by Isaac Nasri
Rivers sets a frame down inside before sealing the box. “The Severance Act.” His eyes hang as he speaks. His tone carries a lugubrious weight. “It’s in effect.”
Troy frowns. “I got no idea…”
“Our Divisions are closing,” he says. The supervisor seizes the desktop from the desk, dropping it nonchalantly inside a vacant box. The Virtual’s white beard, which has burgeoned, obscured whatever skin he had on his lower face. He arches his shoulders as if taking a deep breath. “Turns out our mission wasn’t what we guaranteed, brother. It’s cost us.”
A chilling beat snaps in Troy’s chest as those last words came. The cyborg steps forward, letting his eyes narrow at the double-layered window. His brain struggles to comprehend it. His gaze trails at pigeons gliding over the quiet streets of Chelsea below. One of them makes way toward the ceiling of a town complex, but the serenity’s cut by rioters jeering behind the fence. Boards raised branding QUEMASTE MI PAIS in a rioter’s hand. Glass flies in mid-air over the fence, shattering at the frontal windows of cars in the lot. Troy raises his eyebrow at a young woman in a cropped hoodie flipping her middle finger in his direction.
Goddamn. So this is our new reality.
The agent looks away, flashing to the words whispering from Mendoza’s mouth as he lay in his blood. It's mind-boggling how diabolical and yet shrewd one dead criminal can be in having such foresight. This could’ve been the outcome Mendoza wanted all this time, from the moment Virtuals and Martials landed in El Salvador. More than likely, he was correct on the assumption. However, Troy and so many were oblivious until it was late.
“Options were limited,” Troy says. The Virtual endures his energy to dwindle as he stood. He catches Rivers on the verge of completion as he sets the printer inside one of the boxes resting on top of the other three. “Apologies.”
As much as he admitted, Troy knew that alone wouldn’t redress or undo the catastrophe that swept Latin America.
“The people have spoken,” Rivers says as he dumps a set of sealed Boston Globes into the garbage bin. “As ya know, brother, agent Rebecca took her own life because of this.” He swallows and wipes his large nose. “And it’s not just us being cut off.”
“There’s been too much sentiment against us,” Troy mentions grimly. He inhales and whistles the air away. His nerves tense. “It’s like a death sentence, Rivers. We’re too vulnerable out there. It’s not like anyone’s going to lend a hand anytime.”
A period of awkward silence befalls between them. Troy folds his arms, leveling his gaze at the stain on his boots.
“No doubt,” Rivers approbates, ceasing the silence. He carries the two boxes in his hands and drops them with a thump on top of the sink’s countertop. He opens a gloved hand. “It was nice working with you, brother.”
Troy looks at him, bewildered. He grabs his supervisor’s firm hand as he processes the shock, nodding reluctantly before stepping out. The agent freezes to a hand resting on his shoulder. He exchanges glances with the agent he passed by minutes ago, and the bruise on her eye remains intact. A deafening quietude consumes the two immediately before parting ways once more. Whatever career they had was over.
The horror he has undergone with the Cartel as a student brought him into the FBI firsthand as a former agent for the Fly Team. He flashes to the sweat soaking his shirt as his fists swat at the dummy torso and the veins protruding from his muscles. He put in blood to stop the Cartel’s influence, and the Virtual Division gave him that hope once more. However, that suddenly vanished.
The air hanging on the headquarters floor inundated him as if walking into the cavern’s chilling breath. Gravity wanes his steps as he storms the corridors.
He stops upon seeing his foot rest on the photo of Rebecca on the step. Troy’s blood turns cold as he picks it up and glances at the picture. His mouth salivates, and the cyborg reminiscences to the sweetness inside his tongue as he sipped on the glass of orange. She made this Division home for him when he first walked into this department. Rebecca. He never got the opportunity to acknowledge her before she died. In fact, there was no chance. Jin Honda, and so many, where are they? Has the climate truly held them down in the dark? There was no way for him to know.
You’ve done a good service, Chameleon.
He plasters the photo back on the wall before going his own way.
***
The Virtual storms upward to the corridors leading to Alana’s condominium. Not a single glance he initiates as he attempts to near the cam. The door unlocks green to Troy’s surprise, and he barges in. Devin’s mouth hangs as one hand rests on the portable handheld. He shivers in the seat, a reaction Troy deemed antithetical from the usual guard behind the desk.
“Devin.”
“Didn’t think you’d be here, Troy,” he states confoundedly.
Troy’s back crawls to the rapid honks echoing from outside the lobby. He swallows.
“Alana’s here?” Troy asks.
Devin sets his handheld on top of the Boston Globe newspapers brazenly titled Empowering a Brave Nation: America Sets Stage with SMART Free Policy. He shakes his head.
“Uh…nope.”
Good.
Troy felt a gush of comfort rush in his heart. He didn’t plan on wasting minutes here. The last he had seen Alana was three weeks ago that evening in Hyde Square. His veins knotted to the red rushing in her face as the two of them shared in the same plate of arroz, locked in their comfort inside her unit. Nonetheless, there was too much for her to worry about in him. Troy couldn’t stand overwhelming Alana, a pure human, with the troubles surrounding his way. That same reluctance in him drove him from making further contact with Alana’s family, no matter the bonhomie. His distance was their benefit.
“Only here to stop by,” Troy states. “Just in case she comes, tell her I was here to say—”
“No hay perros de chatarra en mi tierra!” a voice breaks out outside. Cars honk. “545 amigos! Save the Latinx! Say it with hashtag KOF! KOF!”
The cyborg loses track of his words. His eyes aim tentatively at the door.
Oh shit. I definitely need to go.
“Pssh,” Devin signals, raising an ear to footsteps nearing. He motions the wheels on his chair, reaching down to plug the handheld into his charger. He looks sideways. “Some, uh…are starting to catch on to the disguise.”
Troy raises his gloved hands. “That’s all I got with me.”
“Oh, by the way…I’ve heard they’ve closed down all Virtual—”
“Yeah. Just came from the HQ,” Troy mentions gloomily. He lowers the level of the cap over his head, looking away. “Guess I’m off. Tell her I said hey when she comes.”
“You got it.”
***
The cyborg sits on the sofa inside his unit, facing the door with the eviction letter at hand. Clouds float above his head. He couldn’t even bother turning on the television. The afternoon light illuminating from the blue curtains gives lighting to the darkness surrounding his living room. The dubstep playing from his phone drops the bass, but it does not absolve him from the roars and sirens wailing feet below his window.
Troy R. Levi
June 22, 2024
Subject: Eviction letter
Dear Troy Levi,
This letter is to notify you that with all due respect, you must vacate your unit 408 within the day after receiving this notice. This is written due to the ongoing situation and multiple concerns from tenants in the apartment. Numerous reports of altercations have been reported as of late to my office. For this matter, I cannot permit you to maintain tenancy and benefits in this complex any longer. To ensure the safety of this apartment and non-Virtual tenants, you as a Virtual resident must take heed of this eviction and return any possessions to my office before the end of tomorrow. Failure to do so will lead to severe judicious action. Any other Virtual residents residing must abide by the scheduled date of eviction. NO exceptions will be made. Thank you for your compliance.
Regard,
Kelly Blaze
Well this is goddamn disgusting.
The sounds collide at once, forcing Troy to turn off the music abruptly and slam the letter on the seat. His mood sinks, and his optics blur through the dizziness. His lips curl into an abhorrent frown as he lowers his temple, burying it with his hands. Then, staring at the gallon of cold water dampening on the table where aspirin pills reside, he seizes it and imbibes the water ravenously. His throat cools smoothly, and he breathes. Water drops from his mustache as he digests.
Noises and a familiar voice pick bass outside his window. Troy rises, nearing the window three feet and he regrets even turning off the music once his mouth hangs. Surrounded by police cars in the streets, a lone reporter, with the back facing the van, can be seen gesturing his microphone to a strikingly known olive-skinned and petite woman in a light pink sleeveless vest and gray flats smiling while raising a hand over her eyes. Blue sunglasses rest on top of her long and darkish ginger hair. Judging from her polished face, she was approximately well up now to her mid-thirties. Underneath the politician’s vest, a black shirt with the logo detailing the severed head of a gruff humanlike T-800 plaster.
Kimberly Ortega-Fernandez. Goddamn.
“SMART isn’t looking into the context but relying on hysteria to create a narrative that reads like a modern-day dystopian fiction,” Troy hears the politician remark aloud. His lips twist furiously. This could mean many things. Why was she here in his street, Troy didn’t know.
Known best as KOF, his state’s congresswoman lowers her hand, giving way to the auric eye shadows in her eyes. She waves her hand over her left and plucks her lips almost flirtatiously to the ecstatic whoops from pedestrians shouting forth.
“Looking fine as fuck, KOF!” a male pedestrian compliments.
Meanwhile the reporter pays no mind as he held his microphone. It doesn’t take long once she directs her attention fervidly to the reporter. She continues, “It’s a hysterical travesty to be candid when others in the committee like me are still undergoing traumatic episodes to the catastrophe done.”
“Congresswoman,” the reporter says. He stood one foot taller than the representative interviewed. His cheeks blush. “I’ve seen you evolve over the six years in this position and been seeing so much has been done to ensure safety of the residents thanks to your vigorous efforts.” His feet shift. “With the passing of the Severance Act, tell me a bit on the progress in your defunding campaign against SMART?”
“It’s an accomplishment. It’s truly PAID off. America’s done something right for once but there’s still much to do. I’d been working on collecting more public support from the residents here...even in New York and the District of Columbia lately…guaranteeing more positive results in expelling this company and its jesters off these streets daily.” Ortega-Fernandez nods while patting her chest repeatedly over her shirt’s flagrant logo. “The Latinx community especially—oh yeah, has been suffering plenty of blows over the months and we’re all still…traumatized at best. Some even get assaulted like what underwent four weeks ago at the metro. It’s mind blowing.”
Troy pounds his fist on the glass and hurls the curtain over it. His temple aches once more. Why did he have to peep? KOF’s voice wanes as he steps away further. His gaze wanders at the racquets pinned on the wall and a tray of rifles locked inside his shelf. The US flag pole remains still behind the chair. Troy’s knees tremble and he drinks rapidly. He had nowhere to go from here. If the landlord relished in the sense of schadenfreude upon writing this letter, Troy wouldn’t be surprised. The thought of stranding a tenant to the wolves, especially for being a Virtual, was madness to him. This unit was close to the only shelter he considered home his entire life after leaving his late beloved mother’s place. It solidified his adulation for the locale he grew up in since being a kid. Now it’s deformed into something he can’t even recognize, and time ticked his way to embark.
Imagine Alana hearing about this. I’d be damned.
Rising, he reaches for the backpack hanging on the coat tree and seizes for the handgun resting on the kitchen stand. His interface clicks as he scans the living room meticulously. Troy’s eyes snap to a frame residing on top of the television. He rushes toward it, freezing to the version of his human self in his early twenties, standing in unison with his tennis mates. Coach Casey Lu kneeled in the middle, posed comfortably in his black triangle goatee as the sun gleamed over the court. Troy’s heart warms as he takes the portrait gently and places it in his bag.
Hope you’re safe out there, coach.
Troy may have more to retrieve as he stood. Braced for what’s about to come, he takes a solid glance at his phone. The list of contacts descends on the screen. He knew Alana would think twice in turning her back, but the risks were too high. If there was no solace, then how else will he find it? Exclusive to Massachusetts, his focus turns to the one person left that he knew.
Chapter 11
The four artists sat in their seats, maneuvering their fingers rapidly on the keys. Meanwhile, Alana lounges at a marble seat across from the men, eyeing them and nodding to the bass drop tuning in her ears. The stereo speakers jiggle to the stentorian beats swaying, and iridescent violet lights flare over them. She gestures downward with her finger, and one of the members glances downward. The boost softens. Alana checks the time ticking to four on her golden watch. She waves her hand.
“Okay. We’s about a wrap-up,” she alerts aloud.
Alana rises from her seat, deactivating the lightings to the switch above a speaker, and the room transitions to normal lighting. She stretches, placating the pressure from her spine. “Good beats. But y’all still keep testing when at home.”
“Will do, Torres!” Ray complies. He folds the laptop in his possession.
The group gathers and makes its way to the exit, chortling among themselves. Ellis winks.
“These cyborgs must be losing it—”
“Aye, Ellis,” Alana calls out. Her cheeks sour. “Whatever you got a say, take that outside. No room for that here.”
Ellis’ expression turns somber in a flash, twirling his beard diffidently as he looks away. The exit door swings abruptly, leaving Alana alone in the studio. She takes the cropped denim jacket from around her seat, settling it over her violet, one shoulder top. The jewels embellished glitters on her dark slim pants, which were folded to her ankles.
Her body shivers to the air, shaking her nerves. She rotates to the live news program, eyeing a bilingual activist in a red coat, standing and barking on the podium. Assuming from her appearance, she and Alana appeared to fall in the category of being in their early thirties. Subtitles overlay below.
“We’ve had enough!” she states tempestuously. “Forgiveness is no option. We MUST not. And cannot give these scrapdogs any room with us to share freely…while our families get infected by the machinations they instigated!”
Alana glosses her eyes sideways. The mass media never failed to nauseate her with their insularity.
This shit never be ending. Stupid ass media.
Troy lingers in her mind. The past three weeks felt like a month to her. The last time Troy came to see her by surprise in Jamaica Plain. On the other hand, Alana couldn’t say the same for the diurnal protests that unraveled everywhere she passed. Even calling Troy didn’t seem the least doable, with brief voice messages being the remnants she can clutch to. It’s like reaching a hand for an eagle above a ten foot tree, only for the eagle to look elsewhere, snubbing whatever pleas the human offered. Even her parents, who have since moved to Little Havana, shared her fears. It was antithetical to the cyborg they knew with their daughter. Even they became no stranger to the aggravated voices that shook their former neighborhood. As her community festered in their hatred for Virtuals over anyone else, nightmares flooded her mind to the extent she ended up holding her eyes open for hours, gazing at the moon until it obscured. The cycle continued, nevertheless.
Alana couldn’t stand by
and let this darkness fester. Her companion’s trapped. No matter the danger, she was going to find him before the rioters did.
Shit. I better be down straight immediately.
Soon when she grabs the remote and turns off the television, a footstep taps behind her.
“Alana. You’re alright?”
Alana looks over her shoulder and jerks to see Victoria, in her floral dress, holding the exit door out. The life of two managers trying to tame the culture of a studio never dries away with Alana.
“Yeah,” Alana replies. She rubs her neck. “Lots on my mind.”
***
Knocking on the door, Alana beckons to see an eye peep from the small view.
“Don’t worry,” she placates aloud, waving. “Alana.”
The unit door creaks open. Bashful, Leon steps in with one foot from her. The teen, somewhere around seventeen, stood in varsity shorts and a red short-sleeved shirt. His cybernetic leg, which had been scraped critically when they first met, remains erect and pristine. Being the same height as her, Leon carries the same almond skin complexion as Troy. Noise, likely a program, booms behind him inside.
A smile dithers on his lips. “Hi.”
“Aye. C’mon.” Alana opens her arms in bonhomie. “Come close, Leon. Come close.”
The teen steps further, and she snaps Leon in her grasp. The rattling in her subsides. As Alana locks him in her embrace, she spots an aging curious woman in a blue flannel and sweatpants stalk with a glass of iced tea at hand. Gray shined on her natural curly hair done in a ponytail.
“Pleasure to see you here, Alana,” Leon’s mother greets.
“Mrs. Montes-Adam,” Alana acknowledges joyfully. She lets go of Leon, steadying her coat’s collar. “Aye. Done with work. Here to check on your son for you before I step out downtown.” Alana taps his shoulder. “Looking good so far.”
Alana could still cogitate that evening three weeks ago, stumbling across him limping a long way on the sidewalk as she drove her way home. A young cyborg, stranded with a tarnished bike and shattered phone screen, there was no way she could let him slip so easily, and her heart melted for giving in to the risk. When others walked away in pride hoping Leon died in loss, Alana took it upon her to seize the responsibility they so callously denied. The night before Troy first picked up her message and stood waiting like a ghost in her neighborhood. She was like another mother to him, from another blood.