by Isaac Nasri
Is that really Hernandez?
King follows his comrade to a door leading them into a dark space and right inside the room, holding their fellow operative. The Virtual frowns, perturbed to not only the blood smeared over Hernandez’s encased head but the level of blood stained on top of the table. Handcuffs seal over the unconscious contractor’s wrist, where they’re adjoined together by a voltaic chain. His nose burns. Something very inhumane underwent in this place, he told himself. He could tell miles away.
King swears. “That’s one hell of a sight.”
“CIA activity,” Roy states coldly. He stalks behind Hernandez, placing hands on top of his shoulder. “Should alert the Virtual Network—”
“Wait.”
King brings his gaze downward, spotting a strange battery fused on the contractor’s neck. Its eye continues to spark. The cyborg folds his fingers.
So that’s what they’ve done. Idiots.
The PMC draws a hand, jacking the device quickly. Four dark beady holes linger at Hernandez’s neck. When Roy raises the contractor over his shoulder, King gazes darkly at his reflection on the dead television screen, concealing the soporific device in his hand.
“What’s next?” Roy asks.
“Recover him,” King mentions. “We’ll have time to situate him up to tomorrow once Moreci triggers the python.”
***
Soriana steps foot inside the garage, observing the large cloth concealing an aircraft. The air inside the capacious area hisses like a spirit’s whisper snaking into her ears. Her footsteps clatter on the ground as she steps forward, eyeing the cloth dance to the breeze. In lace leggings and white blouse over her seamless sapphire tank, Soriana couldn’t seem any more prepared for the hale weather. Director’s hacker and analyst, Curtis, informed her a while ago on the phone of the counter virus he’s delivered to the Jaguars of Apollo in hopes to ravage whatever devious malware Ottoman was planting on the government’s network. Meanwhile, Wayne was oblivious to what his officer was up to. Whatever warnings he set foot earlier went out like a void circulating over her head, absorbing the debris that stood. Wayne and the CIA weren’t entities she turns on so sudden, and the consideration of it ignites an ache in her muscles. However, idle time was too vital to waste.
The saliva in her mouth sours as the text flickered in her vision like a hallucination. Troy, whom she had the windfall to come across during Operation Jackal, was snapped away so soon. Decades up to this harrowing year, leading to them uniting months ago against the nefarious drug lord, and now this black barrier has shut her out. The time to process the secondary blow was too short for her and a loss she was once again too gullible to intervene in.
The human sets her fingers on the cloth, but not before looking over each of her shoulders. A desk rolls. Catching her breath, Soriana sweeps away the material’s cloak, and dust kisses its way toward her. Her nose twitches to the particles breaching inside her nostrils, and she sneezes so loud that it can be heard traveling feet away outside.
The green Whisper drone’s sharp wings stood erect in an immaculate state. Its turret fixated underneath the aircraft’s chin. Soriana strokes her hand on the wing’s surface, shivering to a cold sensation piercing her palm.
One more day until the 27th. Let’s make this work.
She observes the bar number on the lateral side of the aircraft’s beak before drawing her attention to the electronic pad plastered underneath her bracelet. Soriana types in T24689 into the computer’s bar, and soon when the panel flares green, she grimaces to a vibration in her blouse’s breast pocket.
Soriana, grabbing her cell phone, squeezes her eyes and whispers to herself until she steps back to the following message.
Gran Moisés:
Hermana. Ven a casa. En nombre de Mamá y Papi. Por favor.
Moses, she says to herself.
It came at her like a pile of tumbling bricks, and she was left to scrutinize the mess around her. The drone’s turrets spin, awakening from the slumber. Her blood runs cool, and Soriana directs her gaze outside. Her unbuttoned blouse blooms to a brief breeze. Birds glide from the trees, and their croaks boom. Her throat hardens. She had nothing to say.
***
The stereo in her car vibrates to the jazz playing out of her phone, which has been synced into the radio, and she leans gently to the luminous rhythm relieving her nerves. She arches the strap of her tank. Her sable hair blossoms as she whirls the wheel, letting the air blow through while she levels her direction on the road. The panel seals upon the vehicle stand, revealing a dot sailing on the regional map. On the other hand, its designated area, Sharjah, remains unmarked on the portable screen. Soriana purses her lips.
No sign of Eva yet.
A truck, situated with geared National Guards huddled behind the trunk, speeds across her path. The tree bushes shimmy as she passes. Soriana scratches her scalp, puzzled by the low number of drivers on the road. Those feelings break when she eyes an unusual sight a few feet from her on the road.
Frowning, Soriana removes her sunglasses, straightening her back as she nears. She turns off the jazz. Hollering and cries screech, and she presses her shoe onto the brake pedal, slowing her acceleration. She shrieks to a group of humans cornering a fatally wounded cyborg on the ground. The tip of their batons ignites with an electrifying sparkle as they thrash it all together on their target like lumberjacks axing a gargantuan log. The Virtual, gritting his teeth to the blood streaming down his scalp, shields his prosthetic arm from the consecutive thunderous blows landing. One of the attackers, a man with a spiky blonde hairstyle, circles behind the cyborg and lashes his steely stick. The baton crashes deeply toward the victim’s neck, and blood spills from the latter’s mouth.
“Trying to start a civil war, pussy?!” the blonde attacker rebukes. He strikes another time. “Come on! Not so big, little pussy!”
Soriana gulps to one of the hecklers wielding their foot, colliding with the cyborg’s jaw. She looks elsewhere in the street, right foot still resting on the acceleration pad. Her fingers shake on the wheels, and water builds in her iris, altering her reality. She stood, witnessing to her chagrin at the face of Eva groaning to the blows crashing on her. Her hair swings to the second foot rolling at her face, sending her body careening. The Virtual’s eyes bulge to the baton pummeling against her abdomen, and obscenities vituperate toward her.
“Scrapdog. Scrapdog! Come on guys!”
Soriana lets her hands slide from the wheels, quivering to the drumming. The human goes back to how far she’s failed in her duty in standing behind Eva, and the times she was all but vital. Instead of stepping in, she stood by dastardly behind her federal allies, letting the debacle disseminate in the streets. Like a craven agent, she stood behind the words of purported ethics when she could’ve intervened in a cyborg’s life. If she couldn’t vouch behind Eva when the latter needed it, how would she be good enough in doing the same for Troy? How? When she’s been blindly giving a pass to the damage being done by the firebrands? This is why this war began. Eva was right then and still is. Now she had to pay the price for the fault she and so many humans had stirred. Her brain snaps.
Enough. Enough!
Soriana doesn’t think twice as she seizes the semiautomatic pistol from the seat. The officer kicks open the door, startling the rioters as she trudges with an weapon at hand.
“Go home!” she warns vehemently. Soriana levels the handgun at the five assaulters. The Virtual breathes near her. One of them with a round earring clicked to her nose, and the only female among them, grits her teeth nervously. “Last warning!”
The blonde attacker aims his baton at the cyborg. “You obviously know what he’s done—”
“I won’t TELL you again,” she admonishes sharply. Soriana’s glance sours as she sneaks a finger on the trigger. “Don’t make this hard for me!”
The attacker holds onto her gaze until he can't resist any longer and runs. The group scrams without protest, reaching into a van
. The van drives away, and Soriana brings down her pistol. She turns around, locking gaze to the cyborg on the ground, clutching to the black marks burning on his neck. Her mouth hangs, shaken to the cherry streaks swelling in his eyes as he heaves. Red drops flow from the jagged scar gashed on his head, tainting his torn clothes and jeans.
What have they done?
The cyborg returns her gaze, but looks away before Soriana can do further. He sniffs.
“Get away,” he pleads in a soft whisper. The Virtual stares down on the concrete, which is smeared in his blood. “Please. Please.”
His words slashed at her like a whiplash. Soriana takes a step back reluctantly. She turns her nose elsewhere, and the water accumulates in her eyes. She didn’t know this Virtual, but she couldn’t blame him. Even with what was done, Soriana had nothing to offer. If she had to look at her reflection, she would only open fire at the glass. Who knew how much Eva had gone through these past months? Soriana never went out of her way to contemplate. It seems she couldn’t relate as much as she wanted to believe otherwise. How fickle humans as her can be with their decisions, thinking they can gamble with whatever life?
***
She makes a direct right on the road, arriving fifty four blocks onto 32nd Street. Soriana drives, glossing over the homes residing in the small tranquil neighborhood. Her olive skin whitens to the flare outside, and her earrings glimmer. Pigeons shift their diminutive talons on the utility pole’s wires above. Excrement pops from their rears, catching an approaching National Guard by surprise as it splashes on top of his Kevlar helm.
Her hair brushes to a genial wave. Many years had passed since Soriana stumbled onto the neighborhood she grew up in as a child. She moved to McLean for proximity with the Central Intelligence Agency, but the District of Columbia was a shadow that loomed with her no matter where she went. The trees and Rock Creek, she mesmerized the scenery of stepping foot into the creek’s wilderness. Regardless of what stirred yesterday, not one scratch stood visible before her. She hasn’t notified the family about her arrival. Soriana didn’t want to spoil it.
Welcome to Northwest. How I’ve sure missed it.
Soriana spots a towering resident in a flannel and khaki pants wave sportively at her inside the home’s porch. Two aging figures greet her behind the door’s glass in unison.
“¡Que bolas, hermana!” Moses calls out.
The tips of her ears spike to the reminiscing voice she missed. She lowers her car window.
“Moses!” she cries excitedly, waving in return. Soriana twirls her car, spots an unknown red car parked by the garage, and sets her vehicle carefully at an open space adjacent to her family’s house. She snubs her glance at the exterior mirror. “¡Espera para mi!”
Deactivating her car engine and grabbing the drone panel, Soriana frees open the door. She closes the door, rushing to the pathway and meeting her junior brother break from the porch.
“I’m here!”
“That’s what up, Sori! Finally back in town!”
Moses comes down, catching onto Soriana’s embrace. She snuggles him closely, resting her head on the giant’s stomach. Her heart flutters like warm petals arising from the grass. Even with absence, her brother never failed to remind her subtlety of his rivaling height; he stood approximately to six-four as acknowledged by his physician. Being the tallest among the family had its gift, it seemed. Minus the shade, his head is as pristine as a Buddhist monk, and it shines in the sunlight. Even when he was as young as early to three years of age, he hasn’t grown a hair in his life. The closest he had to it was by one inch, and Moses was only twelve then.
She reaches a hand to caress and plant a firm kiss on his bald head. Soriana chortles. It never slid from her mind to coddle around with it, and the smoothness of it kindled a tickle in her when she was a child.
“Ain’t changing any time soon,” Moses banters. The round red and white pendant jiggles around his neck. If there was one similarity among the two, they held the same dark auburn eyes.
Soriana glances at the door creaking open, smiling. Her parents acknowledge her simultaneously in bonhomie.
“¡Bienvenida, hija!” her mother greets. She held the same height (5’4) and long hair as Soriana, albeit a bright gold and knotted in a ponytail. Mother beckons with a sanitizer at hand nervously. “I have plenty for you. But don’t forget to please clean—”
“No trash at hand, Mami,” Soriana states, raising her hands sarcastically.
Well this doesn’t get old.
Her father chuckles to mother, stating, “Oh Carmen. I see if I spot one.” His low graying hair carried semblance to a polished landscape on his head, and sagging lines brand on his scarred arms. The mole he had since his early years still left visible on his big nose. Father turns his eyes toward Soriana.
“We’ve been very worried for you lately. So much trouble has come.”
Nodding, Moses leads her inside. Soon Soriana flinches to her mother, holding her, wiping the panel on her wrist with a moist handkerchief. Her mother whistles in respite before hopping aside. A grapy fragrance overcomes the living room, whose walls held their bluish complexion up to today. Soriana looks upward, gazing at the wooden sculpture of the sun dangling, chained to the light blue ceiling. Its archaic smile beams at her as if quietly relishing the woman’s return. She sighs to the black and white representing the younger sullen image of her father, with sunken cheeks, leaning on top of a small antediluvian car. Then like a transition, it's led by another portrait revealing a far more aged but salubrious version of him, at one with his wife behind the gates leading to the National Zoo. There a young Soriana stood in front of the two, clutching to her brother wearing a Pokémon cap.
“Got my driver’s Sori,” Moses flaunts.
She winks her eyebrows, flummoxed. To add up to her surprise, Soriana watches her brother stalk toward the glass shelves to where auric trophies of her taekwondo championships dating from 2004 to 2008 stood. Dust breezes as he grabs a key chain embedded with his license’s ID, and he shakes it toward her.
“Oh nice!” she lauds.
“At least he doesn’t have to worry about the bus seats,” mother teases.
Moses shakes his head. He leads his sister to a lone table near the air conditioner, where a Nintendo Switch rests prone on the surface. While Soriana places the panel on the table, Moses looks down to where a box is kept underneath the table, seizing and offering an extra Switch in her hands. She grimaces.
“Turn it on, hermana,” he says, taking the first seat as he activates the game. “Know you are ready for some Pokémon brawl.”
Soriana blushes. She takes the last seat next to him. Pokémon was never her expertise, but Moses, being the savant, guided her into the field, giving her an inkling of the challenges. Back when the Nintendo DS used to be lionized, she would yelp every time to her brother, incinerating the entire dosage of her health with one strike. It had to be superstitious, according to her then.
Her father positions himself in his comfort seat, locking his attention on the desktop and the keys on the keyboard mash rapidly as he types, as if working on another online article for the news company he works under. Mother raises the gloves over her wrists, inserting a pot into an electronic cooker. She opens her mouth like she’s about to sneeze, but she inhales. A news program speaking in their native tongue carries forth sound into the room.
“How’s everyone’s handling themselves here?” Soriana asks aloud. She opens to where the application reveals on the rectangular screen, and clicks on it through username Manny58. She looks up to her junior brother. “How’s AU?”
Moses' expression turns somber as he twists his ear. “Man. Junior year’s been flying till these cyborgs hit town.” The online game on each of their handhelds resort to the menu, and thematic music plays. He looks down, rubbing his head. “AU closed out since—I mean, not only AU. My guys were telling me. So my ass in a messy place now. Thank God…you're lucky.”
Soriana sighs
worrisomely. For someone who graduated from George Washington University twelve years ago, she had nothing but sorrow for the students who were held back because of this strike. She didn’t know how long it would last, but in one day, if she’s able to stop it, Soriana wasn’t willing to foresee the outcome. If it had to come down to her executing Ottoman just to impede this uprising and reassure Eva back, then Soriana wouldn’t think twice.
“No message. No, follow up from the damn institutions,” her father says. He grumbles. “It’s bad for even the working people, hija. Univision’s barred all employees from going into the office. So I’m forced to continue all activities at home.”
Soriana shifts her feet toward a hard surface. She stares downward, frowning to a stack of El Tiempo Latino newspapers to her side, titled Las tiendas retiran todas las películas de Terminator y Cyberpunk. Her head turns light.
“One of my friends who works in Adams Morgan,” her mother implies. “She had to bar her bank from all cyborgs ever since those PMCs broke through with their GUNS that day. Plenty of her customers and employees have been killed.” Her shoulders arch uncomfortably as if perturbed to what she’s saying. “She’s been having panics. I’m…I’m in the same boat with my own shop. It’s scary. Our Latino communities have never been on edge like this.”
Soriana looks away, witnessing the cold air making its way toward her once more. She attempts to alleviate it by narrowing her view on the game. In the ring, Moses’ blazing creature stands vigilantly against her thunder-oriented own in the form of a squirrel. The turn falls on her, and with a click on the button, her avatar whips its flurry tail, releasing an electrifying wave that pervades the gym. Moses grins as if not fazed by the decent hit and seizes his opportunity, summoning his monster to initiate a wave of fire to rain down rapidly like airstrikes. Her handheld vibrates, and she widens her eyes to her health plummeting to a bright red.