Into the Violet Gardens

by Isaac Nasri

  The politician groans, but his enemies waste no time as they pull him upward. It doesn’t take long when Troy snatches the politician’s traditional autobiography and tosses it over the edge. Alana steps close and presses her empty revolver into the rear of her fellow human’s scalp; meanwhile, Troy leads to the vehicle. Milano looks over his shoulder, eyes wide and abashed.

  Reaching his hands and inserting his power as he brings down the truck’s wheels, Troy shoves the politician into the driver’s seat.

  “You got to be jok—”

  “Get your bitch ass in! ASAP!”

  With that said, Alana slams the door, refusing to take heed to his protest. More debris tumbles, burying the scurrying Virtuals in a pile. On the other hand, Troy and Alana rush and open the passenger door, hopping inside the vehicle’s spacious and cubic area. While Troy closes out the piling dust, Alana looms toward Milano’s seat.

  It didn’t take minutes to pass as Milano activated the engine. Alana maintains the revolver behind him. The gun truck swirls, and Troy stumbles until he catches onto a bench.

  The governor races before the arches can squash him. Troy’s nerves circulate as the bridge shifts, and dust obscures the window.

  Are we done for?

  Troy holds onto his throat until twelve seconds pass. The fog deterges, and he sighs when he encounters himself on the right side of Interstate 95. The green sign dangles above, giving the three individuals entry to the narrow streets of Fort Lee. Several drones glide in unison, but none pay mind to the manned truck. A couple of trucks advance past Milano, and their turrets scrutinize the grisly view outside. Folding his arms, Troy’s muscles dilate only for his respite to be impaled by an acerbic scoff.

  “Let me get this straight, young lady,” Milano states with askance. His soft New York accent was as translucent as pure water, nothing antithetical to his television appearance. The governor’s nose reddens like a reindeer. “You’re still going to keep standing here grilling? Threatening your governor—”

  Alana smacks the side of his temple so hard his head bobs. He groans.

  “Start off,” Alana lashes out. She sets a hand to the top of his seat. “You isn’t my governor. Two though. Don’t be calling yourself shit!”

  Milano mimics her last words before rolling his eyes. Bruises stain his cheeks and lip. “If I’m ever going to take a trash-mouthing nobody like you seriously?”

  Troy storms before halting in his third step. He levels the pistol’s muzzle in the fallen governor’s way. So much vituperation was said from this human’s mouth that Troy wanted to put discipline, but it could only jeopardize Alana and himself. Milano raises an eyebrow.

  “That’s what you people always say once you’re done costing our goddamn lives,” Troy states coldly. His vision flashes to Lu’s suicide, and he presses his lips darkly. “Now, I’d watch and reconsider my words.”

  Silence holds them back. Still driving, Milano holds onto Troy’s gaze, having ignored Alana’s presence near him. The politician, blinking repeatedly, looks away, muttering gibberish that proved to be too indiscernible to Troy’s ears.

  “Don’t matter,” he says snobbishly. “You know there’s obviously a cyber-attack. Your pack of cyborgs is being led by a mentally ill terrorist igniting a Skynet to start a world purge on mankind. What reason? I DON’T know. But look what you dogs did to this city. Quebec. To even Boston—of all places. Boston.”

  Troy grumbles. A vein pops in his skull. Alana glosses over to Troy, expression riddled in distress.

  “Common sense, cyborg,” he continues. Milano rubs the sweat staining on his armpit. “So don’t get me started on this so-called moral intellect excuses.”

  “’Cause of fucking ass frauds like you!” Alana cries out. She trudges close enough to stare down at the politician. Alana points angrily to which Milano jerks. “I’m straight up serious! Y’all make me SICK!! These people are pissed cause of the bullshit done! Know what? They was your guardians. But y’all proved your colors when y’all stripped them away from ever feeling safe. Treated them like SHIT.”

  “You don’t know the last thing about my committee, kid. Step back.”

  “Oh.” She slams a fist at the stand. “You—you turned elsewhere to fucking MS fools and shit policing the streets 24. Making they lives hell. Yet you and your crew want a tell ME—somebody from the Magic City—that you’s doing community progress? You and them still the angels though?!” She sucks her teeth. “That shit far from cap!”

  The space darkens as they drive their way underneath an interstate tunnel. Troy soon witnesses fiery forks arching from a blaze consuming a large traffic stand above. Nevertheless, his pistol locks at Milano’s direction, even as the strife wages between Alana and him.

  “Y’all so called professionals united with social media and fucking Twitter to keep these agents trapped.”

  He screws a finger to his ear. “Call me a warlord or whatever awful nonsense you can spit.” Milano shrugs. “End of the night. I…don’t…care. Policies are made and you don’t like it, GET out. Keep crying pity stories. Fact that you’re even keeping company with this disturbed deity here proves—”

  “Facts? Listen, stupid ass!” Alana cuts out. She gestures to where Troy stood. “This guy with me…he my boyfriend! But know this Milano. As much times you and the rest be like to paint them as scrapdogs all damn day…I trust my life with him ten times over the rest of you. I...” Alana chokes, but she looks quickly to Troy and holds it. “I done lost a quarter of my family tonight, and that won’t change shit!”

  Troy looks downward at the stains sullying his prosthetic arm before swinging it from sight. He looks up, swallowing a tinge of saliva. Troy could only see black clouds gathering, nothing else.

  Looking away in vexation, Milano throws a hand. “Okay. Are you finished? I’ve been listening nonstop to two obnoxious—”

  Alana slides the door, and a jam rings once it locks behind her. Milano’s voice can be heard ranting in the background, but it turns faint. Alana glimpses at the door as if bound to catch onto any insult spewing, but Troy waves his hand, retracting her attention from the door. His scalp stings to a jolt screwing in his brain. He’s heard enough banality hissing out of this charlatan’s mouth. It would simply exasperate him further.

  The space jiggles, and the tranquil quietude brings her a step closer to the Virtual. Troy witnesses the seething in Alana’s eyes drain, and water builds in them. Soon when he takes her hip slowly and leads her to the window on the right, Alana leans. Troy sighs gently, doubt shrouding him until he closes it aside. His lips connect.

  Troy’s arms wrap around her, and the two of them lock in that position, allowing that spark of serenity to sink in until their lips pull briefly. Alana rests her temple on his chest, body trembling as she keeps the cyborg tight in her embrace. His blood cools like a spring breeze. Their gaze follows the vehicles trailing in the eviscerated beltway. Not one honk echoes in this soulless drive. Whatever this path leads to, it would speak for itself. Meanwhile, Troy couldn’t say the same for his own being as digital blocks sway once more.

  What’s their left for me?

  Seconds pass, and Troy’s focus breaks elsewhere. His glance falls onto Alana, who unbeknownst to him, has since had her eyes locked on him. Her chin presses on his chest bone. Her arms still rest around him, and Troy’s chest releases a single pound. Pulling their chests away slightly, they let their lips commit. The placid moment takes its momentum in their snog. Troy’s cheeks tingle to Alana’s torrid hands caressing over, and stars scatter to the gentle dance of his lips. Swayed to the stroke reaching through and Alana’s fingers now trailing and stroking his broad shoulders, Troy snakes his hands away from her forearms, circling them sensually around the rear of her midsection. The car bumps, but the two retain stance in their canoodling.

  The two break gracefully, but a flagging Troy inhales the gush into his nose as he endures Alana’s lips dabbing at the lateral side of his face. Her hair smo
othens against his head, and he beams to the aroma still lingering within. The cyborg, taking his girlfriend’s hand, escorts her to the bench. Virtual cubes swarm briefly like a band of cicadas. Oblivious to his mounting dysfunction, Alana takes a seat and drags Troy next to her, making herself comfortable in his proximity.

  Troy shifts upright in the seat. Taking off her shoes, Alana stretches her legs, and a small scar cuts below her knee pants. Troy tilts sideways, and Alana crawls forth, snuggling in. Troy leans to plant his lips on her one more time, cradling her neck as he did, and Alana caresses his hand. She rubs his face, sighing compassionately, but Troy nods reassuringly. Nothing needed to be said. Nothing. He allows her to shift her back close to him and the moment he snugs his arms close to her bare thighs, a storm of automated bugs crawl forth with him in his slumber.

  He no longer had anything to offer. This existence was nothing but an omen. Everything he’s done in his lifespan, meant nothing to this contemptuous modern society. Nonetheless, their animosity no longer mattered to Troy. His back faces them. Soon grey fogs his view. Troy finds himself gazing at the void field, and he floats in its groundless substance. The scars vanish away from his skin and prosthetics. Its warm ambiance greets him with magnanimity, something that’s become so foreign. Suddenly an arcane and unseen force takes him by the hand.

  Delineations swarm his sighting as he glides. Troy’s mouth hangs to the casket, closing over Uncle Joey’s body. It transitions, and he shuffled in the mat, connecting his jabs onto a fellow trainee’s ribs, and sweat flew in midair. In his right, a mirage displays his cybernetic form storming alongside his newly found allies in the wilderness. Latin politicians raised their arms over their heads, scurrying into the ship he stood in while the vanishing faces of Jin and Taylor advanced behind the hostages. Those same hostages have forgotten about him and the rest, bringing their entire ethnic community against his own. It didn’t matter at this point.

  He grimaces to a striking black Miami Heat cap floating. Troy seizes it, and he gasps to Alana’s vision before him. She brushed her ombre hair aside as she stalked gracefully alongside him in the park. Her smile glinted. He draws his eyes to his own towering frame lifting her ankles and swinging her body in his grasp. His sharp heels sparkled on the ground. The savor of solvent builds as he nears. Her beaming family flashed behind her, waving inside the living room, and a slash cuts through the moribund cyborg’s heart. Troy sinks his gaze downward, and the cap slides from his grip. The hat descends, vanishing like a teardrop. Alana. Of all people, she reined her head when stakes rose against him. When most humans unleashed their perennial enmity toward him, she never faltered. Respecting his girlfriend’s humility, Troy had to pull the plug. Alana suffered too much. He had only himself to blame for constructing this tragedy. Without his presence, he hoped that she would discover a way to persevere in her bereavement and pain. There will be a way.

  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.

  Everything spoken merges like a cloud. These words weren’t meant for nothing. Time seemed to be everlasting as he flew. As Troy’s hours dwindle away, the environment brightens gingerly to a large bird-like shape. It finally made sense.

  I’ve found it. I finally found it.

  This pain, it was not meant for suffering. This entire time he’s been resisting an essence that only wanted to offer its wing. He’s found it. Solace in its whole form. He’s gone through external measures, being misguided into creating a concept that never existed in this world. Now here, solace, the very thing he searched aimlessly for, opened his arms. The light contracts, and Troy rises on his knees. He wanders his gaze with curiosity, taking a staggering step at the vast grass surrounding him. His pistol was nonexistent. His bare organic foot presses on the cool soil, and purple petals float. Once he catches a fluttering piece with two of his fingers, Troy witnesses a number of violets swaying on the tree branches like cherry blossoms. The light gleams over the light blue sky, trailing over the greenish hills from afar. Not one human stepped foot. He couldn’t believe it.

  I’m finally here.

  “Welcome home, buddy.”

  Troy gulps. He turns to see Lu stepping close. Not one weapon laced in his hands, and the two of the cyborgs stood barefoot. His previous hoodie was now replaced with a crimson polo. Troy stood in place, shock coursing him upon this unexpected surprise.

  Grinning, Lu offers a hand, and the glass cracks. A wave of relief surges as Troy raises his own. Their hands clasp in unison, and petals blossom over them. Troy doesn’t look back.

  ***

  The truck shifts in its drive. Green lights blaze temporarily. A movement brushes Alana’s legs, followed by a creaking sound rocking on the floor.

  THUMP.

  Taken aback, Alana opens her eyes weakly, forcing her to raise her head to the strange noise. She caresses her hair, yawning. Alana pats to her left, and freezes. Her enervation diminishes once she rubs her eyes rapidly. Her adrenaline kicks. Something was missing.

  Where he go?

  Alana gasps to Troy, standing in an erect position and his back facing her, loom toward the door isolating the two and the driver. His hands curl into fists. She grimaces.

  “Troy,” Alana calls out dryly. “Troy…you okay?”

  The cyborg barely makes a glance. Her words go moot. He makes another step until he pauses. Alana shakes her head, unable to tame the thumping in her chest. This is antithetical to Troy.

  Hopping off the bench and trailing, she repeats, “Troy. Aye. There something—”

  Alana cries to a whack lashing against her face, and she plummets. Pain grips her eye, and she looks up. The human crawls back, breathing loudly to the horror that stood awake. Troy’s bulging pupils fixate at her like a prowler, and not one blink displayed in those hollow eyes. Lighting pervades within his bionic limbs, and his left palm stood upward as if bound to strike her. Blood drips from his thumb, and she touches her lower lip, trembling to the fresh wound lacerated.

  The cyber-attack! It’s gotten to him.

  Tilting his head on both sides, Troy’s palm curls into a fist. The temperature rises. Alana’s fears spiral once the Virtual reverts direction. She raises her hand.

  “Troy!” she cries. A cut breaks in her throat. “Naw! Naw! PLEASE—”

  His fist plunges at the door, and the impact ignites a sound wave that wiggles her bones. A crater plants at the surface.

  Naw. This isn’t the Troy I know!

  “STOP! STOP! PLEASE—”

  It was too late. Her pleas crumble once the infected Troy delivers the second blow. He unleashes the door and storms. Milano shrieks.

  “YOU PSYCHOTIC SON OF—”

  Alana rolls to the abrupt shift. The governor squeals like a pig as Troy slams the former’s head repeatedly against the wheel. Her world spirals, and she careens about the commotion. The car collides on a dense surface, and her spine crawls to a bone twist. Alana glances too soon, and she holds onto her breath upon Troy’s shadow yanking a spinal tail violently. A blood fountain splashes on the window and she stands, obscuring everything until a decapitated corpse slumps from the driver’s seat.

  She bites down on her hand to Troy trudging, carrying the spinal cord that attached to the head of Milano in his hands. Blood taints the cyborg’s arm and shirt. The dead governor’s lips droop like a drunkard. Gazing callously at her one more time, the cyborg throws the head in Alana’s direction, and she leaps. He barrages his way out like a jaguar.

  This can’t be Troy. It can’t be. Kicking aside Milano’s head, Alana cries out his name helplessly as she runs out. Her eyes moist as she watches the cyborg pounce in mid-air toward one of the armory convoys on the road. He jams his fist onto the door and flings a screaming driver into the traffic. As the vehicle skids and collides with another truck, Troy leaps once again, rocketing his foot into the truck like a missile. With the cyborg’s plunge, the v
ehicle fulminates into a ball of fire. The madness continues until he breaches inside a driving camouflaged vehicle, leaving bodies tumbling on the interstate. The truck drives.

  She lands on her knees, sobbing. Her thighs wobble in turmoil. Her gut instincts have warned her the moment he shot those five pedestrians. She knew something was wrong then, but she just could not detect it properly. At this point, she found herself against someone, a ruthless entity whom she had no recognition of. Troy’s mind is one of theirs now.

  A tear drops down and sparkles on her painted nail. Alana’s glance trails at the skidded vehicle. Biting her lip, Alana rises and races her way. The tears rush rapidly down her cheeks.

  Chapter 30

  Dust settles as Soriana releases her eyelids. A dark layer rests on top of her nose until she raises her arms. A strain ensues in her muscles as she shoves aside the debris. Soriana gasps for air, and her bones throb. The air reaches into her nostrils, piling the drizzle coursing down the pits. She observes her left hand, shaken by the blemishes on her skin. A crevice ignites a beat in her chest.

  No.

  The moment she removes the second debris off her chest, the agent groans to a bright pain surging on her ankle. Soriana bends forward, witnessing a brick locked on her lower leg. She grabs the brick, thrusting it to the side until she grits her teeth to a sharp stick under the belly of the debris plucking from her ankle joint. Blood trails from the puncture as the chunk tumbles. With one twist of her hip, Soriana jolts to a whole new pain piercing her body, and her spine slumps on the ingot.

  A big portion of the plates shielding Soriana’s torso and legs were no longer visible, giving vulnerability to the scars that scraped her bare upper shoulder and thighs. Panting, she stares downward at her chest, setting a hand anxiously at the burnt gash. She reaches a finger underneath her tank’s blue spaghetti strap and adjusts it, palpitating in her shock. Soriana’s view dims as she gazes at her surroundings. A dull light illuminates above.