by Isaac Nasri
Oh well.
The connection on her cell phone clicks.
“Moreci,” Wayne greets sternly. “It’s been a while. Hope you’re holding well. Are you available?”
“Yes,” she says, voice quivering with uncertainty. Eva raises the drooping towel over her nipple. Her cybernetic fingers tap at the screen.
“I have much to discuss in the meeting room. I’ll be expecting you soon.”
***
The Virtual’s heart races as the elevator ascend, yanking at the glove concealing her augmented palm. Thankfully, no faces passed by in the hallway. A dark windbreaker, embellished with a ruby cloud in the rear, wears around her shirt. Jeans and leather boots disassemble any of the cybernetic features visible in her body, and her skin turns humid. In this kind of climate, the season had become a null concept to cyborgs like her. At this point, Eva couldn’t care less about coming forth in her standard attire, unless she wanted to die.
Eva looks up at the light in cogitation. Despite what Wayne said, she could not escape from the gut-wrenching voice whispering in her head. It’s been months since she even walked into this place. Whatever this discussion is, something was telling her not to be here. What can she gain from this meeting that will transmute her mood, especially if it’s from the Director’s mouth?
Hope my time’s spent wisely on this.
Once the elevator opens, the Virtual wastes no time in making her advance toward the brand floor. To her surprise, the Conference Room’s doors remain open. Brushing her sleeve, Eva makes way inside until she halts to a strange sighting. Soriana waves dully next to Wayne on the other end of the marble table, resting her arm on a folder. Her lips were crimson as a stainless rose. Her pure white nails synced with the slim belted dress she wore, but the unusual asperity in her expression reigned over whatever taste it held, leaving the cyborg faced against two cold hawks in the seat.
“Oh,” Eva states awkwardly. She rubs the top of her hand. “So it’s you two.”
“Take a seat if you don’t mind,” Wayne advises.
Eva finds a chair and sits far from them. The seat turns cold on her backside. Despite the lights above shining grimly over the table, a creeping shadow looms around the three.
Soriana beckons her Director. “You want me to start—”
“Not yet, Salazar,” Wayne interrupts. His eyes, which are as silver as a cloud condensing in the storm, lock toward Eva.
“I understand time has passed since we’ve last met before Operation Jackal that winter and none of us were able to get in touch after your success.”
The Director pauses for a few minutes as if letting the cyborg process the refreshment, and Soriana glances at him. Suddenly his tone darkens as he says, “However…on the other side of this, what I’ve disclosed in the aftermath was far more alarming. Now, Moreci. What I still have in my files is VERY incriminating footage from the staff at the Saint Oscar airport itself. Salazar here would show all to you briefly by any chance.”
Eva sits upright from her seat. Her expression goes dark, and confusion swarms her. She may not have been that detailed about the issue, but Eva did recall bringing her faults to attention long ago to Soriana at the JOA’s airbase. Their conversation after Soriana brought forth an agent by the name of Troy arises like a kindling fire. Has not Soriana atoned to her mishaps as well to her? Something unusual had to be stirring for a conversation to initiate behind her back.
Where am I?
Eva narrows at Soriana. “I can explain. Soriana and I—”
“I’m aware of, Eva,” Soriana cuts in. Pressing her red lips, she snatches a paper from inside the folder. The cyborg’s presence in the transparent photo remains visible over the severed cadavers of officers resting in the streets. Eva’s heart thumps, and her fingers quiver. Despite this, Soriana continues, “I’m aware. But I DON’T recall you informing me on this grave incident.”
She jerks from her gaze, aiming them at the officer with unabashed suspicion. It may have been months, but that couldn’t be good justification. This clockwise vagary came at Eva so sudden. Her doubts, is this what they were warning her for? Her chest pounds a second time.
“Soriana,” she says with a sting in her tone. Eva shoves aside the picture. “You KNOW the situation as much as me. What did you say to him these past months?”
Soriana looks elsewhere, nodding her head to the Director. Wayne’s lips retain cold fixedness, numb to the tension brewing in the cyborg’s voice.
“Your actions alone have IGNITED devastating unrest from lawmakers and civilians alike in Latin America,” he mentions flatly. “The same can be said for all Virtuals outside your Division. As of today, you see, protests still continue in our cities.”
“My actions…” Eva shakes her head, unnerved. “Okay. But what about the other VCOs you’ve still left out in the shadows? It’s—it’s been a while. Has your staff ever thought of doing anything to lend a—”
“Listen to my word, Moreci.” Wayne’s eyebrow arches downward at her, almost like he’s glaring. “Enough tension has stirred. So to the best we could to alleviate this, the Department of Defense was left to mandate the Severance Act. Right now, it’s taking effect.”
Severance Act? That’s it?
Eva’s hands form into fists. The air surrounding her scorches her nerves, allowing her to bear witness to the veneer unveiling from the faces of the two humans sitting. She couldn’t discipline herself sitting for any longer as a vein arches on her temple. Who was Wayne? Worst case is who is Soriana?
“You…” Eva’s voice rumbles that she loses her words. “You’ve—”
“There’s been too much conflict on both sides. Either nation moves forward or leaves blood in their hands.” Not an inch of motion as he spoke. The storm bellows in his eyes as he gazes at Eva. “Now, moving forward, Moreci. With the disbandment of all Virtual Divisions, I’m forced to abrogate services with y—”
“Nothing’s changed, Wayne! Nothing!”
The Director raises an eye as if flummoxed once Eva rises from her seat. Soriana reaches for the picture, but Eva snatches it from the table. Vapor hisses from her nostrils.
“You’ve catered! That’s what you did!” she hisses. “You’ve catered to the mass JUST to save your own self! And you know it!”
The meeting room’s temper turns hot as her voice echoes behind her. Silence suppresses the Director and his officer. Flames rumble in her eyes.
“Our hands have been TIED for too long. Virtuals! Martials! Rioters everywhere have been given TOO much ammunition, and you’re a part of that problem. Burning down the JOA’s HQ at Herndon? No check. Public bounties? No check!” Her voice cracks. “It goes on. Who’s checking them? You and the government turned your backs on the agents that had yours when you needed it.”
“You need to understand, Eva,” Soriana says gently. The color rushes on her cheeks. “It has nothing to do with you personally at all. But as CIA I’m as obligated—”
“Oh no. Who are you to tell me?” Eva vituperates at her as she tears the picture in front of the human officer. Soriana’s mouth hangs. Meanwhile, Wayne’s lips begin to uneven.
The pain that Eva sealed for so long these months opens like a bullet cracking into the heart of a noxious chamber, and its toxins disseminate on the engineers, untrammeled. The years of Soriana walking by her side, sparing blows with each other as their kicks connected in the studio, only for the mirage to be unraveled by firebrands storming with charged batons in the metropolitan streets. The turmoil of the circumscription forced down upon her, having to adapt to a hometown that no longer invited her. Then the passing of her mother, the only one who mattered, the sound of her dying voice on her phone, finally implodes.
Letting the torn paper slip from her hands, Eva censures, “If it had NOTHING to do with me, then explain! HOW could I ever forgive myself for ever putting my trust in you for over ten years?”
She aims a finger at the officer she trusted for so long, feeling her
throat sting. “Answer, Soriana!! Was it an obligation to go behind the back of your si—to the pack of unruly monsters just to protect the CIA? All this time! When I first became your recruit…” Eva holds her breath. “So my OWN years of growth in the black ops…that—that meant nothing but an obligation to you. Until that time came then.”
Soriana seals her lips, shivering to what was eradicated. Eva turns her head, gazing with frazzled eyes at the primordial portraits of the headquarters plastered at each wall. The temperature within the room declines with her moment of silence. Her fists unfold.
So it all makes sense. Everything.
Sealing her eyes, she swallows. “I see. I understand perfectly. I’m just…another scrap dog left to burn in the streets. That’s how it is.” She nods solemnly to herself. “My mother. She died because of what you’ve stood with. I’m finished.”
She turns her head and storms her way to the door. However, a sudden note alarms her, holding her a step back in her movement.
“I WON’T forget this!” Eva rebukes. “Once the day comes, I’ll make sure each and every last one of you suffers for this. Remember that.”
Once she says this, the Virtual heads out. Her cheeks swell as she trudges with briskness. The glassy face of Director Wayne flashes in her sight, and she swears at him in silence. Suddenly she freezes once more to her chagrin as a door closes behind her.
Without looking over, her shoulders arch to Soriana pleading aloud, “Sis. Please.”
Eva looks to the side of her shoulder, yet tacit like a feline. Her fingers fidget on a marble piece clattering inside her jacket’s pocket.
“Eva. I know how it feels. And I regret these events.” She pants. “Losing every—”
Eva flings the golden badge toward Soriana’s hands. Soriana gulps upon seeing it rest at the surface of her palm. Reminiscence of the veteran officer pinning this on the collar of the former recruit at the lobby flashes, and the smile crossing Eva’s lips as she looked down on it; the memory disintegrates into shards upon the two of them standing in opposition on this floor. Eva had been mulcted from whatever faith she had in Soriana, and now her soul sank to how naïve she was for building such a trust for her to begin with. Soriana’s heart lied on something that Eva wanted no part of and never will.
“First and from here on,” Eva dictates. Her eyes take sudden bearing toward the officer she once called blood. “Don’t ever. In your life, call me sister. Since our whole history was just an obligation, keep that thing far out of my sight.” She turns her head, facing the elevator as she breathes. She presses the button. “You can keep talking, but it changes nothing. I’ve reached my limit.”
The door opens, and the cyborg walks inside. Enough was said.
***
The sun glints above. Eva brushes her long hair as she stalks hastily toward the parking lot, heaving. She burrows a fist toward her lips, holding back emotion as the lump in her throat fluctuates.
This is it. I’m done.
Spotting her red Honda, the Virtual signals her keyless remote toward it. Before unlocking, she grimaces at a lone, dark android sitting at a bench. His head sinks. Eva nears, seeing a visible crack at the side of his temple. She gasps.
“Rip!” she calls out into his hardware.
The Martial looks up languidly to his former commanding officer scurrying toward him. His pixelated eyes narrow at her with pain.
“I prayed you came, Moreci,” he says aloud.
“It’s too dangerous here,” she states.
Eva takes a seat beside him, feeling her chest throb. She hears the wires hiss from inside the puncture on the android’s head. It just happened to be a coincidence to find her agent after the travesty she endured minutes ago. The cyborg’s gaze aims at the ebony aerial statue from a few feet from her, and she inhales the torrid gust motioning over her. The last she will ever see this compound and wanted nothing else from it.
“Ever got contact with Rain?” she asks curiously.
“No,” he says in a lugubrious tone.
So our network’s truly gone then.
Cold silence follows. Rip fidgets timorously with his hands, and steel snaps. His eyes blink as he looks toward Eva.
“I…I can’t figure out my future anymore,” he says.
Eva reframes her focus from the statue, staring into Rip’s artificial eyes behind the lens. She witnesses the eyes tremor. Nevertheless, he continues, “In this world. In a few days—or week, they’re shutting us down. All stations.” His grumble vibrates. “SMART’s in shambles.”
“No.”
The Virtual rests a hand to her neck as if feeling the air release from her. Shock, fused with her anger, synergize into one as she struggles to process his words. The loss continues to burgeon in her hands. What has this world become? Why did it have to crumble this way? With each question that surfaces, she is left with no logical answer.
“Came here to say…whether it’s my last or not,” Rip says. “I just want to say I’m proud serving with you when it lasted.”
Always.
Sighing, Eva skids next to her Martial. She rests a hand to his shin, and the two share in their dismay. The cyborg, knowing that despite this ephemeral union, she and Rip weren’t so trapped in the darkness surrounding them.
***
Driving from the gas station and onto the street pavement, Eva crumbles the picture saving what memory was left of Soriana and her in Langley. Holding firm on the car wheel, the cyborg’s ears twist to a multitude of cars honking in Wisconsin Avenue. Faint noise roars in all directions.
Eyeing the road ahead, Eva presses her feet down on the acceleration pedal. The blue décor of Jack the Bulldog hangs on the mirror and jingles as she advances. Her hair blossoms as she drives at moderate speed, but the noise and commotion could only exacerbate as she nears Rockville Pike. Then she finds herself trapped by a large number of firebrands raising their batons upward on the sidewalks. Black flags embellished with the cross sign over a T-800 waves in several of the dancing rioters’ hands.
Oh no.
“Treat ‘em like scrap! Roost ‘em like scrap!” the protesters chant in unison.
“Stand in solidarity to the officers—my abuelo, at Saint Oscar Airport, Maryland people!” another rioter calls out in a slight accent, breaking from the chant’s rhythm. A white cape, tied to the rear collar of the protester’s stripped romper, whips in her repeated steps before the chanters. Her right hand trembles and clutches onto the microphone. A cubic flag, displaying a patriotic coat of arms symbol within the whitish center of a blue and white horizontal triband, adorns on her right cheek. “Say NO to the bloodshed against our fellow migrants! If you’re for the greater good…say no to T-800s in the DMV! Say it with me! No T-800s!”
The cacophony and chants continue. Her face flushes and any attempts to advance are impeded as blusterous honks inundate her concentration.
When the red light halts her and the drivers, she yelps to a sudden blow against the window nearest to her. Eva turns, widening her eyes to a visible filthy star. She opens the door halfway, and a tinge of regret sinks as Eva blinks in horror to the decapitated head of a Martial rolling toward her wheel.
“Take off the gloves, scrapdog!” a young protester lambasts. Judging from his facial structure, he looked somewhere in his early twenties. “You heard?! Your BITCH ASS belongs to the wastelands!”
The rioter laughs as he runs toward his vehicle, where three of his other peers sat. Her vision turns crimson, and she strokes the car wheel almost in satiation as her eyes harden like steel on the firebrand bickering and bopping his head in the green car. A red sash wraps around his seat’s headrest and a testudo icon attaches at the vehicle’s rear window.
Once the green light alters, Eva witnesses the young driver make a direct turn right toward a salutary neighborhood of houses. Eva trails the rioter’s way. All the while, the Oni’s stand shines like an unsoiled architect beside her on the twin-seat.
Chapter 10
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Troy removes his cap, scratching his scalp as he glances at a vacant conference room shielded by a glassy frame to his left. Chairs and folded tables align against the wall. The dreads he used to carry for so long have been cut, leaving him plain in his smooth, natural hair. He passes by a hooded Virtual dabbing her swollen cheek with a cloth of ice. Blood streams from her lower eyelashes. The two make eye contact elsewhere. The months that flew by seemed slow compared to usual. Having to conceal and endure the myriad of protesters and humans tainting the metropolitan areas with their anti-Virtual sentiment has drained whatever optimism he had for this year’s season.
Despite the pervading drabness, the floor’s coolness alleviates the torridity building in Troy. The FBI’s logo remains branded and immaculate on the floor as he trudged. Hours of having to walk in a dark-sleeved vest, pants, and boots under the sun have stirred an inevitable bead of sweat on his skin. Gone were the snug days of cyborgs trudging in their prosthetics without having to worry about a laser darted behind their necks.
The Virtual makes way to River’s office, grimacing to the sound of tape unfolding. His supervisor had left a voice message a while ago encouraging him to step in, regardless of the climate. He hasn’t been to work since the week he slew Paolo Mendoza by force. It’s like an omen has leached from his corpse and now disseminates on his land. Questions run around his head like a cyclone as he spots his supervisor’s office tag no longer visible beside the doors anterior.
What’s happening?
Troy stops at Rivers inside the office, reaching for boards and portraits hanging on the wall. The bearded supervisor attempts to place a board of accolades inside one of the boxes until he pauses to his special agent standing in flummox beside the entrance.
“Rivers,” Troy greets quizzically. His eyes gloss at the lack of material inside the open shelves above. Their doors swing, and the cyborg’s nose stings to the aroma of a dense vinegar inside. “What’s going on?”