by Isaac Nasri
Ouch.
“How is Brett, Soriana?”
She raises her head and meets her father’s eyes. Ice surges over her face.
“You okay, Sori?”
“I uh…”
Soriana looks down at the panel next to her and flips it to where she can see the screen. The dot nears the Eastern Hemisphere. Biting her finger, Soriana tells them slowly about her situation in Langley and then Eva. Her father shakes his head immediately.
“¡Hija! No. No,” he warns. Father waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t do it. Brett’s words don’t lack conviction. Her problems aren’t something you can fix like that. God never made humans ideal solvers. You’re not a failure. STRAY from her. Or you’ll regret it.”
Her mother grunts in unison. Soriana folds her hands. “I don’t know what to say. She’s been my officer and friend since, and I’ve—”
“You too good to lose your life, Sori,” Moses says. His pupils shake as he stares at her. He rubs her hand. “She a cyborg, and you know what that means today now. She ain’t got good intentions. Take it from me though… nothing beats anything in this world like the familia.”
A deadening hand burrows in Soriana’s chest. Hands begin to gnash toward her in all directions, and she locked in her position, disquieted. There was substance to what her family has said, but half of her is held back by the ice. So much progress has been initiated on her end.
Mother stalks toward Moses and Soriana. Her throat vibrates to a palatable savor. Aside from the meaty Cuban sandwiches on the twin dishes, Soriana’s face turns green to the sight of pork.
She grins anxiously, trying to veneer her dismay. “Mami…”
Moses seizes the pork from her plate, to Soriana’s amusement as he munches ravenously on the meat. His teeth rip through the baked skin. Unlike her brother, it was deemed an oxymoron for her not to enjoy pork. Ignoring the moment she had to endure her stomach operating four times during a family feast would be asinine.
Mother rushes in, setting a stack of napkins and sanitizer abruptly. A thematic tune breaking from the television HD draws her attention. She steps closely to what the anchor is stating behind the image of a decimated and red foggy landscape. Her stomach grumbles.
“In the wake of this terrifying event,” the anchor reported. “We are still pending updates on the deceased Mr. Casey Lu’s accomplice behind the state’s destruction.”
She and her father exchange glances, and the room shakes. Boston University’s tennis coach, but how could this be real? However, judging from the reporter’s tone, Soriana knew a detail was missing.
Her doubts are purportedly answered when the anchor mentions, “Footage and screenshots at the scene are beginning to surface corroborating people’s fears that this newly identified suspect may have ties to the terrorist responsible. ABC Edward Miller breaks down details.”
The analyst’s words fade to the background as Soriana frowns at two armed suspects, notably cyborgs, confronted each other on top of a moving train. Quad drones passed. She steps close to the television, examining a suspect in a gray hoodie leveling his secondary at the ground. Soon her attention hooks to the second cyborg across Lu. The accomplice’s coat and pants stood in a striking pitch black and his hands stood upward, as if pleading for a cease. Or at best, install reasoning. His natural hair ran thin and low.
“We don’t know the name,” Miller states. “But with reported description, scrap—cyborg is semi-augmented, and in a black coat and pants. Black and stands up to six-one in height.”
A tray of memories race at her eyes, and it takes her back a decade. She looks up to a towering resident storming alongside her with a sling bag and packages at hand. Ebony shadows his coat and pants, and she looked up at him, raising her eyebrows at his teeth beaming out of his smile. She slaps a hand to her head.
Troy? No. He’s still alive.
“I know him,” Soriana states. Her buttocks burn on the seat, and she motions.
She found it hard to process. So many hours passed with her nauseous about Troy’s fate. Then this statement suddenly pops up, carving an opening into her heart that leaves her relieved but anxious. The idea of Troy being involved in the demise of his own state didn’t normally wrap with her. It was too cold-blooded, too perverse, something she couldn’t envision in the Virtual who was once her resident. Now the public’s after him. The last thing she wanted was for him to appear as another death toll. Imagine if she had Troy’s contact then. She had to.
Her father looks at her, flummoxed. Possibly not sure what his daughter meant.
“Troy Levi’s his name,” she says with an immediate rush. “I was his resident advisor the summer before the turf war.”
His eyes widened. Father looks at the program for a couple of minutes and then rises. Soriana follows him, storming upstairs from behind.
“Where you’re taking—”
“Again, if you say this cyber-attack is expected to start tomorrow—may God forbid, then now’s the time to reevaluate.”
The two hit base to where his room’s door remained open. Soriana witnesses him lower to pull his orange wooden case underneath the drawer and crack the lock open. The top flips, and he coughs to the soot clouding his face. Resting within the gamut of handwritten drafts is a flash drive.
What could this mean?
“I kept this since you stopped working in the complexes,” father mentions. “Data of all the residents you’ve mended in Mexico.”
Soriana clutches her mouth. How could she have been so blind to this for so long? She wanted to leap, cry more likely. However, she was too trapped in her shock to do so. She had only but a father to thank.
“Being under Brett’s wings doesn’t always guarantee that security,” her father continues. “I know the CIA. It’s a vulnerable network. We as Salazars aren’t just regular pedestrians. Confidential history can fall into the wrong hands, especially with the number of enemies roaming our streets.”
He grabs the drive, and he blows off the dust. Father’s expression becomes earnest. “You’re sure he can be trusted?”
“Yes,” Soriana supplicates. She manages a smile. “Please, Papi.”
Chapter 22
Troy cocks his head, cracking open his eyes to Alana driving and transitioning her jeep toward a curve on the right, escaping from the plethora of cars that inundated the parkway. One of the shopping bags resting on the back seat shuffles over the seat’s edge. The soporific weight grips the Virtual as he rises, but something dangling from above a tree pole ignites a sting into his skin, forcing a surge of juice inside his blood. He’s unable to process the entire sight as he finds himself facing a set of twin projects in the middle of a bustling intersection. Whatever he seen he could deem anything but pleasant.
“We’s arriving,” Alana says. She takes the drink from the cup holder, inserting her mouth on the straw and sucking it.
Troy releases a yawn, but he restrains himself. “Didn’t know much about your uncle until now.”
With the exception of Gloria and Victor, Troy has never laid eyes on her uncle. He couldn’t blame himself. Unfortunately, with what’s passed these months, Troy’s expectations were as basic as a guest with a humdrum outlook upon walking into the most contemporary restaurant.
Alana sets down her drink, laughing half-heartedly. “Yeah.” Her eyes squint gauchely. “He been living in the Bronx his whole—green light.”
She proceeds, heading straight to where a gas station stood. Troy witnesses her hand rest on his shoulder. Alana’s pupils motion as she gazes at him. Troy’s heart delivers an echo. There was something Alana wanted to tell him, but Troy couldn’t decipher it. What was missing?
“There some differences, but nothing extreme—that doesn't sound right either.” Alana looks away before facing Troy again. She nods. “I got this, though.”
An eerie cloud trails above the two. The vehicle continues to pass, and Troy snaps his gaze away from a bunch of firebrands, possibly gang-affil
iated, gathering and raising their rifles rashly inside the bridge. Paint can be heard spraying loudly even with the windows sealed.
Five minutes later, the car’s speed meets its limit at a seven-story apartment intertwined to a small office on the right. A triangular Puerto Rico flag attached to one of the balcony rails whips back and forth three feet up the complex. However, Troy watches Alana take an alternative route and bring her car to a halt within a few feet from the destination. She turns right to where dozens of parked cars resided across a medical clinic, forwarding her car into a vacant space behind a white Sentra. Troy gets off the jeep, hearing his phone alarm. He glimpses closely to 202-xxx-xxxx ringing, and a question mark rings in his head.
Okay? Strange.
Troy activates the call. “Levi here?”
A four-second pause booms until strikingly sound voice questions, “Troy…Hi. Is that you?”
The Virtual nods. “Yeah. And you must be—”
“Soriana,” the caller announces almost fervidly. Then she recites her name meticulously. “Soriana.”
Goddamn. I knew!
A bewildered Troy steps a couple of feet from Alana’s jeep and into the shade, rubbing his head. Traffic ushers down Pelham Parkway.
“Soriana…goddamn.” He wraps one of the dangling elastic bandages over his wrist hastily. “How did you find me?”
The fibers in his prosthetics buzz. The day Troy and Soriana first departed from their mission, Troy had little memory and anticipation in ever coming across his former resident advisor again. Not like he was vowing to either. Then Soriana’s voice clicks out of the blue, latching onto him like a drone. He didn’t know whether to rejoice or freeze, probably because he wasn’t seeing her in person. Soriana must’ve been anticipating such a chance this entire time.
“Thank my father,” she says. “I’m at my family’s place now. He was able to keep the storage of all the tenants I’ve worked with. But that’s not the point on why I’m calling.”
A slight crack taps underneath him. Troy stares down, stepping aside to a shard of glass on the concrete. “Go on.”
“Aye Troy,” Alana calls out from a distance. “I—”
Troy waves a signal, hushing Alana. Soriana’s tone becomes grave as she says, “Be as concrete as possible. The news caught my attention concerning the attack. I know about your coach. But I just want to know…if I’m wrong Troy. Did you—did you actually participate in the demise of your OWN state—”
“N—Hold it! Hold it right there, Soriana. You got it all wrong.”
Before he can elaborate, Troy turns mute to three bearded pedestrians in caps glossing callously in his direction. A leashed Rottweiler at the hands of a brown skinned owner, wearing a blue cap branded with a crossed T-800 logo, turns his wrinkling nose in the cyborg’s way. The canine’s fangs flash at him cynically.
Troy reverts his eyes upward, gazing at the leaves dancing on the tree. His nerves thump. The dog’s growls continue scarring into his eardrums.
“Venga, Pedro,” the capped owner states behind Troy’s back.
Troy arches a cough, ensuring the group was far from him until he heard nothing but street engines rumbling. He explains to her the incident without any pause.
“That’s what they want you to believe,” Troy mentions. “You won’t get anything from these sources.”
Silence creeps in her end, but that breaks when Soriana states, “I see.”
His nerves stung, followed by a sweep of clarity that takes him back to the base. Was this why she asked about Lu months ago? Perhaps there was a reason or she likely knew.
“And watch what you SAY and hear about my coach, Soriana,” he warns. “I’ve heard enough nonsense yesterday.”
Another episode of silence lingers. He hears Soriana breathe. “Okay. Uh…yesterday, I held an interrogation. And I was warned of another follow-up from the JOA.”
Follow-up?
He leans against the fence, sighing through his nostrils. A frigid wave brushes down his spine.
“How sure are you of this?”
“The CIA and the rest are getting it taken care of before it implodes. Director’s installed HIT, a virus that will reverse whatever’s coming toward the JOA.” A young man’s voice breaks out in the background, and Troy can hear Soriana engage in her bilingual dialect. The cyborg stroke’s his shoulder.
“That’s how far I know,” she continues. The geniality in her voice returns. “Didn’t mean to sound interrogative, Troy. Feels great getting back to you. Plus, please promise to keep this number. Circumstances are high between us.” Soriana pauses. “I’ll do the same. Take care, Troy.”
He smiles politely.
Before he can turn off the line, Troy hears, “One more thing. I didn’t mean…to sound so insulting about Lu. I know. It wasn’t fair what happened. And, you know more about him than me.”
Troy looks over to his left to where Alana stood. He sighs.
“Oh,” he blurts out. He nods. “Thanks for reaching out then.”
The phone goes off and Troy sets his focus on Alana again. Her right eyebrow arches.
“What happen, Troy?” she asks. Alana steps close with the bags swaying in her hands. Despite the weight, she holsters one of the bag’s handles over her elbow, showering Troy the screen of a headline on her iPhone. “I was trying to tell you—” She gulps. “Damn, all this time. Can’t believe I'm looking at your coach like this.”
Troy glances before pulling away in two seconds. The two make their stroll all the while his mouth hangs open. His nails numb. Then his reluctance shatters, and Troy reveals briefly about the incident in the Amtrak up to where he landed in Manhattan. Alana rubs her neck, unsettled.
“Hope he truly in a better place,” Alana mentions with civility. She takes off her cap, frowning at two jubilant women inside a car tossing dogmatic bandanas to the hands of several drivers like celebrities giving away the last of their free accessories to their fans. She strokes his elbow, turning her dismay into a gentle smile on her lips. “Least you made it, though.”
Troy brushes his chin, and the conversation between him and Soriana plays out like a record, filling his consciousness with an air of tension. It didn’t do him service to trifle with concerns that didn’t give him any onus, but what could it mean? He had nothing for it.
***
The elevator opens to the fifth floor, and Troy steps foot. The Virtual knots the fabric laced over his arm as he walks. Alana comes close, snuggling her hand around his cybernetic triceps. He hears her take a deep breath. The cyborg’s blood heats to her proximity. Even with the distance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary between him and Alana. The bonding cuts when she yanks to an electric snap leaching out of him.
“Oh shit,” she says, blushing.
Troy’s lips break into a smile, stifling a laugh. He recalled the last time Alana has gotten her hands close enough to him at her place, and she shrieked to the spark pinching her palm. He had no control over that function. It was nothing but comical to him at this point, and he embraced it.
He catches Alana stop at one of the unit doors. A star-shaped artifice plants on top of the door. Troy exchanges a glance with Alana, whose cheeks are reddening before pounding on the door.
“Ya voy,” a gruff voice calls out. “I’m coming.”
The door opens to a curly-haired buff man in a sleeveless shirt and bronze sandals posed by the entrance. His eyes remain sealed, and he holds onto the stand, the only source giving him a stance in his state. Her uncle’s skin was a light sable, unlike his niece’s own, which was a sharp olive tone. Troy’s lips flatten.
So this is Uncle Ricardo.
“Hola Tio,” Alana greets. The two shared the same height, being approximately 5’6 in frame. “Ya volví. Traje a visitante conmigo. Comportate.”
His eyebrows dance in a gauche fashion. “Oh. No tengo mis lentes.” Ricardo’s nose locks at Troy, and the tip of it twitches as if sensing a foul stench. “No sé por qué huelo a a
cero?”
“Y no…”
Ricardo steps aside, rummaging in his back pocket, and Troy can spot Gabriel’s presence on the sofa. Not a single peep out of him as his fingers mash on the controller. The Virtual’s view on the TV is blocked once Ricardo raises his arms, setting a pair of astute ruby glasses over his eyes. He swears quietly in his dialect to what he’s seeing.
Troy beckons. “The name’s Troy—”
“Well, you look quite funny for a visitor,” Ricardo cuts. His nose continues to twitch. The cynicism crept in the thick tone of his voice, and Troy shivers. “What are you hiding?”
Troy whirls up the bandages over his hand, equivocally saying, “It’s a…long—”
“That’s not my question.” Ricardo directs his focus to a tentative Alana, tapping his foot. “Niece. WHAT is he doing here?”
Alana nods quickly. “He was trying a—”
“¡Dios mío!” Ricardo steps back and points a recriminating finger at Troy. “You’re a damn cyborg! You think I’m a fool? ¡Dios mío! ¡Dios mío Gabriel! Where’s my baton?!”
“¡Tio!” Alana cries out. “¡TIO!”
She reaches her hands out, but Ricardo bolts to the living room. Gabriel rises from his seat, nonplussed to the commotion in the room. Troy throws a critical gaze at Alana and steps back, pressing a hand to his ear. The impact of Ricardo’s frantic screams carries like a flood into the pallid hall, beating against the Virtual’s back. Troy’s throat boils. He couldn’t comprehend the kind of mess he got into. Even more obvious, why Alana ever thought this would be a good suggestion to spend time in. How logical was that to him? He wanted to dash, snatch her keys, and race into her jeep as soon as he could, but at the same time, how would he fare against the possibility of these neighbors cracking the door open to see a peculiar Virtual racing in their hallways.
I can’t even fucking think right now.
“¡Necesito ayuda ahora!” Ricardo pleads. He scrams to the kitchen counter, dumping a hand into one of the cases. “Think you can get away leaving my village in ashes? Sasha—Alana. S—how can you forget so soon? You know I can’t stand for this! Look at this.”