by Isaac Nasri
“Perfect. They won’t stand a chance then,” Eva says musingly. “Hopefully, PMCs are still in position in the states?”
“Confirmed,” the technologist mentions. “Forces are even gathering many disbanded Virtuals into private areas called…safe zones. For preparation.” He points a finger to the Eastern Coast of the United States. “New York—I can tell you. We’re being informed by our agents of some mediating activity occurring inside the zones and mention of—of the Violet Gardens.”
Eva steps back, sighing. Despite being perplexed, the recondite context somehow allured her. What if this Violet Gardens didn’t need to be some virtual recuperation after all? Flashing to everything she’s stood for, she advises, “State’s dangerous, but let them still keep put, before we step in. We can learn something.”
“Surely that leaves them no excuse NOT to fight back,” Ottoman says. He raises his chin patronizingly. “Once that’s done, the world’s agenda will be in my favor.”
She throws her head back. Eva turns around, shooting Ottoman a wary expression. “NOT like that, Ottoman. Not…like that.”
The two look at each other glassily until the technologist informs, “Okay, now onto the Infernal Python. You might be a body of catalyst, but someone among them has to act as a source.”
Eva processes everything he’s said. She twists the sheathed blade cautiously in her hand, and Soriana and Wayne rear their faces from underneath the veneer. Contingency may have prevailed, but it had its limit. The Virtual came far, setting forth what she needed in order to fulfill this moment. She had Virtuals like Hai, who looked up to her as a commanding officer, and Eva couldn’t break that promise. There were two days left before she closed her war on the 27th. Her enemies could raise their gates as long as they wanted, but in the end, what Eva held against them wouldn’t redress anything. Her lips twist to a satiating smile.
I’ll have to finish them myself.
***
Eva and Ottoman remain several feet apart as they stalk together on the bridge. From outside the glass, a prayer recital from outside resounds, and the golden sun glistens nebulously on the bay. Nevertheless, the air between the two remains tense.
“I’ll explain how this works, Moreci,” Ottoman dictates. “Jaguars of Apollo don’t operate by giving off free passes. That’s not how the structure goes. You may topple their system, but this phase will go nowhere without au—”
“I KNOW that,” Eva states abruptly. She purses her lips. “That’s understandable. But the way you’re going about it.”
Ottoman pauses, gazing at the view and the clouds motioning like an oblique blanket over the skyscrapers. Several Virtuals wearing the same vest emblazoned with the company’s logo pass by him, acknowledging their superior with a wave, but the human kept his glance at the landscape in oblivion. He frowns.
“I’ve been a lapdog for Congress and the DoD long enough,” he mentions. “I’ve tolerated their politics, but the cowards dodged responsibility at the last minute. The politicians think they’re on top of the game with the warfare and gimmicks on their sleeves…as if they’ve forgotten who their top distributor was all this time.”
Eva folds her arms, shivering. Her bones begin to tick, finding it difficult to rid her of the sensation as she stood. She could only gaze squarely at Ottoman’s reflection.
Where is this even going?
“That nonsense’s ending,” he continued. “With every blow I deal, my firm steals every piece of that power I’ve given them. The West’s operated by imbeciles without a rationale. Best we show the parents how to do their job…be the spearheads the world needs.” He scoffs. “Then I can celebrate.”
“This war isn’t about you.” She steps close, and her reflection turns visible on the glass. “Your fight is our fight.”
Ottoman rotates from his gaze, emanating close to the cyborg. His eyes, as astute as a vulture, close in on hers sharply. “Be grateful for the chance you got, Moreci. Nowadays they aren't so merciful.”
A shadow creeps below Eva’s eyes as she raises her head toward the CEO’s height. Her skin turns hot. Through clenched teeth, she warns, “If we get careless, then we’re just as foolish. Please, let’s NOT repeat that mistake.”
Soon with that said, the Virtual turns her back and departs. Reflecting in the window, Ottoman leans his rear on the railing. He attempts to reach a finger for the box of cigarettes, but he freezes and lets his hand swing.
“Oh! Don’t forget about simulation,” Ottoman calls aloud. “But the filing needs to be processed before you begin!”
Eva, back turned, continues to trudge as if letting his words crumble on deaf ears. The sun radiates behind him, and Ottoman tilts his neck. His gaze remains fixated, even as Eva goes out of reach.
“I’ll be up in a minute, Hai,” she alarms anxiously in her NI.
Eva rubs her neck and swallows to the chill wrapping around her stomach. Hai’s last question lingers, echoing in her head as if she were storming into a pitch-black cavern.
“Then Ottoman…”
A dark feeling took form in this place, and Eva was far from searching for the catalyst behind it.
***
Ottoman sits comfortably in his chair, in insouciance to the darkness inundating the small lab room. However, that’s discerned by the dual lights flaring like an ocean stream in the bay, stroking the hair on Ottoman’s tan skin warmly.
He bypasses through the last player’s red coin on the virtual checkerboard and the rewarding points tally on his tablet. Chuckling lightly with this secondary victorious rematch, Ottoman exits the online rings on his tablet and sets the device aside. The screen on the table twirls, revealing the downloading progress of the Infernal Python. His focus transitions to the right, witnessing Eva’s soporific body rest on the hospital bed like a cadaver and a white blanket veneering her torso. The wires entwine behind the lower posterior of her skull synergized to the desktop’s giant engine. A digital spider-like device, the structure of the neural interface, elucidates next to another hologram of the patient’s brain above the head of Eva’s bed. The name EVA JASMINE MORECI highlights identity. He pours his Sprite on the cup, drinking it with leisure and the lemonade moistens the aridness in his tongue. He shakes his head.
Feel bad for you, cyborg.
Moreci meant well with her arrival, but she had no idea what she’s gotten herself into. She had been a complete fool thinking she could survive without the expertise of his lucrative corporation. So did the many. What made her different from the subservient officers he’s supplied in the areas? If it weren’t for him, these consumers wouldn’t even stand a chance against the Drug War. The Cyber Drift began two decades ago because of him. He redefined the meaning of warfare.
Today he stood at war against those same politicians and civilians he sustained for many years. They chose to be visceral and turn arsenals against him rather than witness the inevitable that defined the perennial Drug War. Men were no different from women, and their worth to this society has plummeted. If he was an absolutist for the actions he condoned, then he had no regrets. Then a lone Virtual had the temerity to stand in his way, lecturing him an illusion of some utopia, misguiding the direction of his corporation. Without those augmentations, she and many of these soldiers would amount to nothing in his eyes. Little idea they had of the power he held in his fingers, and he could bend it in any minute. Moreci may not last long, but her aspects were something he could respect. No longer bound by abstract statements, Ottoman could set foot upon the role his government abdicated, and soon many other global firms outside the Jaguars of Apollo would gain something.
Snatching his tablet, Ottoman rises from his seat, making way toward the room’s exit. However, he stops in his tracks, glancing behind him to where Moreci rests supine in her slumber. A starlight glints in his eyes.
Chapter 19
The noon light shining from the balcony disseminates into the living room. Facing the view of Pelham Parkway, tuning out the blar
es in the streets, Alana squats on her knees, breathing to the muscles tightening in her thighs. Her haunches harden with every bend she initiates. Meanwhile, Gabriel sits on the sofa, gaze locked on the menu on television and his fingers rack on Ricardo’s PlayStation 5 controller.
“Welcome to the King of Iron Fist Tournament 8!” the announcer states on the television.
Alana rises, feeling her legs judder as she stands. Her toes blister on the floor’s tiles, and her skin turns humid. She leans back, hands pressed to her glutes as they soar. Wood carvings of tribesmen stood near the shelf as if watching over her and Gabriel inside the room on behalf of their uncle’s temporary absence. Alana never thought she made it so easily into this neighborhood after escaping the unimaginable. What spirit could have possibly guided her during that parlous afternoon? She was grateful to find Ricardo still standing on his feet to give her and her brother a roof over their heads. Her back crawls to the recurring thought. Her heart sank then for Gabriel, who had the misfortune of losing nearly everything yesterday. Whatever he’s sustained with now was assisted by his uncle.
She looks down at her sheer sleeveless tee and lifts it off before rubbing her firm hips. Shifting and looking over to Gabriel, Alana lets her lightly toned abs flex on her stomach. She embraces the gush storming in, brushing her skin and navy sports bra as she rests her shirt over the headrest of a red reclining chair. The bra’s scoop neckline warms against her bosoms. Floral tribal prints emblazon on the fabric, even on her elastic leggings, which hoists over her navel.
I won't be needing this shirt.
“Aye Gabriel!” she calls out. His cursor hesitates on the character select, but Alana still reaches to tap his shoulder. “C’mon. Exercise time.”
Gabriel raises a hand. “Alana. I—my online match’s about to begin—”
He loses his idea once Alana's expression turns resolute toward him. Dropping his hand, Gabriel gets up from the chair begrudgingly. Her slightly plump brother was a foot taller, but his height never fazed Alana. If anime wasn’t present, Gabriel always turned his penchant to gaming. Nonetheless, the idea of devoting emotion and concentration into an interchangeable puzzle never bid well with Alana. For that matter, she made it her routine to introduce Gabriel to every aspect of fitness.
While the fighting game’s dubstep booms in the background, Alana moves aside the recliner before gesturing Gabriel to go down with her in a prone position. He lowers across his elder sister.
“Follow my move, alright?”
Hands and feet pressed onto the floor, Alana positions her shin upward, and Gabriel acts in unison. Alana’s breast shifts with her limb’s movement. Her lower stomach constricts as she proceeds with the left shin, and the pain numbs. Gabriel grunts in his position, forcing his spine to bend upward like a hill, and Alana grimaces.
“Naw naw, Gabriel.”
She gets up and stands behind Gabriel. Before Alana can stretch her hands, she jerks to the door opening. Ricardo looms inside, and the scent of fried chicken snuggles into the room, twitching her nostrils. Alana looks over to the shotgun hanging on the wall, and her spine crawls.
“Whew. Finally,” he says gladly. His thick accent carried a gruff edge to it. Ricardo snags his teeth on the stewing seasoned drumstick in his greasy hands. Items juggle in the paper bag slinging over his wrist. “Dollar store was packed, but I got the last one.”
Alana freezes, biting her lip upon eyeing the black cloth whipping from inside the bag. The honks screech from behind her, brushing down her spinal cord. Witnessing his sister diverted, Gabriel rushes toward his chair, reprogramming his mind back to the character select that has since been reset to its original state. She bends for the bottle by the balcony glass, gulping the cold water and attempting to halt whatever negative thoughts that were processing in her head as the liquid-cooled her humid body.
The shades on his round spectacles were as dark ebony like blood, obscuring any glance of his natural eyes. Setting down the bag on one of the white kitchen counters, Ricardo removes his cap and bronze sandals. He held the same curly hair as Gabriel, but a foot shorter. In contrast to his elder brother Victor, Ricardo’s skin carried a brownish tone, and small gray streaks struck on his black mustache.
“Tal vez deberías venir a hacer ejercicio—”
“Oh. He hecho mi ejercicio,” the uncle mentions. “I’ve gotten my exercise.” He burps as he reaches into the kitchen, turning on the sink and rinsing his hands. Ricardo storms to where he last placed his bag, rummaging his hand inside. Alana’s mouth drops upon witnessing him release a long, embellished baton in his hand.
“Tío?” she questions worrisomely.
“Was a lucky man to get this at the Dominicans at the dollar store!” he gloats, oblivious to his niece’s concern. Ricardo touts the silver baton at hand, and a sharp crystallized hook shines at the top of it. “Pricey but the best one out there.”
To make matters worse, he draws and spreads out the fabric, which turns out to be a black flag capitalized ¡QUEMASTE MI PAÍS! Her family’s home flag is furnished below the letter, tainted in flames. Alana rubs her neck, feeling a worm somehow snaking inside her throat to what’s being seen.
Setting the flag down on the reclining chair, Ricardo taunts, “If these perros de chatarra want to give us a fight, then they have to think twice.”
Despite what Ricardo’s done to aid, the differences between him and Alana were as astute as a razor slashing through the marble concrete. The war that’s brewed in retribution of the cyborgs being ousted hasn’t changed the heart of these humans by a slight, rather aggravated their delusion. Ricardo may have been her uncle, but she couldn’t rebuff that shelter in the Bronx was tantamount to being a nervous farmer glossing over cynically to her bull, who continues to stomp in tortuous directions waiting to break from his space no matter the discipline.
Alana sets hands on her hips, and “Dorya! Dorya!!” echoes behind her on the TV as she mentions, “Tio. Got a be careful. Don’t be taking these protests too lightly.”
He scoffs. “Don’t judge me so easily, Sasha—Alana.”
According to her mother, he had a knack for calling Alana by her middle name, seeing that he and her father got into debates about her namesake until the two came to a strange agreement when she was born. Alana never got the meaning behind it.
Ricardo flips his baton, leveling it toward the online match on screen. Interestingly, Gabriel remains inconspicuous to the discussion. “I’d be damned if I see another cyborg in my ditch again.” He laughs lightly. “If this were Miami, oh we THROW them alive to the big alligators! That’s how we do it.”
Alana stares up, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. “I swear, the more we ranting on, then we sure as hell going a be dead tomorrow.”
Irked, she raises the flag, snatching her shirt from underneath on the chair, and ambles. Her round bosoms sting, and entering her bedroom, she strokes her bra cup, placating the itch. Alana closes the door, seeing her uncle’s shadow loom toward the balcony. She throws aside her shirt on the bed. The bubbles surf inside her iridescent lava lamp on top of her drawer, giving light to the angelic tattoo adorned on her back, slightly obfuscated by her sports bra’s cross straps. The angel sat with grace on the bench, lips pressed on the flute, and a gamut of tunes descended like raindrops over the deity. She recalled having this branded the year she began working in the art studios, and even with the career that was buried with the ruins of Massachusetts, the memory of that passion has never left her.
Sighing, Alana, drops sideways on her mattress. Her sportswear hung on top of her closet door’s edge while remnants and a few accessories remained in the luggage on the ground. Ricardo’s voice roars proudly to the balcony, and cars honk in return. Her eyes become dense as she snugs a hand inside her bed’s pillow, retrieving her cell phone. Activating the screen, Alana holds her breath upon gazing at the wallpaper of a standing Troy, crossing his arms, and next to her. In an Aztec printed tank dress, Alana pressed amicably upo
n the cyborg’s shoulder, smiling as bright like a twinkling diamond. She wiggles her feet on the sheets, shivering.
Here I do it.
She dabs her thumb on the contact icon, and seals her eyes as she scrolls downward. Releasing her eyes open, Alana wheezes fearfully to Troy’s contact active on the list. Bracing, she makes the click.
***
Krueger’s drone glides over a shirtless Troy as he rests his rear on the kitchen chair, glance squaring at the extra tablet Krueger has given him. The moist beads planted on his skin begin to dry away to the fan whirling on the ceiling. He rubs his cybernetic hand over his fairly rigid bicep, relishing the honey’s aroma over him. A shower had never been so refreshing after two days of going by stranded.
Troy analyzes one of the orange triangles motioning on a street view before raising an eyebrow to a red spot alarming on a posted edifice. He makes a sudden click toward it.
So this is Project Harmony.
“How are you processing the work?” Krueger asks behind him. She takes a sip of her coffee and grabs the remote from the sink counter, turning on the television in the living room.
Troy reaches for the coffee, and his eyes flutter to the vapor belching from the cocoa. He sips, warming his throat, and regurgitates, “Cast your doubts. Uh…cast your hatred.” His words slip. Troy takes another big sip until the bulb lights. “You’re now in the Violet Gardens.”
“Good. Good,” she approbates. Krueger approaches the Virtual, gesturing to the electronic panel in Troy’s grasp. “With Harmony…I’ve been making efforts to reach out to as many Virtuals isolated in the district. My own SMART system’s still active for me to engage with their NI.”
Troy takes a shot at the triangle, pausing midway toward the alarming spot. “So this wouldn’t apply to me. That’s what you’re saying.”