, only pursing her lips.
“I want to explode, and I haven’t the foggiest idea why. Why I can’t stand Gil isn’t rational. Who does he remind me of? My father, a grandfather, an uncle, or even some guy from next door?”
“Like no one you’ve physically described to me,” Cat says with a shrug.
“It’s got to be somebody.”
“Gil is trying to get people to train with him. We should go too, so you can figure this out.”
I laugh, the sounds feeling hollow and detached.
“Getting to know him might help,” Cat adds.
As an image of my hands wrapping around Gil’s neck flashes in my mind, I spit out, “It might, but that won’t happen.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I told you why I’ve got this demon inside, right?”
She nods.
“Tell me.”
Cat taps her chin in thought. “You said to save it for the right moment. Me telling you now won’t help.”
Although not what I want to hear, she gives an earnest smile which improves my mood.
“When we first started, I was sure this would make me better. But now—”
“Training isn’t supposed to make you use the threads better.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
Exasperation leaks into her voice. “Like I told you, this is supposed to bring out what makes you better than everyone else. Think. What do you do better than anyone?”
“I know people, what makes them tick, what makes them special.”
She sighs. “When you said that before, I thought you were joking.”
“Why?”
“On a battlefield, you’ll get a bullet in the face or stabbed in the gut long before you figure out what makes someone tick. In a place like this, I can’t see how that would be useful.”
I shrug, conceding her point.
A moment passes before Cat says, “Let’s practice. Maybe something else will come up.”
She pushes her toe under my spear and flicks it to me. When I catch the haft, she attacks.
Startled, I back away, whipping my weapon into hers with a resounding clack.
Undeterred, she sidesteps with light feet and renews the assault, using overhand strikes.
As the duel continues, Cat’s faster, crisper strokes wear down my defenses, and the black pool of my emotions rises. I respond with wilder swings and more desperate thrusts. Through the sloppiness, Cat kicks the head of my spear to the side and rams the butt of hers into my gut.
Air whooshes from my lungs, and I double over, groaning in frustration. Furious, I fling my spear into a long rack, knocking wooden weapons all over the practice area.
Cat tosses her spear and sinks to a mat. “Come here. Let’s do something about this rage you’ve got. It’s not helping.”
Still gasping for breath, I drop next to her. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
After letting out a humorless chuckle, she says, “I guess training doesn’t always mean weapons. Part of being a better fighter is having the right frame of mind.”
I shrug, not understanding her logic.
She nods with a tight smile. “Without a past, you’ve got a great opportunity.”
“I do?”
“Yes, the loss of your memories allowed these emotions to surface. While you can’t get them back, the solution is simple. Let’s make up a new history for you. One that’s whatever you want it to be.”
“I don’t know…”
“What have you got to lose?”
When I hesitate, she answers for me. “That’s right, nothing! So let’s get started.”
“How?”
“Make up something you’ve always wanted in your childhood.”
“Cat, I’m not sure about this. It’s—”
“Ice cream desserts,” she yells. “Who doesn’t love to eat ice cream? And that’s something we can do in the cafeteria. Or are you saying you don’t like yummy things?”
Despite my misgivings, I grin. “There’s nothing wrong with ice cream.”
“Give me something else.”
While I wonder about what I’m leaving behind, I say, “My parents let me stay up past my bedtime whenever I wanted.”
“There you go! And let’s say they were great parents, always helping you out,” she says good-naturedly. Without the ever-present seriousness, she’s su
rprisingly cute.
I return a smirk. “Okay, I was great at sports and played football and basketball. And not only that, as a family, we had awesome barbecues on Sundays.”
“That’s wonderful. I want to be a part of this.”
“Like my little sister?”
She smacks my arm. “No, like a childhood friend from school.”
I rub the sore spot and reply, “Okay, you’re the girl who lived down the street, always with dirty clothes and pigtails. And you hated bathing.”
A harder smack hits my cheek, and I yelp.
“I’ll be the bad girl from the wrong side of the tracks. I dress in black leather and definitely have perfect hygiene.” She runs her hand through her dark hair. “Just to be different, I color in some blue streaks…”
I laugh; the stories somehow wear like a new set of clothing.
Cat slaps my shoulder and stands. “Let’s continue this later.”
With more surety than I feel, I reply, “This could work.”
As I walk over to grab my spear, my eyes flick to the glass wall.
A harsh, judgmental look comes from the reflection.
My gut twists, and I pause, knowing something’s not right.
Cat hollers, “Hey, are we practicing or what?”
As I set my spear in a classic combat stance, I push away the misgivings. I need some way to control my anger, and this path is less wrong than the alternatives.
But…
Cat charges before any more bleak thoughts can trouble me, and the doubts clear from my head as I meet her attack.
Thirty-Four
Carrying a gladius and round wooden shield, I leap past popping flames and search for teammates. As I continue down the dusty street, the light from the bonfire recedes and night settles around me.
I glance at the shrouds gathered between the stone structures on either side, looking for an ambush.
My foot slides on a wet patch, and I stop.
The dark stain under my sandal is blood, although no bodies lie on the hard dirt.
I tug on the leather straps of my Roman armor, trying to piece together bits from the mayhem sweeping through the Carthaginian town.
Adjoining alleyways echo with footsteps from combatants seeking trouble. Swords crossing in heated exchanges ring from nearby.
“Meat,” Block yells from somewhere.
Not seeing the oaf, I grip my weapon tighter and hold my shield higher, getting ready for an inevitable clash.
Romans stomp across the next intersection.
I chase after them, giving the shadows surrounding the corner residences a wide berth. When I reach the cross street, fighting erupts down the block. I charge to the melee. As I near, one of the Romans trips. I rush to his aid, arriving just in time to stop an overhand swing from a giant Carthaginian.
Although my arm stings from the block, I riposte and force him on the defensive with a slash-thrust combination.
“Meat!” The massive form of Block enters the fray, backed by five others. In a moment, the remaining Carthaginians, including my opponent, flee up the wide, dusty lane, leaving us in possession of the battlefield.
I turn to help the man who tripped.
Gil.
I suppress a frown and extend my hand.
“Thanks,” he says, clasping my forearm and standing. “We need to have more teamwork like that.”
Rather than acknowledge the statement, I step away and squint through the haze, focusing past the last houses. From there, under bluish moonlight, a meandering trail leads upward to a white citadel perched at the summit of a hill. Our goal for this scenario is to touch the statue of Hannibal standing in its octagonal lobby.
Either that or kill everyone from the other side, whichever comes first.
“Why are you ignoring me?” Gil asks. “You said two scenarios.”
I think of being honest but refrain because I don’t understand why I despise the man. “I misspoke. You have to last three scenarios with us. Three is the magic number.”
Gil glares. “What a load of crap.”
Teammate or not, I meet his stare, ready to escalate the budding confrontation.
“Meat,” Block says with an odd tone.
I twist to the giant oaf, who is standing right behind me.
Surprised by his ability to maneuver his bulk in such a stealthy manner, I study his beady eyes.
What he wants, I have no idea, but the lack of shallowness in the tiny disks is disconcerting, and Jet is nowhere in sight.
“Let’s gather the rest of the team and finish this,” Gil says.
As usual, I ignore the older man and say to Block, “What?”
He holds up his gladius, which looks puny in his huge hand, and jabs the point away from the citadel.
“You want me to go with you?” I ask.
“Meat,” Block says as an affirmative.
As I follow him back down the wide avenue, Gil sprints and catches up to us.
Block snatches the shoulder straps of his armor and tosses him on the ground.
Despite being on the same team, I take no action, only wishing I could stomp on Gil once or twice.
“Meat!”
The tone is unmistakable, and Gil makes no effort to rise when Block trots away.
Although we should stick together for strength in numbers, I follow the oaf without a backward glance, letting him lead me to wherever I’m supposed to be going. However, as we pass the dark shadows guarding a nearby alley, I can’t shake the troubled feelings stemming from my hatred of the older man.
Oily smoke drifts past as we wend through back alleys bracketed by stone walls and squat houses. Although hazy torchlight only sporadically breaks the blackness, Block has no problems negotiating his bulk through the narrow and sometimes winding passageways. Mostly, he stays quiet, only muttering an occasional “Meat,” when clangs from vicious contests erupt nearby.
Not wanting to engage in any more communication than necessary, I don’t offer any conversation either.
A few minutes pass before we arrive at the entrance of a hut made of mud bricks. Besides yellow creases of light spilling between the slats of its shuttered windows, the area is dark.
As a choking, smoke-filled breeze whips past, Block opens the flimsy door.
I shield my eyes and enter a dingy room lit by reservoir lamps.
In her bulky armor, Jet kneels with her back to me. She twists and sends an angelic smile. “Vic, I’m glad you could join us.”
Suspicious of the situation, I keep a tight grip on my sword and edge against the wall, eyeing a pile of Carthaginian armor in the far corner.
Block closes the door from the foul wind, and a metallic odor floods my nose.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
As an answer, Jet shifts on the straw-covered floor, scooting around a female whose naked body is covered with lacerations.
Although alarmed, I casually shrug.
Jet digs both hands into the poor girl’s matted hair and yanks her head up.
The girl’s eyes pop open, and her torso writhes.
Startled, I retreat, jamming into the mud bricks and knocking against a lamp.
Hot oil spills down my shoulder armor.
Jet laughs as I jump away, grimacing from the heat flaring on my skin.
An amused Block says, “Meat.”
The naked form groans, wriggling helplessly.
Jet explains, “I cut the nerves of her arms and legs. I told you that you have to take the time and enjoy the fruits of these scenarios.”
Horrified by the idea, I squint. Trickles of dark maroon cover the insides of her limbs.
“Anything look familiar?” Jet says.
The victim has pale skin and freckles, and her red hair is slick from sweat and disheveled. In other circumstances, she’d be considered cute. Her mouth opens to speak, but only gurgles come amid pools of blood dripping down her chin.
“I had to cut out her tongue too,” Jet says nonchalan
tly.
Too stunned for words, I watch as Block joins her, kneeling on the floor next to the writhing girl.
“Meat,” he says, running a thick finger over the blood flowing along her inner thigh. As he paints the familiar zig-zag pattern of stripes over his face, Jet lifts the quivering girl’s head higher. “Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“What about the hair?”
I examine my feelings, trying to pull something from the empty cavern of my memories. When nothing comes, I shrug. “Should that mean anything to me?”
Jet purses her lips, narrowing her eyes in annoyance.
I glance at my forearm. “Does it have to do with this?”
“Meat. Meat!” Block says with glee.
I focus on his wide face, trying to interpret his hidden meaning by creating some form of mental connection. The literal interpretation of meat enters my mind.
Block stands and shouts, “Meat! Meat!”
Defeated, I hold up my hand to forestall any further discussion with the oaf.
“I’m helping you,” Jet says. “I’m getting you to where you want to be. But you have to join us. You want this. I saw it in your eyes.”
The blood calling from the Pacific Island scenario resurfaces. In a haze, I focus on my sweaty palm, imagining the crimson warmth staining my skin.
“Get over your fears, Vic. Once you try it, you’ll love it,” Jet’s sultry voice calls.
As I move past Block and kneel next to the sacrifice, Jet pushes the girl’s shoulders between her bended knees.
Blood leaks from a shallow wound on the girl’s chest. I place my free hand over the slippery skin, appreciating the panicked rhythm of her heartbeat and letting her body heat flow into me. Despite the macabre circumstances, everything feels pleasant.
From the background of my awareness, Jet says, “This one’s still alive, and the freshest blood is the best. Use it, paint whatever pattern comes to you. Just let it happen. Give in to what you need.”
My hand rises, and my crimson-stained palm centers in my vision.
The girl gurgles, her mouth trying to form words.
I shift my gaze to her pained face and focus on the pleading in her eyes.
My mind wanders back to being a Greek hoplite outside of Thebes. That scenario was the last time I worried about who or what I was killing.