by Isaac Nasri
She smiles and shakes her head. “SMART employees are limited in extending their operations with Virtuals, not in their territory, Troy.” The bouquet of cocoa beans floods her presence like an enticing fragrance as she stands, salivating Troy’s cheeks. Krueger sets a finger on the edifice, indirectly guiding the triangles, presumably the cyborgs, into the area. “But you have as much contribution in ensuring their path to the safe zones…without direct interface. My mission is to ensure not only they’re safe, but to make sure I engage and alleviate them to the best of my ability.”
“Tell me a bit about this Violet Gardens.”
“Violet Gardens. It’s funny because though it’s invisible to the naked eye…it’s a comfort that I’ve made my past virtual agents embrace when in confusion.” Her lips press, attempting to withhold the color creeping in her cheeks. “I’ve made it as a special haven…a dimension for a Virtual’s internal relief. Now some of those clients…” Krueger looks down at the panel at hand, releasing a sigh. “They’re currently employed with the JOA.”
Troy grimaces. Then a beat flows through.
Step foot. Close away the void. Be at tune to the petals grazing in the grass. Cast your doubts. Cast your hatred. You’re now in the Violet Gardens.
The following words repeat for themselves, discerning the fog clouding his mind. Troy twirls his beard, cogitating all that was discussed. The word “gardens” clicks into his head, and his blood becomes frigid. Lu died trying to find solace as much as Troy, but imagine if Lu was still alive and he happened to stumble onto this project. Who knew the benefits he could’ve achieved? He wouldn’t have executed this strike on the state. Anything could’ve happened on the brighter side.
“Those words you recite,” Krueger continues. “Are therapy to the neural mind. It was originally made to calm patients during post-augmentation. Now I situate Virtuals with the lines because it keeps them at bay from the—”
She raises an ear to something to Troy’s oblivion, and that’s when she trudges to what’s broadcasting on the television. He steps down from his seat to observe closely.
“This is WNBC reporting to you on the devastating decimation of Massachusetts and the Amtrak,” the reporter mentions with an earnest face. He stood in front of passing cars in the streets, and jeering drivers raised their fists from the window. Another person stood next to him, standing two inches taller and a light blue dressing shirt unbuttoned at the collar. “Attack’s been linked to a suspect in which federal agents disclosed to be former tennis coach of Boston University, Casey Lu.”
Troy’s muscles turned solid as molten pavement hardened on the soil, and he couldn’t bulge. The recriminating image of Troy’s dead coach blasts on the screen. He stares down, gazing at his feet. The temperature on the ground plummets.
“However, thanks to some of the train survivors,” the reporter goes on, “we’re hinting that the deceased cyborg terrorist has been likely aided by a black Virtual accomplice. Thankfully, federal officers captured footage from on top of the train backing up these serious claims.”
The program transitions to a screening of two suspects on top of a moving platform and Troy spots the video zooming to a figure across his coach. The scrutinized identity becomes transparent in the naked eye and Troy’s spine numbs.
“If we zoom in closely,” the reporter informs. “Despite the weather then, it’s clear the accomplice is in an all-black pants and coat included.”
No. What is this? This can’t be possible!
The cyborg sets a firm hand onto a seat, panting. Troy’s throat sours as if an acidic liquid has sunk its way into the tunnel, distorting him. His head starts to pound. The program continues to break down, but his ears shut out the noise. The horror and panic synergize into one, deafening sound and he wants to hear not one bit in this room.
“Oh shit,” Troy swears.
Krueger rushes over, and her teeth clamp nervously. “Easy now, Troy. Easy—” Her teeth clash with each other uncontrollably.
Troy whiffs, clutching his bare chest. “How…how did they—”
“I can’t figure it out too,” Krueger says. She sets her cold, smooth hands over his back, levering him upward. Her eyes shake. “It’s not going to change. Now it’s best you need a brand pair of clothes to blend. It will only take a few minutes for enforcers to hunt you down if otherwise.”
Troy stares down at his black pants, and his mouth hangs. His dismay aggravates when he hears the reporter mention, “I have the New York Governor Jeremy Milano on my left to offer insight on this unfortunate event.” He turns his direction to the governor. “Milano. How are you today? How would you advise the New York residents to take precautions in this tense situation?”
“Thanks very much, sir,” the governor acknowledges. He takes the microphone from the young reporter’s hand. His curly hair was a deep charcoal. The visible creases on the politician’s frowning face revealed a man aging in his early sixties. The tip of his nose reddens like a deer that’s endured months in the cold, adding up to the scorn constructing on his eyes and lips. Troy’s chest stings, having already been disquieted by the elder human’s demeanor.
“It’s a sad state of affairs to see in today’s climate.” The state’s accent touched base in his tongue. He arches his lips, and his gaze locks on the screen as if stoked by Troy’s perturbation from afar. “We have unruly s—cyborgs like this that persist to derail and taint the communities I’m protecting, you see? It’s wise we remove whatever accolades this narcissistic sociopath has had over the years at BU.”
You know nothing about my coach! None of you! Get the fuck out of here!
Troy rushes and locates the remote control. His grip on the control hardens that it trembles until his middle finger finds the button. The volume lowers to zero, and he throws it on the sofa. Heat boils in his veins. A sense of stillness vanquishes the room.
***
Part of the lights remains shut, shedding a piece of its shadow over Troy as he laid his back on the sofa. His bionic finger traces to a narrow alley sparking on the map. As he leads his targets, he silently recites, “Step foot. Close away the void. Be at tune to the petals grazing in the grass. Cast your doubts. Cast your hatred. You’re now in the Violet Gardens.”
The television still flashes, but mute thanks to the remote by his side. The lines slip out repeatedly like a whisper, almost like prayer. The heat surfing in his veins dilutes, dulling him. Troy didn’t think twice to look over the shoulder then to check on survivors. Why would he? How could these people who lived to see the end of the day obliterate that chance by recriminating him for something he tried to prevent? Dismayed, Troy had no clue on the witness he was up against. He wouldn’t be able to count.
Troy rises, eyeing his charging phone, screen and case now fixed thanks to Krueger, resting on top of the lamp’s stand behind him. He removes the charger, turning on the iPhone indirectly. Interfacing with the phone menu, a line scraps past the applications until he spots a missed voice call on the left below. The icon opens without contact, and his eyes widen.
Alana S. Torres. Missed Call. 1:28 pm
He breaches his way into Alana’s contact profile, and with one glint toward the call button, the phone rings. Troy nods, processing the deed he’s committed, and an air of respite sweeps over his hardened body.
This could be my only best shot in reaching out to her.
Troy presses the phone to his right ear, and looks over to Krueger coming down the steps, with robe wrapped over her. The two look at each other, but whatever Krueger had to say is broken by an immediate greet rumbling aloud from the phone.
Chapter 20
Alana rushes toward the crosswalk, preceding the stop sign shining on the street pole. Her heels clamp hastily on the rusty pavement, rushing past the body of pedestrians dwelling on Lexington Avenue. Several bystanders hop onto the bus, guided by National Guards near the driver’s side. Giant rodents scurry from the incoming cars and onto the pavement, with the lea
d chipping an aluminum chip bag into its acute teeth and hopping over the fence without hassle. Her earrings dance with each pace she takes, and the Miami Heat’s cap over her ombre hair shadows her from the dense light raining from above. The phone remains pressed against her ear as she bustles like it’s the morning rush hour.
“Where you at, Troy?” she asks aloud. Alana’s fingers shake. “Tell me how far.”
Sirens cry in the streets, bringing a shrill into her ears. Alana looks over to see a couple of NYPD cars surrounding a spot four feet from her. Their lights twirl imminently. Her pupils start to heat.
“I’s—”
“I’m fifteen blocks down. Stay calm,” Troy advises immediately. “Keep walking. I’ll activate face cam for you in seconds, Alana.”
She coughs to a black steam hissing from a nearing MTA bus, twisting her nostrils to the noisome gas. Nevertheless, Alana manages to raise the phone until she swears to what’s on view.
The fuck happened? Oh god.
Alana couldn’t visualize it. Plastic wraps dissemble on what’s left of Troy’s face, rendering him barely recognizable. Her shoulder arch tentatively. That voice. It surely was him, but she couldn’t shake away the fingers creeping over her skin. What could’ve possibly happened to him, in her absence, to leave him like this?
“Don’t be worried,” he placates. “See me ahead?”
The moment she lowers the phone with distraught is the minute the two come eye to eye. The stoplight triumphed, holding her back to her chagrin. The caller stood a block across a nonplussed Alana, but that feeling is snapped once the Virtual removes the white wraps out of his unscathed face, greeting her with a smile curling on his lips. Glass splashes, as if a deity has plucked his gargantuan finger upon the ice, shattering the floor into sharp pieces. Troy stands patiently with a black sling bag slouched over his shaped shoulder. A sapphire notched tee worn over his bandaged arms and neck, and his shaped chest flaunts underneath the shirt. Surprisingly, his fresh jeans were as ivory as hers, despite the latter’s own being a capri. Regardless of the cyborg’s bold veneer, Alana couldn’t resist being allured to this chic presence.
She clasps her mouth, struggling to maintain her blush as her heart roars. The red light ticks like a swinging bell in the tower, and the number of cars driving across her lessens. Patience dwindles, and Alana looks at all sides of the intersection. That is, until the green snaps.
“Troy!!” Alana cries vehemently as she bolts. Her strappy heels splash on a shallow pond, tainting a black stain on her lower ankles, but it meant nothing as she lunges with arms open. Alana’s foot rises from the ground as Troy whirls her body, and her fervor rises. Her arms wrap over him, tighter than ever. Her breast presses against his, stroking his back thirstily like a spouse that’s been bereaved from her husband’s presence, and couldn’t let go. She beams to the aroma of honey branded on Troy’s skin. The mist obscures her, and bubbles ascend from her, satiating her body with an immense rapture. She waited for this chance for days, and her prayers have been answered. After fighting through this inevitable friction, it paid off for Alana.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Thank you for Troy!
“I couldn’t stop thinking…” Alana pants to his hands caressing her hip bones, roughening her pink windbreaker. She pulls away slightly, but her grasp over his arms keeps Troy close. The luminous messages whispering in her brain scatters. Alana’s breathing overtakes her as she looks up, choking halfway. “Please, Troy. Don’t ever be doing that to me. Again.”
“I know. I know,” Troy says with ruefulness. He nudges her, forcing Alana to muster herself. His breath slaps like a warm gush on her face as he holds her amicably. He looks directly into her light hazel eyes, as if gazing at the pain that’s been afflicted in her soul. “How did you make it?”
The sirens roaring in the streets disquiet her thought process before she can speak. The sound continues to stir cacophony, stinging her nerves. Holding her breath, Alana explains her grueling journey to him. Troy’s lips straighten, and a lugubrious shadow masks his expression.
“I was under pressure then, though that was no excuse,” Troy says. He glosses down, massaging his lip, and she sighs. “But at least I found shelter, thanks to a former SMART specialist of mine in this place.”
Alana reaches her hands upward and massages her fingers over Troy’s cheeks. He nods, looking down toward his shirt and pinching at the collar.
She says, “So she knows—”
A chilling snap breaks her attention. Alana diverts her focus to a squad of armed men glowering behind the policemen as the latter release three mutilated corpses from inside one of the twin buildings, escorting them inside an ambulance. According to her, they were no ordinary officers. Tan tactical vests plated on their torsos gave the impression they were possibly mercenaries deployed for duty, but the diabolical tattoos scarred on their hands gave away the hint like an alarm ringing in a sinking edifice.
Troy nudges her, whispering, “Alana. You’re okay?”
Soon he follows Alana’s gaze, and his expression solidifies like a frigid rock. Alana’s stomach flutters.
“Damn Oscar,” a dark, spiky-haired gang enforcer censures, “Can’t believe this fuckin’ shady shit went down on our turf.”
“Gotta need more than batons now, homie,” Oscar informs. He looks over to his comrade, waving at him with his M-16. “Haga correr la voz a todos en los distritos. Carguen. Tengo muchos perros de chatarra para reclamar en la bolsa, Alberto.”
MS gang! Fuck naw.
Her uncle touted the union of gangs (Mara Salvatrucha notably) that swarmed untrammeled in the state’s neighborhoods, hunting for cyborgs and SMART specialists alike when she first arrived. Alana refused to give credit to the claim until now. The sight at Lexington stunned her, leaving Alana seething upon the human officers not even batting an eye to their devious machinations. The turmoil in the sunken Boston didn’t compare to this. Who knows, these same officers may have supplied these bandits with whatever arsenals they had in their stations. The answer was obvious. She’s seen enough adults and charlatans who she deemed staff twists the code of conduct in their favor, crippling the victims wittingly to the perpetrator’s favor. The agenda never changes. So much for the reliance of the state’s Mayor, he and the rest sickened her to the core.
“Soon when forensics gets down to us in five minutes, homie,” Oscar states. “Satan will return the favor.”
Her lower bones rattle, and reminiscing guffaws aches her temple. Alana returns her gaze to Troy, with the latter’s eyes never leaving the gang.
“C’mon Troy,” Alana ushers in a hushed tone, tapping his cheeks until he meets her glance. “C’mon. Follow me to the car, okay?”
The two storm out of the gang’s sight. Alana’s hand rests on Troy’s back as she escorts him. Her chest grows humid upon eyeing a car patrol pass down the crosswalk, where an enforcer on the passenger seat glares warily at the streets. The Latin hip-hop inside the vehicle rumbles unabashedly, drilling a thorn into her eardrums. The masked enforcer raises his AK-47, chugging a magazine into it, and Alana’s grasp on Troy hardens until the car passes. Her head cools. Regardless of her reluctance, she had much to make up with Troy. As much as she wanted to bring him into the family, offer him a home he can embrace for good, a part of her remains shaken. A predicament stood waiting by Alana’s doorstops, and she had yet to turn that around for Troy.
Chapter 21
Boots clash onto the stream’s shallow surface, eliciting a splash that falls weak to the vigilant ears of the two contractors. The grass squeaks once King’s feet lands on soil, and with agent Roy trailing behind, the former’s eyes shoot at a cabin a few feet ahead.
Let’s see if he’s there.
“Seeing something, King,” Roy blurts.
The minute he called it out, a peculiar sight alarms in his vision, drawing his attention to three ghoulish stalkers pressing their hands at the window. One of them, hair styled in superficial pinkish braids,
whips an iPhone, and she motions its feet away from her and aims the camera to where the window was at. The sonorous snickers ring among them, and King sighs sharply to what it seemed like batons swinging in each of the human’s hands.
Roy catches up to his partner, and the two Virtuals exchange earnest glances before drawing behind each of the trees that stood. King pants, taking a sharp gaze at the plasma pistol locked on his belt before seizing the assault rifle embedded to his back. Upon locating and shifting the suppressor over the muzzle, King beckons his ally to the right side.
“Track the one with the phone,” King advises. The other two trail over to where the door’s at and nudge at the door. He levels his aim, squaring at the lean, dark-skinned human, wearing a tank that brands #All Cyborgs Are Trash! The Virtual’s finger laces around the trigger. “I got these here.”
Birds from afar chirp in the greenish creek, but that cracks to an immediate vapid shot. The lone bullet travels like a silent spitfire, piercing the lean human to the rear of his upper spine. King stands put in place as he fires a second round, shattering the nasal structure of his second victim. Releasing a shriek, the phone wielder looks up, shivering and pacing at the trees surrounding her. Soon when she scurries for her phone, Roy pulls the trigger. She groans to blood hissing at her groin and chest; then slumps.
Nice.
Trilling continues to play out as the two PMCs stalk smoothly. King glares at the bodies, and he flings away the corpse’s head from the door with his foot. The puncture glistens to where King’s bullet traveled. The Virtual sets a hand to the door, feeling a gentle coolness rush into his palm.
“That’s him,” Roy informs. The radiating within his pupils vanished as he looked at King.
King grimaces, letting go of the door. “On me then.”
They kick the door, and their eyes sting to the cabin’s ebony climate. King witnesses Roy scurry over him, and he witnesses his trail toward what slumped behind a large window. Right in the small room opposite him, a battered individual’s head lies against the table. A computer’s black screen faced him as if one step close in flashing if King ever thought of stepping his foot. Confined in a metallic chair, the hostage didn’t bulge in his slumber.