Into the Violet Gardens

by Isaac Nasri

  The cyborg agrees, telling her everything that was discussed when she was at the park in Bethesda. Soriana hums.

  “Well, me and him just recently got out of contact with Ottoman,” Soriana says. “The JOA’s CEO. So he’s already aware of the upcoming plans right now.”

  “He’s going to need the help.”

  “To prepare, Operation Jackal will be starting in three days. And good news for you is, I’ll be taking my part in this.”

  No way.

  Eva’s eyes widen. “You will?”

  Soriana grins in acknowledgement. “I’ll be on road patrol. So any intel you and the Virtuals need on my end from afar, I’m there for you.”

  “Looking forward to it, sister.”

  Eva couldn’t resist resting a hand on her chest. Years passed, and finally, this will be the mission Soriana will fight alongside her for once.

  “Good luck.”

  ***

  “I don’t see the sense in taking him alive,” Aiden Ottoman says, shrugging. The Jaguars of Apollo’s CEO remains slouched in a seat alone, lighting a cigarette between his two fingers on the thin screen. His slick silver hair resembled that of a vulture’s sharp beak. “I’m not convinced on this objective, Director.”

  The Cyber Drift, sixteen years ago, would’ve been possible without Ottoman’s expertise and Wayne knew it. Then, Ottoman was just a retiree from Sacramento, sculpting his canny ideas from scratch until he figured the perfect design at his desk. It was always his vision of revolutionizing the world, saving it from its own destruction. The spiderlike implant crafted from paper would be known today as the neural interface (NI), a special prototype serving as a computerized nucleus to the augmented patient’s psyche. That sole bionic hand twitched on the table, bringing a smile across his lips, and from there originated the corporation that stood today. Soon the world and its corporations followed in the procedure, having been enamored by such state-of-the-art warfare. Soon a year after his corporate ascension, combat androids, notably termed Martials, were introduced into this society. Despite being crafted directly by his parent government, the machines served on the sidelines alongside their non-artificial counterparts, cyborgs coined Virtuals, in the combat field and fully crafted the program that structured SMART. Once again, the world followed, and outside of the battlefield, the rise of the bionics served as golden gateways for the unfortunate pedestrians hindered by the post-effects of accidents and disabilities. There was little for patients to fear. The globe never looked back since.

  Brett Wayne sits firmly in his rotating seat, and his light green eyes harden like a still rock toward the CEO. On the other hand, his trusted officer Soriana remains across him from the table, facing him curiously, her blazer resting from behind. Her brown hair usually left hanging, remains knotted in a firm ponytail, and her azure nails glitter.

  The air in the meeting room warms the Director’s fair aging skin, but his stance remains rigid.

  “We can’t be impulsive to action, Ottoman,” Wayne says calmly, “Capturing him, we impede him from burgeoning globally. Something Mendoza prioritizes.”

  Soriana nods silently. However, Ottoman glosses his pupils elsewhere, applying the cigarette to the tip of his lips. The top kindles gradually.

  “There’s no need for worsening tensions in Latin America. For that, as much as you want him dead, we NEED the kingpin alive to seek justice…unless otherwise. Thankfully the FBI will take care of the target. Our job now is to unravel the network as much as we can with no room to expand.”

  “I don’t think you’re deciphering the situation here.”

  Rising slowly from his seat, Ottoman removes the cigarette and shrugs it off, revealing his broad shoulders and muscular frame behind his gray suit. His lips curl into a smirk.

  “What do you—we gain from this exception?” he rebuffs. Ottoman hisses smoke out of his mouth like a growling dragon, forming a cloud over his head. “You see, this is where the fallacy lies, Wayne. No matter how many bars you put, the monkey’s going to find his way out. And it’s back to square one.”

  Soriana grimaces as if flummoxed to such a sharp remark. Her Director stares, barely blinking as he peers into the storm rumbling in Ottoman’s black eyes. It was an unpleasant sight. Wayne’s heart remains solid, conspicuous to the longevity of this war. With his involvement in the black operations, Wayne was no saint, never will be. No man was. However, he wanted this war to end, for the sake of everyone, even for Soriana. However, Ottoman’s critical ideals would only set the two back from that objective. It will only be their downfall.

  “There’s no winning this war,” Ottoman continues, “Am I making sense to you?”

  I can’t follow that.

  “Sir, if he ever gets the chance, my agents will be at him,” Soriana chimes in.

  Ottoman glances at the officer glassily. Silence lingers until the CEO looks at Wayne once more. The air grows tense.

  “Well,” Ottoman replies, “Can’t debate further. I DO hope your endgame goes well as planned.”

  Ottoman turns his back, motioning to the exit, and the screen fades to black. The meeting room becomes silent once again. Wayne hears Soriana sigh.

  “You think he has a point?” Soriana asks curiously. She glosses at the blank screen, imagining Ottoman scrutinizing sharply at the office.

  It was astonishing how time flew so quickly. Wayne’s mind still reminiscences stumbling across Soriana’s father, frazzled and cheeks riddled in ashes as he was being led quietly to the boat. Little knowing, it was his gateway out of the tyranny that gripped Havana many decades ago. Manuel had never forgotten that operative’s face. It was a period Wayne would never forget. Now here a family legacy stood, his goddaughter, and the Director vowed to be a guardian to her outside home.

  Wayne buries a hand to his chin, gazing at the officer pensively.

  “I can’t deny his points,” Wayne acknowledges, “but Ottoman’s plans are too rash. His company abides by principles that are reprisal in nature, and that only encourages Paolo Mendoza to keep moving forward. Death is the last resort.”

  Wayne’s mind could grasp the thought of being involved in another war. The deaths of VCO officers tasked with hunting down political representatives for the syndicate were taxing in general, and they continued to accumulate with every black ops assigned. It had to end. Enough was enough for him.

  Soriana’s expression turns grave.

  “After the assault on Bautista,” she says grimly. Soriana presses her lips in reluctance. “I’m fighting my urges. Nobody deserved this.”

  Wayne sighs under his breath. The light from the window blinds shines over his balding scalp.

  She continues, “A drug so powerful it, records say, makes them ALMOST…inhuman. I’ve seen what it does to his mercenaries, Wayne. Imagine a barrage of gunfire, explosives.” Soriana clutches lightly to her throat. “The average officer won’t survive without the drug’s fury fluid. That’s the power to rival any Virtual. Even with Eva’s psycho-enablers. That’s what they want. I—I hope I’m not ranting.”

  Wayne rubs his lower lip, where his prolonged visible scar rest and a minor sensation run over it.

  “Prepare your officers,” Wayne says flatly, being inconspicuous to her concern. “Look after Moreci.”

  “Don’t worry, Wayne. I will.”

  “Time to prepare your officers.”

  Chapter 3

  Troy speeds through the streets of Hyde Square, passing the last green light. Red sparks dazzle the cafes around him, giving light to the nocturnal field. He spots an eight-story condominium to his right, and he slows his vehicle’s speed.

  There we go.

  Parking meticulously to an open space, Troy suits the cap over his head and covers his ears. He opens the car door and the first snowflake lands like a raindrop on the top of his nose. The snow wraps around his prosthetic foot as if trapping him in quick sand. The coldness hardens his veins until his temperature fluctuates, embracing him in its to
rridity.

  Troy rushes to the corridors, stumbling upon a couple sharing a box of chocolate by the stand. His dreads, knotted in a ponytail, drench gradually to the descending flakes. That is, until he catches a resident rushing from inside and Troy catches the door in time before it can close.

  “Levi! You’re late.”

  Devin?

  The cyborg glances to see the desk officer huddling in his seat, instantly cutting off activity on his handheld screen, and tosses it, nettled. Troy shakes his head.

  “Again?” he says. Troy glances at the hearts and embellishments illuminating the lobby. “You know what day it is?”

  “Online matches, man,” Devin bemoans. “So much b—you. You actually missed her! And uh, by the way…” He rubs his eyes, erasing the dots in his retina. “You knew it was Alana’s birthday today?”

  A circle of question marks swirl over his head, and he smiles sheepishly. So many times, he’s forgotten about birthdays that it no longer meant anything to him, even his own. Perhaps it was stemming from how old he was getting.

  “Y…yeah.”

  “She’s right at that new ice cream café!” Devin says, gesturing clockwise to the window behind his office. “Two blocks. And now, uh, you’ve soaked up the floor.”

  The Virtual stares downward, rubbing his head to the icy flakes surrounding the tile floor beneath him. Snow crust melts from his cybernetic foot. His expression mortifies. Nothing he can do about it, he seems.

  “Okay,” Troy says, preparing himself. “Enjoy some hot chocolate at the moment, Devin. Clear your mind up.”

  ***

  Vapor whistles out his nostrils as he trudges across the street. Several vehicles struggle to get out of the parking spaces, and their tires gyrate effortlessly in the snow. Pedestrians rush by, exchanging snowballs at each other, and their laughter echoes in the night. He hears one of the drivers call out to a special robot patrolling the streets, and the machine looms over to one of the drivers stuck in the snow, reaching a hand to the front wheel.

  Sure need the help you can get.

  Nearing the café, Troy takes notice of a young woman in a white winter cap and violet coat lounging at one of the seats. Her gaze locks down at her iPhone screen, rocking her head gently to the earbuds in her ears. Troy didn’t need a hand to suggest to him a hint to figure who it was and his heartbeat.

  Blood warming, Troy motions smoothly, eschewing her notice. Upon opening the door, he whistles, loud enough to spark Alana out of her bubble.

  “Aye! There you is!”

  Looming forward hastily, Alana opens her arms, and the two embrace. Troy’s cheeks tingle to the aroma surrounding him.

  The two pull away slowly, but Alana’s hands rest firm on Troy’s arm.

  “How life?” she asks. A creamy line highlights above her lips. “It’s my birthday today, Troy. Know that?”

  “Well…” Troy rubs his eyebrow dubiously. “Devin reminded me.”

  “C’mon. You acting like I don’t be taking that to BIG consideration. Valentines, you heard? No card”

  “You still want your sundae?” a cashier calls out. Her cheeks blush upon the two customers at hand.

  “Oh, I will be there,” Alana reassures before turning her gaze toward Troy again. She looks up and down and banters, “Damn, look. Outside got you looking like frosty.”

  Troy shrugs. “Well, not as frosty as that small mustache on your lips.”

  Alana stares down, only to cover her mouth quickly, chortling. Nevertheless, she reaches over, sweeping off flakes from his shoulder and head.

  “Best we can chill out here.”

  “I was actually waiting ‘cause the family got some big plans tonight,” Alana says, using her scarf and patting at his eyebrow. “They actually waiting on us—I mean, you. Especially.”

  ***

  Troy and Alana follow side by side, feeling the hall’s climate glow. Lamps illuminate a crimson hue over the walls.

  Latin jazz echoes in the hall, and the Virtual motions to Alana. He takes her hand and swirls her gently. Swayed, Alana skips through, guiding his hand all the way to the door. Opening it, the first thing that comes out of her mouth is, “¡Hola a todos!”

  Her younger brother, Gabriel, can be heard giving a quick hum as he rests on the sofa and turns the pages in his manga. Nobody pays attention to the news playing in the living room. Troy scratches his neck ravenously to the whiff of steak and corn surrounding the living room. Alana’s father, Victor, is the first one to leave his attention from the rows of plant vases on the table and give the two a wink.

  Leaping from the kitchen, Alana’s mother, Gloria, comes out. She spots her daughter and waves, “Alana—oh, Troy! Welcome!”

  The cyborg beams at her greeting.

  As soon as their daughter got accepted into Boston University on her way to major in music, the Torres’ had to force themselves to move from Southern Miami’s Little Havana to get in-state tuition. Ever since coming in contact with her parents, it didn’t matter if he was a Virtual. To the Torres, he was just another human to them.

  Pulling away from her gloves and setting them into the pocket of her apron, Gloria beckons toward Troy. She calls out, “¡Alana, mi amor! ¡Deberías haber llamado y decirme que viene tu amigo!” Alana, my sweetheart! You should’ve called and told me your friend’s coming!

  Waving off the smoke snaking into the living room, Gloria faces Troy. “My daughter’s birthday! Don’t mind the scent—”

  “Yeah!” Troy squint his eyes at Alana. “Too bad, she reminded me.”

  Alana is the spitting image of her mother if the old gray portraits hanging on the walls are to be trusted. Gloria’s complexion has darkened with time, but otherwise, she’s aged with a pristine grace.

  Alana reaches over to stroke Troy’s cheek before she says, “La cena está casi lista—”

  “¡Estaba intentando una sorprenderlo!” Alana mentions with a chuckle while she releases off her scarf. She unzips her coat and hangs it on the hanger stand, revealing her gray turtleneck dress and black leggings. Her high heels clatter on the floor as she banters in her vernacular, “And I know not your kind of thing though, but how family?”

  “¡Suficientemente bueno!” Gloria says. She flags one of her kitchen gloves over the ceiling and turn to her husband. “¡Víctor! Go give Troy some company before I'm done, okay?”

  Hanging his coat and cap beside Alana’s, Troy stalks toward Victor’s side. Meanwhile, Alana advances toward the middle table facing the television, snatches the remote, and takes a seat opposite Gabriel as she raises the volume.

  “How’s your job?” he asks Victor, glancing by his side at the dirt plastered at his hands and big arms as he pours another ounce of soil into an empty bronze jar.

  Wiping his forehead with his stained arm and patting his hands on the dirt, he says, “You know, my greenhouse’s betting on me to grow the first largest flytrap for the exhibit next month.”

  Victor’s hair is balding every day, but his bearish shape remains intact.

  Steadying the lamp’s beam as he pours a sprinkle of water into the second jar’s soil, Victor continues, “But they always dry out after a week!” He sighs. “Bad karma! Bad karma!”

  “You’re sure the seeds are getting enough water and light to make it work?” Troy asks, taking a glance at the couple of flytrap roots resting inside of a black trash bin. It’s as if the plants have been ripped out from the start they began growing.

  The bilingual weather forecaster can be heard playing out on TV. After watching Victor pour a dose of water into each vase, Troy sees him retrieve two small dishes of pupusa from the kitchen and set them on the dinner table. The scent reaches its way into Troy’s nose, and his mouth waters.

  Seizing a couple of knives across him, Victor asks, “So my hija Alana told us this is your last Drug War, am I right?”

  “I hope so, at least.”

  Troy reaches for one of the knives from his side and starts cutting through
the baked tortilla. Cheese sizzles freshly from inside. He cogitates.

  So much tension between the FBI and the Cartel had left many overwhelmed. With each effort the cyborgs set against the latter, the Mendoza Cartel still held an iron fist over their victims in Central and South America, polluting them with their infamous Fox drug trade. The grand ambush that left many passengers and PMCs of the Jaguars of Apollo dead was a wake-up call for the Virtual Division to alter their strategies. Finally, Paolo Mendoza is target number one.

  “America’s picked up since four years,” he says. A lugubrious expression grows on his face as he taps the edge of his knife on the surface of the seed. “But Olancho…it doesn’t get any better.”

  “I understand.” Troy twitches his gaze toward the pop of oil frying inside the kitchen only to see Gloria shaking a slab of steak on a pan. He feels his cheeks flutter as he takes a bite off the food. His throat warms up. “The Cartel, imagine it like a hydra. We agents snatch one out, only for Paolo to regrow a brand new one. More Fox drugs out. Not the kind of results you want. This mission, we’re landing all sights on the kingpin to stop the violence.”

  “I’m still in doubt.” Victor eats off a piece of the pupusa, and through mouthfuls, says, “I say this because…Mendoza knows how to lead his enemies on. I’ve seen it from time to time. He knows the Virtuals are waiting to find him. He came after the Baustista to seize whatever control he can get on the people. That’s how I see it. The rampant flight of migrants…it’s a whiplash to his grip on the regions. He can’t stand it. What happened to those JOA contractors should NOT be forgotten.”

  “I’m positive in our efforts Victor,” Troy replies. “The agencies are united in this one to bring him in.”

  “I wish I can share the same sentiments, my friend,” Victor says. “But you know the community, and we grow tired of what happens back at home. Politicians. Police. They’ve exploited our trust—”

  “Almost done!” Gloria notifies.

  Nonetheless, the air between the two remains ominous. Victor’s hands tremble with the fork at hand. Troy glances at Gloria turning off the stove and reaching from inside to remove the tortillas carefully, and he scratches his stomach. He was just as inundated with the endless tension in Latin America. The last thing Troy wanted is another host of Paolo’s to fall into the Division’s hands. Wherever he’s scheming, Troy was itching to be right at it.