by Isaac Nasri
She raises an eyebrow cleverly, grinning. “At least, you’re here to figure out, Levi. It will be to your benefit. To start off, I want you to keep reciting these following lines for me.” She pauses. Her tone turns luminous as she lectures, “Step foot. Close away the void. Be in tune with the petals grazing in the grass.”
Troy looks deep into her eyes, and air escapes from his mouth, leaving him up in the air. Krueger repeats the quotes, this time slowly, and the words brand deep into his mind. Her voice soothes like a sweetening melody into his brain, and his eyes turn dense. The words snake out of his mouth in repetition.
Chapter 17
Wayne stands, facing the leaf sculpted on the tree’s bark. Even as decades passed, it still stood like a tenacious tombstone in a memorial. His tie flutters in the breeze, and the sun begins to set as time passed. His shirt’s sleeves remain lifted up to his elbow. The sheathed knife rests like a cold cube in his hand, and his palms numb. It’s been hours since Ottoman struck the capitol, and the warship’s engines continue to rumble in his chin. The notion that he was somehow still standing, walking freely in this place, flabbergasts him. If it weren’t for Salazar stepping in to intervene, God knew how far he has gone today.
Even after the recovery of Langley and the cities, a part of him knew something was troubling, and it went beyond Ottoman. His intestines twisted to the chilling breeze sweeping below him.
“I WON’T forget this. Once the day comes, I’ll make sure each and every last one of you suffers from this. Remember that.”
Moreci.
Her ominous voice reverberates in the woods, and several of the trees sway. His grasp on the knife shakes. For some reason, the moment she left still left a fresh scar on his head, sending him back to the moment he finalized his decision in Panama. Now, look where it left him pitted against. The PMC who breached the headquarters bent to target him and the other officers was no mere renegade. His presence alone was an omen, a warning for something far more sinister and Wayne had yet to discover.
Questions and doubts surround him like a vortex as he sinks his head. Was he in the wrong? Wrong for standing behind Eva against the wolves in El Salvador who cried for her blood? How would he stomach approbating his foreign ministers to sentence and dispose of her? It could’ve made a difference in what happened today, but how could Soriana, the officer he over watched since her birth, ensure faith in him herself? Eva’s shadow stood in his way, katana unsheathed. Ottoman, the partner with many differences to policy, wasn’t alone. Perhaps Wayne was misguided in his own intentions.
He unsheathes the knife, and rust rests on the edges. Aiming at the marked leaf, Wayne attempts to throw the blade, only for a thunderous fork to flash and hold him back.
Biting his lip, the knife plummets on the grass. He smoothed his chin, and the charred scars rested visible like a lump on his fingers. His vision alters, where he sees his net release from the dirt like an anaconda, lunging and dangling a yelping Cuban by the ankles. Ashen painted to the cheeks and bandana wrapped over his brown shoulder-length hair, the lone operative barraged the mansion, swiping his blades upon anyone scramming insight, and blood squirts like a wave of water. His dagger pierced through the throat of a communist, and the victim’s eyes bulged to the impact. Bullets entered the operative’s ankle, but the dopamine and powder flowing in his veins nullified whatever pain he felt then. He did anything he could to dull away what was stolen.
Time passed since he renounced his monstrosity, and Wayne wanted nothing with it until now. Blinking from his daze, he looks to his right to see his co-pilot and lost comrade, Robert Burns. His fair skin and blonde hair, leveled to his shoulder, illuminated in view, and Wayne’s mouth hangs.
Having both grown as companions in Queens of New York, the two broke sweat and competition in the Airforce Academy, serving as pilots against the wave of communism purportedly breaking into their hometown. The leaf was sculpted on the dart board in the garage, where they exchanged glances with each other as their pistols fired at the mark, only for Wayne’s bullets to clash with Robert’s own.
Despite this jovial rivalry, they remained a force until that following night when the sweeping rockets tore toward their wings. Wayne couldn’t process the crash until he awakened to Cuban troopers dragging Robert and him like dogs for the slaughterhouse toward the nocturnal wilderness. The mist obscured his sight. A young Wayne witnessed the shots fire at once to the back of his comrade before the communists had thrown his corpse into the rolling Almendares River. From that moment, Wayne’s sanity shattered, and here he found himself. Though no longer a senseless hunter, but still in the Central Intelligence Agency, and situated in a whole new era.
Robert. Seems we’re not so safe yet.
Mute, Robert’s lips curl into a smile as if sharing in the doubts before his chimerical presence vanishes, leaving the Director alone. Wayne stares at the knife lying and picks it up reluctantly. He has a new enemy at hand, and this time it is communism or the Mendoza Cartel. Unless he was wrong in his speculation, this brand new foe was drawing him closer to the past he sealed since.
The sunlight reflects upon the windows of the home of where Robert’s son resided until he grimaces to a child, approximately eighteen, near him.
“Oh, hi mister Wayne!” Daniel greets. “Dad and Mom wanted to know whether you’re still interested in desserts.”
Wayne looks at the boy and his lips position like a horizontal scope on his face.
***
Dabbing the red on her thin lips, Soriana steps foot inside the cabin, witnessing Nikolai Clark shuffle the derelict JOA operative, Delgado Hernandez, erect on the seat. The Virtual she’s beaten many hours ago looks away, almost fearfully from his tormentor standing close like a tree. The interrogating prodigy’s Hawaiian safari shirt remains to unbutton halfway, revealing a trace of hair on his broad chest, and his muscles arch over the short sleeves.
She pursues her lips at her fellow officer in approbation.
“Greetings bird,” Nikolai acknowledges, caressing the captive’s head. His sharp English accent echoes. “Good seeing you.” Then he looks at Hernandez, observing his watch. “Baby sitting over.”
Her back stings as she stalks, and she rubs at the injury sustained at her temple. The room’s air rubs on her skin like a gelid crystal, which slightly placates the pain shouting in her body. The round lamp stands tenacious on the ceiling, the only piece giving illumination inside. A mirror divides the two as Soriana sits, resting her coat over the back of the chair and dropping a bag on the table. The collar on her shirt is notched like a knitted tear.
It’s been many hours since she survived the assault, and to her relief Air Forces were able to botch whatever reinforcement the Jaguars of Apollo had in plan then. Now it was her turn to carry on the reprisal, and ambiguity was the last notion Soriana needed on her hand from her captive.
Nikolai inputs three beads at the rear scalp between the cyborg’s cornrows, and a spectrum oscillates on the computer behind him. An exasperated Delgado glowers at Soriana across him, with the former crossing her legs and masking her loathe with a stern tolerance. The cyborg’s fatal bruises are veneered by white bandages on his face, resembling that of a mummified figure. Delgado’s bionic arms about, locked to the wrist by steely chains. The electric elastin hooks the locks in place, as served. She beckons Nikolai, who smiles lewdly toward his captive.
“Vexing you with the violins will be too easy for you,” Nikolai says, rubbing the fur on his large stubbed beard. “Today’s a great change, V-bloke. Catch your last breaths, cyborg. This will be a beat like no other in this world.”
When it came to interrogation, Nikolai knew exactly where to sting the prisoner with the sharpest edge in the string. From there, Soriana bought her way into the psyche like a worm snaking into the door lock, knowing what to retrieve.
Delgado snares at the room. “What’s the meaning of this nonsense?”
Snubbing the cyborg’s censure, Soriana sets th
e flashing recorder on the table, saying aloud, “You’re hearing, Director?”
“I’m in, Salazar,” Wayne complains. His voice undergoes a slight obscurity on the machine. “Proceed.”
Soriana locks her wide eyes at Delgado, advising earnestly, “You’ll be answering my
questions in as much detail as needed. If you cooperate, this may not last long for you.”
“I don’t care,” Delgado scoffs.
Nikolai reaches a finger to the computer keyboards but Soriana ushers and shakes her head at him without leaning. The officer rubs his rusty hands as he positions to the back of his captive, standing behind the broken Virtual closely like a reaper grinning salaciously at his victim sleeping soundly in the bed.
“Look at me, Delgado,” she continues. “We all know why you came. Now I want to ask…where’s Ottoman operating his PMC?”
He sinks his gaze downward at the table, facing his reflection and muttering under his breath. “Unidos—”
“Can’t hear you,” she emphasizes.
“United Arab Emirates!”
“What part then?”
Delgado sighs in exasperation. “I GIVEN you the—”
The Virtual howls apishly to the plugs searing on his temple. The spectrum’s waves mount on the screen, and Nikolai leaves his hands on the keyboard. The prisoner squirms to the sound ringing like an alarm sensor to the two human officer’s ears. Soriana crosses her arms, unperturbed to eyeing the prisoner’s state until she signals her comrade.
Ultrasound waves…a Virtual’s worst nightmare.
Soriana tilts her head. “I’ll repeat. And I need simple answers.” She opens her mouth, slowly saying, “What CITY area?”
Chuckling, Nikolai strokes the captive’s shoulders as the latter pants. He spits out, “Why does the CIA always do this? Fi—FINE.” He shakes his head. “Sharjah!”
Soriana gazes at the recorder as if for reassurance. The green light flickers.
She continues, “You and the PMCs struck by surprise. But you thought it would be so easy, didn’t you?” The tone in her voice fluctuates, hardening with graveness. “Explain yourself, Delgado.”
Delgado turns silent. The two engage in a critical stare that lasts ten seconds until the contractor rebukes, “You fools should know the answer to that.”
“Don’t make this harder than it should,” Soriana warns. She cradles the bracelet on her wrist as she shifts, and the ruby crescent plastered glimmers. Her heart quivers. “You tried to KILL my Director.”
Delgado wiggles on the seat as if already unnerved by Nikolai’s proximity. His teeth clench behind the bandages. Fresh blood soaks at the fabric on his face.
Looking at both directions hotly, Delgado nods, derailing, “An oath broken doesn’t always come without consequence, officer. You pathetic regulators always overestimate yourselves. You FORCED us Virtuals to flee from our homes! Created a fence to divide—turn the entire public against us. Now we’ve come to free the millions still at your mercy.”
Our hands have been TIED for too long.
The words stung at her eardrums like the fangs of a viper digging into the flesh of its host. Blood streaks arch in Soriana’s eyes, and her fingers numb. The climate in the room sours.
“The CIA thinks they’re untouchable,” Delgado goes on. He shuffles on the chair like a caged lion. “History repeats itself, cubana. Havana and Operation Mongoose decades ago, don’t you remember? Always wanting to be the global heroes, but you’re nothing but DELUDED imperialists, without cause!”
Don’t speak for me.
The numbness crumbles, vacillating to a surge of fire swimming in Soriana’s blood. Eyes widening angrily than ever, she uncrosses her legs, fist-clenching as the offense slaps her on the cheekbones. Whatever tolerance she built up inside of her begins to crack.
“If you didn’t stand in my way human, I would’ve RIPPED down this place and you with—”
She listens to no further as she delivers the signal of her hand. Nikolai activates the sound waves with a touch of his finger. The JOA agent roars to the shockwaves jerking his body. Delgado’s veins protrude on his temple, and his pupils swirl before the glitch consumes his eyes. His circumscribed body bounces on the seat more than ever, swearing aloud in his shrill. On the other hand, Nikolai snickers unabashedly to the torment that ensued.
Soriana observes without a single blink to the trepidation inundating her prisoner, and her fist remains clenched. A voice from behind her ear whispers, making her conspicuous to the madness she’s brewing. She thought that with what she endured gravely days ago will reshape her compass toward a renegade like Delgado, yet the blaze was rumbling in her persistence, blinding her from that logic. She couldn’t help herself. He was right about one thing: Delgado could’ve done worse, and for that matter, she wanted no part in his illusion. She was here for one person. Whatever pride this cyborg touted Soriana was bound to obliterate today.
Sighing, she gestures to Nikolai, and the torment ceases. A state of quietude befalls the room briefly. A bemused Nikolai looms, stroking his agitated captive salaciously by the shoulders.
“Told it hurt, didn’t I?” Nikolai insults. He leans to Delgado’s ear. “I know what drives you cyborgs bonkers, not like we humans. I’ll tell you now. You cyborgs may be externally built, but your neural interfaces fall short to the slightest touch of a bloody ultrasound. One more blow and you might as well be good as a braindead doll.”
Soriana looks up at Nikolai silently, taking subtle approbation to his warnings. The wave’s high intensity impact will be fatal enough to disrupt the circuit activity in a Virtual’s NI. However, she wasn’t ready to lose this prisoner, not just yet as her final question lingers.
Delgado yanks from his interrogator’s contact, spitting saliva at his direction only to miss the tormentor. The cyborg roars at him
“Arrgh! Sick fucking dog! I can’t do this!”
His voice is carried by a resounding echo, followed by a couple of heavy breathes. The cyborg then directs his loathsome gaze toward Soriana, barking, “¡Puneta! Puneta!! ¡Los monstruos como tú son la razón por la que luchamos entre nosotros!”
When will he learn?
Soriana’s face flushes upon witnessing the Virtual slouch on the chair. “Te lo he advertido lo suficiente. no volveré a contenerme. Haz lo mejor para callarte.”
“We’re not finished! This strike was only a message! There are thousands of us now in the states. We’ll keep freeing and freeing until we unite against ALL of you....TWO days from now. Too bad our cyber-attack will scar your defenses before you can retaliate. You won’t be finding us so easily, human.”
She and Nikolai exchange peculiar glances among each other.
Cyber-attack? Now that’s insane.
Frowning, Soriana beckons Delgado with a tinge of vexation. “And…dale.”
“Latinos. We’re our OWN worst enemies. Always been.” Delgado’s teeth clenches as he says this with a cutting edge to his voice as if trying to hold back a laugh. “Doesn’t matter; we share a common descent. We’re a divided community, Salazar. We’ve been pawns fighting in your human’s dirty wars for years. What has it cost us, Virtuals?”
Steam hisses from her nostrils. The color around her view fluctuates, and her foot shakes on the ground. Her blood boils more than ever with every word Delgado speaks. Pictures of old faces pass by like a flock of birds, accumulating in her brain. Soon when the cyborg’s said enough, he finds another way to poke her. However, this was the last grievance she needed to hear from her enemy or from anyone. She couldn’t comprehend the libel spilling aloud.
Enough. That’s enough.
“Yes! Here you are, sleeping with the enemy among enemies. Why go in America about unity and inclusion when you people will sell your friends—brothers and sisters—just to save your own backs! It’s in your blood—”
Her fist drops like a court’s hammer on the table. The surface rings, and the words cease from Delgado’s mouth. Nikolai
glances down at his captive and raises an eyebrow. The air escapes from Soriana’s mouth as she heaves.
“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!”
Attempting to block away the chilling words clouding in, Soriana finally releases the last and sole question.
“¿Dónde está Eva Moreci?”
Delgado arches his shoulders. “¿Que?”
Losing tolerance, she rises, and the seat tumbles. “LAST TIME, DELGADO. Where’s agent…Eva…Moreci!”
“Heh. Expecting me to be so keen to a vague question like this—”
“Nikolai,” she alarms. Her broad gaze locks coldly at her prisoner like a puma squaring off at her herbivorous prey. “I got it from here. Thanks.”
Nikolai chortles. “Well, if you say. I’ll still be around.”
The tormentor escorts, but not without looking back at Delgado. Nikolai’s lips curl into an aberrant smile, showing teeth as ivory as Soriana’s own. The door shuts, leaving the officer alone with her reprehensible prisoner.
“What’s going on?” Wayne breaks.
“Wayne,” she calls. Soriana’s voice cracks, catching a fresh gust of pain drill in her. The air inside begins to squeeze her by the throat. Her nerves gyrate as she rapidly states, “There’s info that needs to be covered. They’re set on initiating some…some cyber warfare, but it’s vague still. Though we have the location of operation, we need to send forces to find—”
“That will only bring unwarranted enemies in the conflict,” he dissuaded. “Ottoman’s situated themselves in a position that has us backed in the corner. I have all that I need for breakdown.”
“Eva.” She loses thought process but holds back a shout. Eva had yet to be located at sight since inducing a barrier in contact. Plus Soriana had yet to come across a rogue contractor walking visibly in the streets so far. If what Delgado was saying about this drift is true? Whether it was true that a portion of these Virtuals has fled to the Middle East to escape humans, it was without a doubt to Soriana that Eva was among the crowd.